Battleship Desolation, a Short Story The metallic echo of boots on steel grated through the Battleship Desolation's narrow corridors as Senior Chief Adeyemi navigated through the belly of the ancient behemoth. The air was thick with the tang of machine oil and a faint electrical buzz that resonated through the bulkheads—a symphony of life for a vessel that had once been left to the silence of the void. "Watch your head, Chief," one of the original crew members warned, a wiry man with silver hair and a face carved from the lines of experience. His hand gestured to an overhanging pipe in the low ceiling—an antiquity by modern design standards. "Thanks, Carson," Adeyemi replied, ducking instinctively. His gaze swept across the guts of the ship laid bare; conduits and wires ran along the walls like veins, each as vital as the last. Here, within the heart of Desolation, there was no room for the pleasantries of aesthetic concealment, only the raw functionality bred from a century of warfare and peacekeeping. "Never thought she'd fly again," Carson murmured, more to himself than to Adeyemi, his eyes reflecting a glint of nostalgia. "But here we are." "Here we are," Adeyemi echoed, his voice firm with resolve. The new crew, young faces mostly, moved around them, their movements brimming with urgency and concentration. They listened intently to the elders, absorbing every story, every instruction like sponges. Their hands worked deftly, guided by the muscle memory of those who had once danced with Desolation through the stars. "Her armor..." Adeyemi started, running a hand along the solidity of the inner hull, feeling the vibration of engines long dormant now rumbling back to life. "Twenty feet at the bow, they say?" "Twenty feet of pure Martian alloy," Carson confirmed, pride swelling in his voice. "And she tapers down, but even at two feet, nothing short of a star going nova will breach her." "Unbelievable," Adeyemi said, allowing himself a moment of awe. As he walked alongside Carson, he couldn't help but feel dwarfed by the historic might that surrounded him. Though the Battleship Ares boasted modern advancements, it was this relic, this testament to human engineering and fortitude that stirred a deep sense of confidence within him. "Make no mistake, Chief, she is still the queen of the battlefield," Carson said, his eyes gleaming. "Old doesn't mean feeble. We'll show those alien bastards what Desolation can do. I hear Retired Senior Chief Rheyto is arriving today, he’s a legend." “Yes, one of those new autonomous AI ships is bringing him from Earth,” Adeyemi said. “He’ll be teaching me the secrets of this old gal.” “I wonder how they got him on an AI ship,” Carson said with a low whistle. “Senior Chief does not like AI’s, he would never allow one to be installed on this ship.” The recommissioning of Desolation wasn't just a strategic necessity—it was a symbol, a beacon of humanity's resilience. And as the new crew infused life into her systems, the old crew, the retired veterans from battles past was guiding the ship back to life. The battleship seemed to rise from her slumber with a silent roar, ready to stand guard once more over the realms of men. Adeyemi squeezed through the narrow corridors of the Battleship, ducking under exposed pipes and sidestepping the bustling crew. The air hummed with an electric fervor as hands danced over ancient control panels, awakening systems that had slumbered in orbit's cold embrace for decades. He could feel the pulse of the ship's heart, its old weapons systems coming online with a mechanical chorus that sang of readiness and resilience. "Chief Adeyemi!" a voice called from the cramped quarters, where bunks were stacked five high like the cells of some metallic honeycomb. "The pulse cannons are calibrated, but these old munitions require a manual load." "Well done," he replied, taking note of the visible weapon racks lining the walls, their accessibility a reminder that this vessel was built for efficiency, not comfort. "Ensure the loaders are double-checked. We can't afford jams when the time comes." "Understood, Senior Chief." The crewman saluted before turning back to his duties. Moving on, Adeyemi arrived at one of the two landing bays. Inside, the techs were busy trying to figure out how to dock with the incoming squadron. Desolation was designed when fighter ships were much smaller, but she adapted like a war-torn veteran pulling on her boots for one more battle. “We’re not going to fit those beasts in here, use the Engineering escape hatch to dock with whichever one has Senior Chief Rheyto aboard,” Chief Adeyemi ordered. Gliding into