March 22, 2203 UNS Cortez – Bashpat System
Sometimes
the silence feels more oppressive than any alarm klaxon. Out here, in
the inhospitable orbit around Bashpat Ia, all I hear is the quiet hum of
the ship's systems and my own heartbeat. From the large external
windows of the UNS Cortez, I stare at a planet that at first
glance seems utterly hostile to life: storm-swept plains, a thin, harsh
atmosphere where you can barely breathe.
And yet, our sensors have
detected something unusual—traces of precursor activity that might
point to the so-called "League of the First." The very name fills me
with a mix of awe and curiosity. Legend has it this civilization existed
centuries, maybe millennia before us. Are their relics still intact?
And what was the cost of their technology—or why did they disappear?
"Captain,
the first analyses are in!" a young scientist at the scanner station
calls out, her voice trembling with excitement. "Our drones report
extensive tunnels beneath the surface—artificially constructed. But the
rock is extremely resilient. We're expecting long, complicated
analyses."
A glance at my data pad confirms her assessment: nearly
1,800 days for an initial decryption—almost five years. A tingle shoots
through me. On the one hand, this is exactly the sort of challenge I
live for; on the other, it's my first excavation site of this magnitude.
So extensive, it could occupy our entire research team for years.
"Captain
Twardowska!" My first officer's calm, slightly tense voice breaks in.
"We're picking up a weak signal underground—very faint. Could be an old
distress call... or a data storage unit."
I take a deep breath.
Outside, the winds howl, as if clawing at the ship's hull. Inside,
there's an almost meditative calm, interrupted only by the soft clicking
of the control consoles. "Prepare the ground excavation team and our
exploration drones. Document every trace—and do so with the utmost
caution. Who knows what kind of security measures the League of the
First might have left behind."
I let my gaze wander across the
bridge. The technicians are checking their tools, a security officer
inspects the gear, and the drone pilot inputs the launch sequence. On
their faces, I see the same mixture of anticipation and unease that I
feel myself when plunging into a deep, new mystery.
Before we begin our preparations in earnest, I send a status report to the UNS Gagarin,
operating just a few light-years away. We're relying on their
expertise—especially that of Xiu Wan, their lead researcher. Less than
an hour later, we receive a response:
"Understood, Captain. Your
data confirms initial suspicions regarding possible precursor traces.
Gather every piece of information—you comb the field, we'll comb our
archives. Notify us immediately if you find anything new."
A brief smile flickers across my face. Xiu Wan is just as fascinated as I am—encouraging me not to waste any time.
Then I jot down the following in my personal log:
March 22, 2203 – Bashpat Ia First drone images confirm artificial tunnels. Possible link to the League of the First. Research duration estimated at nearly five years—a monumental task. Message sent to UNS Gagarin, Xiu Wan approves initial approach.
I
close the file, feeling goose bumps. Not just because of the chilly air
circulating through the airlocks, but because of the sheer scale of
what we might uncover here. The thought of finding clues to a
long-vanished high culture in ancient tunnels is electrifying and
frightening at the same time.
"Captain?" the drone pilot asks softly. "Shall we launch?"
"Yes,"
I whisper firmly. "Launch. And keep your eyes open." I recall the
countless excavations where long-lost civilizations left warnings or
traps. But this could surpass them all. Five years. Almost half a decade
that we'll devote to this riddle.
As the first drone ascends
noiselessly into the alien sky, time seems to stand still for a moment. A
dark storm still rages across the surface, and a vague intuition stirs
within me: Great power often comes at a high price. Are we prepared to
pay it?
"To work," I finally murmur into the hush of the bridge.
The crew begins following mission protocols, and outside, between the
gray clouds, the drone lights flicker. This world—this ominous,
mesmerizing world—may reveal its secrets to us. Or show us how
insignificant we truly are in the face of the stars.
And while the
storm rages against the hull, I can't shake the feeling that what we
find here might change our understanding of history and the galaxy
forever.
October 23, 2203 - Orbital Shipyard above Luna
The
air in the control room is cool, almost dry. Everywhere I look,
holograms and status displays flicker. The low murmur of technicians
frantically cross-checking last-minute diagnostics blends with the
distant yet omnipresent cheers of the crowd back in New Geneva. Masses
of people are gathered in front of huge screens down there, and from
time to time snatches of applause seep through the speakers. A tingling
sensation travels through me.
