Lyn Anderson floated in darkness, her body cradled by the merge pod’s life-support systems. She was neither awake nor asleep, existing in the liminal space where consciousness merged with the machine. The ship’s AI monitored her vitals, controlled her neural link, and sustained her in a state of sedation as they drifted through the Kuiper Belt on a twelve-month survey mission.
Humanity had once tried to conquer the void with machines alone. Pure AI-controlled vessels had seemed like the logical path forward with their infinitely patient, tireless, and immune to the frailties of the flesh. But no matter how advanced their programming became, AI lacked something essential: instinct. Split-second decisions in unknown conditions. The gut feeling that could mean the difference between survival and destruction. Sentience could not be replicated. The solution had been a hybrid approach merge pilot, a human mind linked to an AI core.
It should have felt peaceful. Instead, unease pricked at the edges of her mind. An anomaly, barely perceptible. A warning she couldn't quite grasp. The AI registered the fluctuation but found no immediate cause for concern. Lyn let the feeling pass. Everything was fine. Until, on the fiftieth day, something changed.
A pulse of unknown energy slammed into her merge ship the KMBS-A05, disrupting its systems in an instant. The AI barely had time to react before the neural connection severed violently, flooding Lyn’s mind with raw, searing pain. Then—nothing. Silence. The ship’s automated protocols engaged. “Connection lost. Attempting to reconnect… Pilot not found.”
The system scanned for consciousness, searching for its pilot. Lyn Anderson's mind was gone, leaving behind a body still breathing, but vacant, like a shell. Yet, the AI detected a presence. A new consciousness. “New pilot detected. Connecting… Connection failed. Connecting… Connection successful. Calibration started. New pilot profile created for Null.” But the presence it registered wasn’t a pilot at all. It was an unborn child. The barely formed mind of Lyn’s unexpected pregnancy was now the only consciousness the ship could find.
Unbeknownst to the AI or Lyn a being of light and energy and far beyond human was observing the ship. A Watcher. An Ophanim-class entity that had monitored humanity for millennia, mistaken by early civilizations for divine beings known as Angels. The energy pulse had been an accident an experiment in psychic forces gone wrong. It was never meant to strike human technology or anyone. Yet it had, it had been a most improbable event and now the Watcher faced a dilemma.
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Humanity had been classified as a race of potential, protected from external interference by the Council of Higher Races. The protocol was clear: erase all evidence. Destroy the ship. Eliminate the child. But the Watcher hesitated. It had studied humans and found them irrational, chaotic, and endlessly unpredictable. This child was an anomaly an unplanned variable in the grand equation of fate. The logical choice was to erase it. The curious choice was to keep it.
An experiment. A human raised with knowledge far beyond its species.
The Watcher sifted through streams of human data. Across centuries of space travel, humans have struggled with babies in space. Fragile, resource-intensive, and demanding constant care, they were ill-suited for deep-space environments where oxygen was rationed and every gram of biomass had a calculated cost. To compensate, engineers had designed infant-rearing pods, enclosed systems where newborns were sustained and immersed in a simulated environment that mimicked human interaction.
The Martian military had taken this concept further. Buried beneath layers of redacted files, the Watcher found the records of Project NGSS it was an attempt to mass-produce the perfect soldier. No childhood, no distractions, no wasted potential. The pod would not merely raise the child; it would forge them. The developing brain would be saturated with combat scenarios, strategic problem-solving, and neural conditioning. It would bypass the inefficient chaos of human adolescence, sculpting warriors before they could form their desires. The project’s first test subjects had thrived in simulation—fast, adaptive, and lethal. But the system was imperfect. Lifespans were cut short. Minds unravelled too quickly. The Martians had abandoned it, fearing their creations would be more unstable than unstoppable.
The Watcher did not share their fears. The flaws were correctable. The human body was primitive, but with the right adjustments, the child could be something more. Faster. Stronger. Unburdened by the limitations of its species. Not just a soldier, but a creation of higher intelligence.
Decision made, the Watcher deployed a drone to retrieve the damaged ship, transporting it to its hidden research station. The merge pod’s readings showed the child nearing birth. With inhuman precision, the Watcher oversaw the operation, commanding the drone to extract the infant and place it into the modified NGSS pod. Calibration began. The system engaged. Then, alarms blared. The baby’s vitals were crashing. The pod was failing. It wasn’t going to make it. And for the first time in its long, calculated existence, the Watcher felt something it had never encountered before. Uncertainty.
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