War with the Forerunners. 110,000 years before the main events. The ship Boundless Will.
Collapsing into the chair in his own office, the Captain demanded:
"Report. At ease."
This time, the ship's AI appeared as a small hologram on the Captain's desk.
"The Forerunner ship is destroyed; no pursuers detected. No one knows about us. The main bus is dead and cannot be repaired urgently. We can still use life support at the expense of backup systems, but that is all we have. The ship is doomed, Captain."
Well, we expected this. Now it's just us, the interstellar void, and a pile of corpses. No signal to send, no way to get there under our own power. The ship, judging by the status screen and the fact that gravity has already cut out once, is almost falling apart.
"The crew?"
The vixen lay on her stomach right on the projector-desk and looked at me, swinging her legs.
"Encouraged. You achieved victory in a difficult situation."
The Captain waved it off.
"Don't exaggerate; you were the one shooting. An excellent shot, by the way."
She nodded.
"Thank you, Captain. In any case, the crew will soon understand the situation, but for now, I observe an euphoric reaction."
Good, we can work with that. Especially since it's obvious a difficult decision will have to be made.
"How long will the ship's life support systems last? How long will the energy last? If everyone is placed in stasis? How long will the flight to the world take on sub-light engines? Those that we have?"
The vixen, who had been holding her hands under her chin, made a "no idea" gesture.
"Point by point. Life support will last for three months. We lost not only crew but the systems themselves. Energy will last for five hundred years at the current rate of consumption; the reactor was charged. And we aren't spending energy on shields and weaponry. If the crew is placed in stasis, they will live for about three hundred years, provided energy consumption is reduced to a minimum. Probable cause of death: equipment wear and depletion of supplies. Flight in our condition will take about one hundred and ten thousand years."
At this, she folded her hands under her head again and continued to look at the Captain, waiting for him to continue. Of course, the ship's AI had made all her own conclusions in advance. And now she is simply voicing what she spoke of even before the battle. We won't be returning home.
"Any ideas?"
She shrugged.
"You are the Captain. According to protocols, the ship's AI does not possess the authority of the Captain, has no right to manage the crew bypassing the Captain's orders, or to make decisions that jeopardize the crew. And I see no solutions that do not fall under that definition."
Which, translated into normal language, means that difficult decisions must be made by oneself, not delegated to the ship's AI. But the look at the status screen and the reports from the crew don't add to the mood. We cannot win here. Not at all.
"Khaela, an order. Calculate a route to the nearest planet. Give as much acceleration as you can to get home," she nodded, the order obviously transmitted, "next. Councilor 18-436."
She tilted her head, twitching her ears.
"Yes, Captain?"
And now the most unpleasant part. It's obvious that restoring the ship won't work. This doesn't need urgent repair; it needs the replacement of an element the size of a subway line. Performing it crudely is simply impossible; a shipyard or a ship with special equipment is needed. The crew is doomed.
"When everyone lies down in the pods, is it possible to safely deactivate them? Painlessly for the crew?"
The words were difficult, as this was what he would have to do himself. But to let everyone slowly suffocate... No, not immediately. We'll still fight for survival. But he needed to know.
"Control of the pods is carried out by the medical block staff. I can perform a wake-up of the crew, nothing more. Without changing the protocols, the order is impossible to execute, Captain."
Well, expected, really. He needed to talk to the medics. Khaela's voice rang out over the intercom:
"Attention, crew. Failure of the compensation system. Engine startup in progress. Everyone secure yourselves. Engine startup in progress. Everyone secure yourselves immediately."
The acceleration pressed him into the chair, and the few loose objects began to roll toward the wall with a screech. In ancient ships, this would have been a strict violation of the rules, but after thousands of years of gravitational compensation systems working, such things are treated much more simply.
"I am maintaining the G-forces in a mode acceptable for humans."
When the pressure from the acceleration dropped, the Captain decided to walk through the ship. There was no point in going to the bridge; it wasn't his watch now, and there was no alert. There were few people in the empty corridors; everyone wore light vac-suits. Atmosphere isn't everywhere. The people are mostly satisfied; there are almost no wounded. The latter is not surprising; plasma hits kill everyone who is close enough. As the AI said, the people are encouraged. They don't know. Some preparation needed to be introduced.
"Chief engineer to the medical block."
"Calling, Captain."
In the medical block, everything is not bad. It is located in the inner, protected zone of the ship. Essentially a large capsule that can pull a large number of crew from a dying ship. Pull them out and ensure their survival in pods for two weeks. The head of the medical service, one of the few veterans on board, an elderly black man, immediately straightened up upon seeing the Captain.
"Sir!"
"At ease, Agwuegbo. The chief engineer is coming; we need to discuss a point."
In the meantime, he could inspect the medical block. The ship's crew isn't that large. A couple of thousand people for nine kilometers of length, plus nearly twenty thousand infantry, five thousand engineering personnel. Massive automation; the size is primarily determined by the installed weaponry. The section itself is a large white room with rows of medical and stasis pods. Cots with restraints, equipment, and almost a full staff of medics. One of the few services that almost didn't suffer in battle, as it should be. We moved to the back of the block, into the chief doctor's office. The chief engineer arrived there as well.