I scan the room, noticing a young
officer wiping his sweaty palms on his uniform, another exhaling
shakily. On a nearby monitor, the silhouette of the UNS Valhalla appears, framed by artificial spotlights as if in some grand theatrical production. This ship—our first colony vessel of the El Dorado class—stands on the verge of jumping into FTL and setting course for Alpha Centauri III.
"All
systems are green. We're ready to release the docking clamps." The
chief engineer's voice quavers with excitement. I realize just how
unique this moment is: Whole families, researchers, physicians, and
agricultural engineers from every corner of Earth have boarded the Valhalla to establish a colony they're calling Albion. I glance out the panoramic window, where our home planet shines in vibrant blue.
In my control room, the screens switch to the Valhalla's
bridge. I recognize Commander Sara Tylor double-checking the
navigational data. Her expression reveals both tension and irrepressible
anticipation. "Course set for Alpha Centauri III," I hear her say.
Barely an hour remains before the big jump.
At that same moment,
President Kaita in New Geneva begins to speak—we're broadcasting it
live. In holo-halls and on the streets of ancient metropolises,
thousands have gathered. Children, the elderly, skeptics, and
visionaries alike watch the transmission with bated breath. Her voice
comes through the speakers, clear and hopeful: "With the UNS Valhalla,
we leave the harbor of our childhood and set sail toward a future in
which humanity is no longer confined to a single planet. May Albion—our
new colony—become a symbol of our courage and our unity."
I
swallow hard. This moment is bound to go down in history. A few decades
ago, we couldn't have even imagined what it would mean to colonize a
planet outside our solar system. And now, a dream is becoming reality.
"The clamps are releasing!" someone calls. A brief, pulsing hum. Then a jolt. The Valhalla
drifts away from the dock. Tense silence fills the control room, broken
only by the beeping telemetry feed. Short, clipped thoughts race
through my mind: A tremor. A flash of light. And then—gone. It vanishes
into the vortex of FTL travel. Far off, thunderous cheers erupt. I
exhale and let my thoughts settle on the name "Albion." In ancient Earth
legends, it stood for a promised land, a symbol of hope and unity. Out
there, under two alien suns, this colony is meant to be a cultural
melting pot—someplace we hope not to repeat our past mistakes.
Special
rules? Absolutely. The Council has already discussed guidelines so that
old conflicts won't resurface. Every newcomer should have access to
education, infrastructure, and medical care. No neglected provinces, no
social chasms. Under those twin suns, we intend to learn that we are
stronger together.
But I know there will be problems. Logistical
challenges, potential conflicts, unknown dangers. Alpha Centauri III may
be fertile, but what life-forms or undiscovered phenomena await our
settlers? No one can say for sure. Yet we dare to dream.
A
technician beside me exhales, as if he's been holding his breath the
entire time. I can see relief and near-tears shining in his eyes.
Another gently pats his shoulder. I myself feel a tug in my chest, as if
a piece of me has flown away with the ship—along with a tremendous
sense of pride.
As the lights in the control room dim and we
secure the final data, a holo-projection casts a warm glow on my hands. I
think back to the fields of my home, to the parched soil, to the people
who believed in me. Back then, I learned that progress and justice are
inseparable. That lesson still drives me today: As State Minister, I
don't just coordinate the VNE's social affairs; I ensure that at every
step, humanity remains at the center of our efforts.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
The Earth in
the background reminds me of all the work it took for us to become a
unified humanity. That's why Albion feels so significant. We're not
forgetting our past here. We want to build a colony where people can
truly live, not merely survive.
Then I think about the children
who might grow up there, playing under an alien light while unknown
creatures rustle in the undergrowth. One day, they'll hear stories of a
distant planet called Earth that once burned in flames and crises—yet
managed to recover.
I move to the panoramic window, gazing at
Earth. There it shines, a brilliant blue gem in the vast blackness of
space. The continent lights glimmer, a living mosaic of human activity.
Even from this distance, the thought of the jubilant crowds down there
is overwhelming.
It's more than just a ship. More than a colony.
It's our next step into a great unknown—and at the same time, a monument
to our belief in a better future. Perhaps that's the meaning behind
everything we do here. No more boundaries, no stagnation. Instead,
openness, innovation, and respect for people and nature, whether on this
planet or under distant stars.
One last time, I feel the faint
pulse of telemetry as the displays go into standby. The technician who
was so nervous stands up straight, wipes his brow, and smiles at me. I
can't help smiling back.
"We did it, Minister," he whispers.
"Yes," I reply. "But this is only the beginning."