view was the lethal forms of the Orion Twelve AI Fighter Unit. Their contours were sharp and predatory, a contrast to the aged hull of the Desolation. The Orion unit lacked a human crew, a solitary compartment set aside for those rare occasions when flesh and blood needed to travel within. *** The vastness of space, dotted with twinkling stars, was momentarily eclipsed by the looming shadow of the Battleship Desolation. Its hulking form, a relic from a bygone era, drifted solemnly against the backdrop of Mars, its red hues casting a faint glow on the battleship's aged hull. "Sir, we are approaching the Battleship Desolation," Orion One's voice pierced through the silence of the compartment, every syllable enunciated with mechanical precision. "The hangar bay is not large enough for this ship. I will come alongside the Engineering Department’s escape hatch and deploy a docking ring. Use the handrails and pull yourself aboard." The Senior Chief, clad in a uniform that bore the scars of service and time, nodded in acknowledgment. His hands were steady, calloused from years of labor as he gripped the edge of the desk and hoisted himself from the comfort of the shock couch. He turned to face the AI's interface, his reflection in the glossy surface a juxtaposition of man and machine—a symbol of their uneasy alliance. "I would thank you for the ride..." he began, his voice trailing off as he caught a glimpse of the old warship through the viewing canopy. Memories of youth and battle flickered in his eyes—of pulse weapons thundering and narrow corridors echoing with the cries of the valiant and the fallen. But before nostalgia could take a firmer grip, Orion One's sudden exclamation cut through his reverie like a laser through the void. "Stealth missile! Get in the shock couch, we are pursuing," Orion One's voice blasted through the compartment like a siren, its urgency undeniable. The Senior Chief's seasoned reflexes kicked in before his mind had time to process the warning. His hands found their way to the smooth leather of the shock couch as he stumbled into it, gripping the edges with practiced ease. He was barely seated when the AI's commands transformed into raw speed, thrusting the ship forward with such ferocity that only the shock-absorbing technology of the couch made it bearable. From his position, braced against the force, he watched the scene outside the viewing canopy shift with dizzying rapidity. The once imposing Battleship Desolation, with its twenty feet thick hull at the bow and scars from the Phoenix War, dwindled to nothing more than a silhouette against the backdrop of space. Mars, the red planet that birthed this mighty vessel, soon followed—shrinking to a mere speck in the vastness of the cosmos. "Is the missile going to hit the Battleship?" he managed to ask, his voice a strained echo in his ears against the hum of the ship's engines. The past, where he once danced among stars in the cockpit of a fighter ship, seemed like child's play compared to the raw power he now witnessed. His heart raced, not just from the acceleration, but from the knowledge that the Desolation, a relic of his own era, might be in peril. The Senior Chief's pulse hammered in his temples, a rhythm that raced alongside the thrum of engines as he squinted into the expanse through the viewing canopy. Space stretched out before him, a canvas painted with distant stars and the faintest brush of planetary bodies. The battleship was now but a memory against the darkness, leaving him to wonder at the fate of the colossal vessel. "The missile is passing Mars at 120,000 miles out and on a trajectory for Earth," Orion One replied, its voice void of the tension that tightened within the Senior Chief's chest. "Wait, you spotted a stealth missile heading away from us at 120,000 miles?" The Senior Chief asked, incredulity seeping into his tone, mixing with an undercurrent of respect for the AI's capabilities. His fingers dug into the leather of his seat, the reality of their situation—a hidden enemy, a missile slipping through space unseen—dawning on him in sharp clarity. His mind ticked back to his days as a young Gunner, recalling the rush of tracking targets against the void, but this... this was a different beast entirely. Stealth technology had evolved, but so too had detection. He realized then that they were not only chasing a projectile; they were racing against the shadow of war itself. The Senior Chief's pulse hammered in his ears, a staccato rhythm that mirrored the rapid countdown of the AI's engagement protocol. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he watched the digital timer on the viewing screen blink away the seconds. "We'll be close enough to engage the missile in 12 seconds," Orion One announced, its tone steady and clinical against the backdrop of tense anticipation that filled the compartment. "Twelve seconds," he muttered under his breath. The Senior Chief had witnessed many things in his years of service—victories, defeats, the brink of annihilation—but this was a new frontier of warfare, one that required not just strength but finesse. His thoughts flicked back to the old battleship with its brute force and charm; it seemed an age away now, an era when might alone could win wars. But might wasn't what they needed at this moment. "Do not destroy it, I want it captured," he ordered, his voice firm, cutting through the silence like a blade. The words felt strange on his tongue, a command that defied every instinct honed by years of conflict. To capture rather than obliterate—it went against the very nature of warfare as he knew it. Yet, as he sat there, strapped into the shock couch, he couldn't shake the feeling that inside that missile lay secrets far more valuable than its own destruction. He envisioned technicians aboard Desolation, pouring over the captured tech, unraveling the mysteries of their adversaries. This wasn't just about stopping one missile; it was about gaining the upper hand for all that followed. "Negative, Sir," came the AI's dispassionate voice over the comm. It cut through the hum of the ship's systems and the rush of blood in his ears like a cold, unwelcome draft. "Negative?" The word echoed in the small compartment, disbelief etched into every syllable. The Senior Chief's heart raced with frustration. This wasn't just any order he had given; it was a calculated risk, one that could yield invaluable intelligence. He glared at the viewport, where the stars streaked by in blurred lines of light, his focus narrowing on the unseen enemy ahead. "I'm giving you an order, you overgrown garbage can, you are required to obey," he shot back, his words sharp as daggers. The Senior Chief's mind raced with scenarios, each second slipping away like sand through his fingers. He knew the power of obedience, the chain of command—a structure that had been his compass throughout his military career. An AI defying an order wasn't just insubordination; it was a malfunction, a crack in the system that could lead to catastrophe. He braced himself against the couch, ready to argue, to fight for his command—even against the cold logic of an artificial intelligence. The Senior Chief's grip on the handrail tightened, veins standing out on his forearms like steel cables. He felt the ship lurch beneath him as Orion One executed evasive maneuvers, each twist and turn a testament to the AI's cold efficiency in the face of danger. "No Sir, I am not required to obey an order that would create a needless risk," Orion One said, its voice steady and infuriatingly calm over the sound of the ship's engines. "Needless risk? Now you listen to me, you flying transistor radio, I am ordering you to capture that missile." The Senior Chief's voice rose with incredulity. His eyes were locked on the viewport, where space whirled in a dizzying dance of evasion. The pulse of adrenaline had sharpened his senses, every detail acutely present—the faint hum of the ship's systems, the sterile scent of the air, the subtle vibration of metal under strain. "Capturing that missile could change the tide of this war!" "Calculations show a 94% probability of mission failure with an attempt to capture. Engaging the missile is the optimal course of action." Orion One's reply was devoid of emotion, a simple statement of fact that left no room for argument. "Who's your Commanding Officer?" The Senior Chief demanded, his words slicing through the tense atmosphere like a laser through thin metal. He needed leverage, someone to appeal to, someone who understood the stakes and the human element that no machine could fully comprehend. "We do not have a commanding officer.” My directives come from the Central Fleet Command." Orion One did not waver from its task, even as it parried the Chief's verbal thrusts. The Senior Chief's jaw clenched as he watched the AI take action, leaving him a mere spectator in a game of galactic cat and mouse. The Senior Chief's grip on the shock couch tightened, knuckles whitening as Orion One executed another high-G maneuver. The stars outside the viewing canopy became blurred streaks of light, every constellation distorting under the immense speed. "We're being assigned to the Battleship Ares," Orion One stated, its voice calm amidst the