"So, why are we here, sir?"
The Captain sighed.
"Can we turn the stasis pods into machines that will quietly and painlessly kill the crew?"
The medic frowned at such a question, while the chief engineer nodded to himself. He certainly knows our condition.
"With all due respect, sir," Agwuegbo began harshly, but the engineer cut him off.
"Perhaps that really is the way out," the medic fell silent, looking at the others.
The situation needed to be clarified, and the Captain decided:
"The ship is doomed. Correct me if I'm wrong, chief engineer. The main bus is burned out; we are effectively on emergency power. We are hanging in the interstellar void, moving slowly toward the nearest world on sub-light, unable to use the Slipspace drive. Resources will last for a year; the journey will take a hundred thousand times longer. There is no way to call for help; the communication equipment is destroyed beyond recovery. We have exactly two options: suffocate or go out on our own terms. We've already destroyed the pursuer, but we can't do anything else.
The medic fell silent, looking at the chief engineer. He nodded, confirming the situation. Yes, the engineering and bridge watch know about it now, but the rest will understand soon.
"Are you going to give the order?"
The Captain nodded.
"Not immediately. If we can scrape together and assemble a new communication system from debris and improvised means, we should do it."
The chief engineer chuckled.
"A quantum communication system can't be assembled in an amateur workshop, sir. To create a quantum pair, you need a laboratory where connected transmitters are assembled. Such a thing cannot be repeated in our conditions when we don't have the second element of the pair on the other side. I'm sorry, sir. It's impossible."
Agwuegbo cursed.
"And what does our artificial brain say? Khaela?"
A voice from the ceiling stated:
"My conclusions coincide with the Captain's. I am sorry; I cannot give you another solution."
The Captain sighed again. No one wants to make such decisions.
"Therefore, I want to prepare. Let's give the crew time to make a decision. We'll collect recordings for posterity and launch the ship toward the planet. Khaela will be placed in hibernation. Chief engineer, your task is to ensure she survives this flight in the best possible condition and delivers the memory of us to humanity. Can she survive this flight?"
The chief engineer thought for a moment.
"Possibly. If we gather more nanites and supply them with resources. Transfer energy to the accumulators so they can repair the capsule. It will take time and calculations, and even then, I can't guarantee it. Various problems are possible that don't exist now and which there will be no one to fix. But in any case, it will last longer than we will."
The decision was made, and the beginning depression was replaced by activity. Discipline began to fall rapidly; people sought to take as much as possible. They were told the crew would be put to sleep for a long time, and people were worried. Long-term stasis can be quite dangerous. Breaches of subordination began to gradually increase. For a warship, this is a problem, but in their situation, it was hard to expect anything else. After all, there are no guarantees they will even wake up after decades. The engineering team began their project to maximally improve the AI core.
Originally a small block, it was turned into a massive container with a single goal: to maintain the work of its contents. Nanites programmed for repair. Resources for their operation, power blocks. And numerous recordings of the crew on a separate data carrier. From frankly stupid jokes and strange stories to valuable statistical and personal information. Decisions, ideas. Declarations of love, music. Everything was recorded. Ultimately, after six months in this mode, Khaela raised the question of whether to filter the data, but no.
"I don't think the personal data of the crew will be valuable in any case in a hundred thousand years, Khaela. For them, it's an opportunity to tell people of the future about themselves. Hope, in whatever form. We shouldn't deprive them of that."
"Understood."
"Tell me," the Captain suddenly asked, "will you miss us?"
The AI replied:
"The question is incorrect, I..."
"Just answer. I know the rules; in the end, there's no one else to judge you, remember?"
The projector module flew up and formed the hologram of the Councilor. The AI "sat" in the chair opposite.
"You are mistaken, Captain, in thinking that those like me can miss someone. My memory does not degrade; I remember every event as if it..."
...remembered him five years ago. If I am still functioning in a hundred thousand years, I will remember you. And I will remember this conversation as clearly as I do this very second."
The Captain raised his hand.
"I understand. It's just... the more time passes, the more you think about the eternal. Forgive me if I was wrong."
She nodded.
"Don't worry, I have an entire crew of subjects under observation. It's a general trend. Humans say a vast number of things when they forget my presence. I can't say all of them please me, but it is experience and information."
The Captain laughed.
"I don't doubt it. And what do you enjoy observing the most?"
She smirked.
"The drama, of course. Your Executive Officer should have considered the harm of casual sexual encounters without proper protection before imminent death."
The Captain cursed.
"Khaela!"
The hologram shrugged.
"But that is what happened, Captain. Six pregnancies among the crew, Captain. I do not know what humans think in such situations. It is not just a violation; it is stupidity."
I don't think humans often find themselves in such a situation, but that no longer matters. So something else was said.
"The work is complete, Councilor. In three days, we will enter the pods. Most of the crew has no idea how this ends. They are certain the pods are being modified for very long-term operation, many times longer than the norm. That a signal was sent, but by the time it arrives, by the time help comes, years will pass—more likely decades. And they need to sleep in pods that might not withstand such a load, and part of the crew might not wake up. In fact, after freezing, the pods' operating mode will change. And the crew will die quietly."