Then
I look away, remembering a time when I tried out high-tech farming back
home and no one believed we could ever conquer drought. But we
succeeded. We changed the world. And now, the stars await.
With that thought, I leave the control room, the President's words still echoing: "May Albion become a symbol of our courage and our unity."
I glance one last time at the hologram—like a luminous window into the unknown—and murmur, "May we succeed."
November 7, 2203 - UNS Armstrong
I
never imagined I would ever lay eyes on something like this: a nearly
intact, highly advanced alien warship—right in the middle of an asteroid
field so vast it could swallow entire star systems. At first, we took
it for one of the countless wrecks that have drifted through this cosmic
graveyard for centuries, relics of past battles, silent witnesses of
forgotten wars. But the first scans revealed the truth: This technology
isn't just sophisticated—it's beyond anything we could ever conceive.
And yet, it's destroyed in a way that makes my blood run cold.
"What
the hell did this?" I whispered as I analyzed the data in the
flickering glow of the bridge consoles. A chill ran down my spine when I
saw how the ship's hull had practically melted, as if it were wax.
Apparently, it had been exposed to unimaginable heat or radiation
capable of melting even the most advanced alloys—some force that seems
to defy the limits of known physics.
One of my engineers, Chen,
stood transfixed for minutes, staring at the holographic representations
of the crystalline distortions scarring the ruined hull. "This is
impossible!" he kept muttering, his voice quivering so softly it was
barely audible as his gaze darted between the flickering displays. I
could almost sense his inner turmoil—equal parts disbelief and naked
terror at what must have happened here, a horror burrowing into his
consciousness.
On the ship's exterior, we found symbols none of us
had ever seen before: an alien emblem, a web of lines and geometric
shapes, simultaneously eerie in its familiarity and utterly foreign. It
was as though the symbols were speaking a language we instinctively
understood without fully comprehending it. Our away team ventured
inside, into a labyrinth of cramped corridors choked with debris and
charred remains, illuminated by the faint, ghostly glow of emergency
lights—the last echoes of what they once were. The scorched consoles,
the shredded cables, the dead, vacant screens—everything spoke of a
sudden, catastrophic end.
What was left of the logbook—a
fragmented data core scarred by destruction—only raised more questions.
One entry mentioned a force that could generate "temperatures beyond any
scale," fusion shock weapons capable of piercing shields in mere
seconds, a threat so immense it could engulf the entire universe. Then
came a broken distress call, a final desperate cry into the darkness,
lost to the void.
As I stared at these images, these fragments of
unimaginable destruction, I immediately thought of Elena Makarov, an
astrophysicist of unparalleled brilliance—a woman dedicated to exploring
the unknown. She needed to know; the world needed to know. Right there,
my hands trembling, I wrote a brief message: "Elena, you won't
believe what we've found... A highly advanced alien warship, completely
obliterated, in a condition that defies all explanation. We've recovered
log entries about a colossal threat, a power that can wipe out entire
civilizations. Please make this public. Humanity must be aware that our
galaxy isn't just brimming with ancient mysteries—it faces imminent
dangers beyond our imagination."
What we recovered here could
propel us years ahead technologically, handing us tools that might
change our civilization forever—or it might expose a vast threat, a
danger that could destroy us all. The crew had already begun asking
whether we should alert Defense Minister Skobelewa. After all, it looked
like someone—or something—out there had the power to pulverize even the
most advanced warships, a force that left us utterly helpless.
While
I compiled the last pieces of data, these shards of a cosmic tragedy, I
took one last look at the external camera feed: an eerie scene of
melted metallic skin glinting in the darkness of space, of ice-cold
asteroids resembling the fangs of a monstrous beast, and faint radio
signals echoing into the void—the last vestiges of a lost people. Each
new fragment piqued our curiosity, drawing us deeper into the enigma,
while heightening our respect for the unknown and for the powers that
lurk in the universe. I felt small, insignificant—a speck of dust in an
endless ocean.
December 5, 2203 UNS Gagarin – Efoll System
Sometimes
the past flares to life—just for a moment, stealing my breath—and I,
Elena Makarov, am here to witness precisely that. We've barely achieved
orbit around Efoll III when my data pad calmly displays the fact: Efoll
is a pulsar system. Intense radiation. Electromagnetic chaos. A place
that should never have allowed life. And yet—what we see here is
outright madness.