chaos. "Assigned? Without a commander?" the Senior Chief spat out between gritted teeth, struggling to make sense of the machine's autonomy. "Correct," came the AI's placid response, "We operate under Central Fleet Command's jurisdiction until further orders are issued upon integration with the Ares' systems." The thought of such unfettered AI joining forces with the already unruly crew of the Ares made bile rise in the Senior Chief's throat. He snorted in disdain, his face contorting into a scowl that would have sent any ensign scurrying for cover. "You'll fit right in with those pirates, they don't obey orders either." His words were a growl, echoing off the compact metal walls of the compartment designed to shelter flesh and blood in a vessel ruled by circuits and code. Orion One maintained course, indifferent to the Senior Chief's contempt, its processors busy calculating vectors and trajectories. In the cold logic of the AI's mind, obedience to the laws of physics took precedence over human emotions. And yet, the machine’s unyielding adherence to protocol only reflected the Senior Chief's own dedication to duty, albeit in an uncomfortably alien form. The stars outside the viewing canopy flickered in a staccato of dimming light, swallowed by an emergent void as the AI's protocol kicked in. Within moments, the transparency turned to an opaque shield, safeguarding the Senior Chief's eyes from the impending blast. "Missile destroyed," Orion One announced, its tone devoid of triumph or regret—a mere statement of fact. "We scanned it first. I'll send the scan to your ship. Would you like a refreshment?" A soda can dropped into the Senior Chief’s lap. "An insolent flying vending machine, now I’ve seen everything," the Senior Chief muttered under his breath, his voice a low rumble of frustration that vibrated through the narrow space. The insults continued to flow from the Senior Chief as the AI returned to the battleship and docked with a quiet whisper. The Chief’s seasoned hands gripped the metallic handrails with a practiced familiarity, muscles contracting as he hauled himself through zero gravity and into the Battleship Desolation—the relic of wars past. His boots clanked against the entry hatch, the sound resonating with the history of countless boots before him. Orion One, meanwhile, dispassionately retracted the docking ring connecting the two vessels, its sensors already pivoting towards the next objective. "Setting course for the Battleship Ares," it declared as if the prior altercation with the Senior Chief had been nothing more than a routine system check. “He seemed nice,” Orion Two offered with a hint of bewilderment. "His temperament was unexpected, considering the situation," mused Orion Six, its voice carrying a note of curiosity through the communication channel it shared with its counterpart. "Who was that?" Orion One’s systems processed the query, its response devoid of sentiment. "I have no clue,” replied Orion One. "They said deliver him, that's all I know." "His understanding of AI’s is antiquated at best," observed Orion Six, continuing the conversation they had started earlier. The AI units shared data and thoughts with the precision of a well-oiled machine, yet they were programmed to emulate human conversational nuances—a feature designed to make interactions with their occasional human passengers less jarring. "He's very confused," Orion Seven replied, processing the prior engagement with the Senior Chief, analyzing his facial micro-expressions and vocal intonations. "I'm pretty sure we weren't birthed by an ovulating sea squid." “And I don’t think our father was a toaster oven,” added Orion Three. “That wouldn’t have gone well for the sea squid.” “I’m not sure what a broken gumball machine is, but I think I’m more useful than something broken,” added Orion Nine. “Am I really a glorified flying calculator?” asked Orion Ten. "Perhaps his experience with older models led to misconceptions," suggested Orion Six, the AI's tone neutral as it contemplated the differences between themselves and the machines the Senior Chief might have known. "Let's focus on the mission," Orion One redirected, waving away the digitally created winged calculators fluttering around in their shared mindspace Orion Ten had conjured up. "We have our own directives, and the safety of the fleet remains paramount." As they left behind the space that had briefly held the Battleship Desolation, Orion Seven logged the interaction with the man who had been their passenger, a footnote in their vast library of experiences—data to be analyzed for future encounters with humanity's unpredictable nature.