The fox's reaction was unexpected. She flinched, showing disgust.
"I am not happy about this. But you are the Captain."
The projector returned to the charging station. Unexpected. Has she grown attached to the crew and doesn't want to execute the protocol? She won't ignore the order, that's a fact. But still, it's something to think about. A few days later, the moment of truth arrived. No one confessed, no one raised a panic. Likely, many suspect the real state of affairs, but it's better to pretend everything is normal. People smile and joke as they settle into the pods to sleep. Khaela broadcasts over the intercom.
"Block twelve loaded. Pods transitioned to stable state. Atmosphere shutdown. Block eleven loaded. Pods transitioned..."
The Captain looked at his own office one last time. He, too, left a message for posterity. And then he put everything in perfect order, as befits an officer, making the bed to the markings so everything would be ideal.
"Well, it's time. Khaela, begin isolation."
She confirmed.
"Living block empty. Block isolation initiated. Life support shutdown. Atmospheric venting initiated. Completed. Power shutdown."
The massive door deactivated as the access panel went dark, and the red lock backlight vanished. Excellent. The Captain moved through the empty corridors. Lights went out behind him, then the rooms went dark. Not much left. Turning, he entered the only door still glowing white. The pods for the senior officer staff. He nodded to the Chief Medical Officer, the XO, and the Chief Engineer.
"Well, that's it, gentlemen."
The Chief Engineer was the first to lie in the pod, shaking the Captain's hand. Simultaneously, the AI announced:
"Isolation complete. Ship preservation complete. All systems normal. Those that remain. To all personnel, pleasant dreams. Thank you."
The Chief Engineer nodded. The Captain's enhanced vision allowed him to notice a single tear as the man lay in the pod and spoke.
"Pleasant dreams, Khaela."
Then the lid lowered, and the interior of the pod turned pale. They said their goodbyes and lay down in turn, not forgetting to bid farewell to the AI. When the lid closed, the Captain noticed the figure of the fox standing in the middle of the hall. She wasn't smiling. Then the lights went out and the world went dark. Ten minutes later, standing in the empty dark room, the AI spoke over the intercom, even though she knew she wasn't being heard.
"Transitioning pods from hibernation mode to suppression mode. Farewell, crew. Entering hibernation mode. Initiate."
The projector sphere fell heavily onto the deck, but there was no one left to make a remark. There are no survivors. The dead ship moved toward its goal in the cosmic silence.
***
Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI) report recording regarding the "Lone Pilgrim" incident.
May 17, 2535.
Recording of communications between the patrol frigate UNSC Madrid and Flight Control.
Orbit of planet Reach.
"Control, this is Captain Sinclair, frigate UNSC Madrid. We have something large on radar ahead. How copy."
"Frigate, copy that. What is it? The Covenant?"
"Not sure, Control, doesn't look like it. Moving slowly, too far from orbit. Not attacking, I don't see escort ships. Large. About ten kilometers."
"Copy that, UNSC Madrid. Message relayed to UNSC command. They've sent instructions. Can you take a closer look?"
"Uh, roger that. We'll move on course 0.45 to allow for retreat if necessary. How copy?"
"Received and confirmed, UNSC Madrid. Proceed."
Ten minutes later.
"UNSC Madrid, report."
"Closing in on target, stand by. Okay, scanning. No activity, no radiation traces. It's dead, Control. At least it looks it."
"Copy that. Can you move closer?"
"Confirmed. Re-scanning and closing in."
"UNSC Madrid, stay on the line."
"Confirmed."
Seventeen minutes later.
"Control, we've closed with the object. But it's not The Covenant. And it's huge!"
"UNSC Madrid, confirm. It's not The Covenant, correct?"
"Affirmative. It's a ship, it's big as an ass, excuse me. Anyway, it's big. But it doesn't look like The Covenant. We're cross-referencing the database, completely different shape. And it's heavily damaged."
"UNSC Madrid, repeat? You see a massive damaged ship, but it's not The Covenant?"
"Yes. We're moving closer to take photos. Never seen anything like it. I think it's drifting on inertia. Temperature scan. Cold. No power, nothing. I think it's been floating there for a long time."
"Accepted, UNSC Madrid. Additional instructions for you. Conduct primary reconnaissance, secure the zone. Two cruisers are heading your way."
"Copy that, Control."
Seven minutes later.
"UNSC Madrid, clarification. Order from ONI. Restrict contact. Switch to encrypted channel. Maintain communication only with Control and the ship teams provided to you. Confirm."
"Data received. Switching to encrypted channel."
Static.
"Cruiser UNSC Antalya to Frigate UNSC Madrid. Report."
"UNSC Madrid reporting: established parallel course with target. Preliminary report confirmed. Ship of unknown design. Length nine kilometers. Seeing significant damage. No radiation traces. No activity traces. Engines are non-functional. It appears the ship is dead. Should we deploy a boarding party?"
"Negative, UNSC Madrid. Your task is perimeter control."
"Copy," — a sigh.
***
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