My senses are on high alert. The air in here is
bone-dry, almost like in an old library, drifting through the vents like
fine sand. The steady thrum of the reactors buzzes in my ears, almost
like the ship's heartbeat—or my own, which is beating far too fast right
now. I feel every vibration, every rush of data streaming across the
monitors. How could a settlement ever have existed here? A pulsar as a
central star should have reduced everything we know to dust. It makes no
sense!
And it's not like we're just coasting around. The Gagarin,
our temporary home, is dancing on a razor's edge. Regular shields won't
cut it in this hostile environment—the pulsar's radiation would
overload them in seconds. Instead, the engineers have devised something
else: a complex system of electromagnetic fields and adaptive hull
plating to absorb the pulsar's worst outbursts. It's a continuous
struggle, a balancing act between protection and power consumption. Our
navigation systems keep going haywire, as if trying to find a matchstick
in a snowstorm. And then there's the radiation! The medical scanners
never stop beeping at strange readings. We're not on a Sunday stroll out
here.
The engineers worked overtime to adjust the fields and
optimize the navigation algorithms. It felt like racing against time,
dancing on a volcano. But somehow, they managed to keep the Gagarin
in a stable orbit—a tiny speck of civilization bracing against the
pulsar's fierce power. And me, I'm sitting here trying to capture this
incredible story while the ship vibrates and groans around me, every one
of us acutely aware that a single mistake could be our last.
When
our sensors finally locked onto the planet's surface, at first we saw
only broken ruins—maybe the remains of a small colony. But as we drew
closer, the details came into focus: These are the remnants of a once
highly advanced civilization. Vast cities once lined ancient riverbeds,
now half-devoured by the jungle. Their architecture—a mesmerizing blend
of delicate towers and massive foundations—bears witness to an
engineering prowess that stood the test of centuries.
"Everyone,
look at this!" our science officer whispered, her voice trembling with
excitement. "We're picking up traces of energy conduits and high-tech
facilities—almost as if they adapted their infrastructure perfectly to
the extreme conditions of this pulsar system."
A tower. A memorial. A hidden complex. We marked this location as "Chapter 1" in our data logs.
My
thoughts were racing. How had these people lived under such conditions?
What dramas played out here? I hadn't even finished processing these
images when Takumi's message came through:
"Elena, our team in the
Prokyon orbit found a modern alien ship—completely destroyed, with
records of extreme heat and fusion shock weapons. This is a warning we
can't ignore."
My heart skipped a beat. Takumi's words struck me—a
silent reminder that our galaxy is teeming not only with ancient
wonders but with current dangers as well. I could feel my pulse racing.
Soon after, Xiu's brief message arrived: "The site on Efoll III is a gigantic puzzle. We'll return when we're better prepared—but the ruins already speak volumes."
A
subdued, almost meditative hush settles over the control room. The soft
hum of the machinery, the occasional clink of a tool when someone loses
their grip for a second—all these sounds merge with the flickering
holograms and the flowing streams of data. I can practically taste the
blend of excitement and underlying fear on my team's faces.
With a trembling hand, I type the final lines into my log:
"December 5, 2203 – The UNS Gagarin
has discovered an archaeological site on Efoll III revealing the
remains of a once highly advanced civilization. It's hard to believe
that in the midst of a pulsar's intense radiation, there was once a
flourishing society. For now, we leave the site undisturbed, but I'm
convinced it has a story to tell—one we'll eventually uncover in full."
I
close my logbook and briefly shut my eyes, letting the impressions wash
over me. In these moments, I'm reminded of all the hardships we faced
to get here. How could there have been a thriving civilization despite a
violently pulsing, life-threatening star? This question isn't just
scientific—it's profoundly human.
I open my eyes and take one last
look at the holo-display showing the coordinates of the ruins. Someday,
when the time is right, we'll return to those ancient towers and seek
answers in their shadows. For now, though, we move on—aware that Efoll
III's past, patient and enigmatic like the stars themselves, still has
many stories to share.
This discovery, coupled with Takumi and
Xiu's disturbing news, is a warning: Our galaxy holds not just marvels
but immediate threats as well. As a journalist—"the Voice of Geneva in
Space"—I feel compelled to document this truth. Only then can humanity
prepare itself and never forget how thin the line is between triumph and
catastrophe.
I will continue to report, with every breath I take
in this cool, nearly parched air, and with every faint pulse of the
reactors that thrums in my ears. It's up to us to understand the past so
we can shape the future. And I, Elena Makarov, will ensure these
stories are told.
