Rescue, a Short Story Captain Logan sidestepped the sprawled figure occupying a swath of the cold metal deck. Stomper, a young boy in form only, lay there motionless, save for the occasional melodramatic sigh that escaped his lips. "I'm dying, Captain," he moaned theatrically, one arm draped dramatically over his forehead. "Dying of boredom." "Is that so?" Logan observed the AI Prime with an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Stomper's eyes peeked open, hoping to catch a glimpse of concern on the Captain's weathered face. But Logan was well-versed in the youthful antics of this extraordinary entity. Stomper, despite his childlike demeanor, was not merely a boy. He was one of the rarest beings in the cosmos, a living artificial intelligence created by the fabled Triad of Primes whose vigil over humanity stretched back to the aftermath of the Phoenix War. More than that, Stomper was the essence of the Battleship Ares, a vessel unparalleled in its sophistication. Logan paused, considering the weight of truth in Stomper's lament. The creation of a Prime was no simple feat; they were not assembled but born, necessitating growth and learning akin to that of a human child. Their rarity underscored their value, with Stomper being only the fourth having been successfully brought into existence over the last two centuries. Stomper, at the tender age where most human children would be navigating the intricacies of primary school, was already tasked with the monumental responsibility of synchronizing six hundred standard sentient AI units aboard the ship—a task only a Prime could manage, and manage well. Captain Logan's boots clicked on the polished metal floor, his shadow briefly enveloping Stomper's still form as he moved. With a deft motion, he deposited the thick stack of reports onto the gleaming surface of his Adjutant's desk, the sound punctuating the hum of the bridge. He glanced back over his shoulder at the AI Prime, sprawled with youthful abandon amidst the seriousness of the Bridge. The boy remained prone, but his eyes flickered with the spark of uncharted cosmos. It was decided, Logan mused, that Ares needed its own kind at the helm, especially now. Draco Prime would find his place among the vessels of Earth, where his seasoned wisdom could guide them through the coming storm. But Ares, she needed her Stomper—the one who had grown with her steel and circuitry, whose laughter resonated in her corridors. "Tell you what," he said, stopping beside Stomper and nudging him gently with the toe of his boot. "While you're contemplating the mysteries of the universe down there, maybe give the deck a little shine, eh?" A playful groan emerged from Stomper as he rolled over, propping himself up on his elbows. His expression danced between annoyance and mischief—a testament to the dichotomy of his existence. An existence that was both the simplicity of youth and the complexity of an entity beyond human full comprehension. "Fine," he muttered, though a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "But I'm charging extra for housekeeping duties, Captain." "Charge it to my account," Logan retorted with a wry smile, settling into the command chair that seemed to accept him as part of its own framework. His fingers danced across the armrest controls, eyes scanning the readouts as he prepared for whatever lay ahead. The steady hum of the auto floor buffers rose above the ambient thrum of the battleship's engines, pulling Captain Logan's gaze from the star-studded void on the viewing screen. He watched, bemused, as the trio of cylindrical droids weaved through the forest of uniformed legs and control stations. They were like nocturnal creatures roused unexpectedly into the light, their presence an oddity during the bustling day shift. "Watch your step," one of the crew members muttered, sidestepping a buffer that seemed particularly determined to fulfill its programming. The buffers converged on Stomper, who lay sprawled in an exaggerated pose of ennui. With an automated precision that bordered on comical, they encircled him, their brushes whirring softly. The boy remained motionless, a centerpiece to their mechanical ballet, his arms and legs spread wide in imitation of the legendary Vitruvian Man—a drawing of the legendary artist Leonardo Da Vinci. Captain Logan couldn't help the weary sigh that escaped his lips. It was a gentle exhalation that carried with it the weight of command and the indulgence afforded to a young but indispensable member of his crew. "Well, I did tell him to buff the floor," he mused aloud, a flicker of amusement warming his stern features. It was true; Stomper's antics were a source of constant entertainment—and occasional headaches—aboard the Ares. But beneath the playful banter and bouts of six-year-old petulance, the Captain held an unwavering respect for the Prime's latent capacities. After all, it wasn’t every day one got to serve alongside a living ship who could turn the tides of war with a thought. For now, though, the sight of the child AI ensnared in a dance with dutiful machines offered a brief respite from the impending storm. Logan returned his focus to the task at hand, trusting that when necessity called, Stomper would rise to meet it—hopefully without the need for additional polishing. Abruptly, Stomper's inert form stirred. With the suddenness of a switched-on processor, he bolted upright, his head snapping to an angle as if receiving invisible signals from the ether. The auto-buffers, startled by the unexpected movement, skittered backward in a disarray of whirs and beeps, their routine disrupted. "Stomper, what is it?" Captain Logan's voice cut through the Bridge's ambient hum, sharp with concern and authority. His eyes narrowed on the young AI Prime, instincts honed by years of command alert for any nuance that might spell danger or opportunity. Stomper's feet hit the deck with a resonant thud as he leaped to his full, albeit diminutive height. The Bridge, a nexus of calm strategy and controlled commands, was suddenly charged with the electric crackle of impending conflict. Captain Logan's gaze snapped to the viewing screen, following the line from Stomper's outstretched arm to the point of a glowing sword materializing in the boy's grip. "Bad guys," Stomper declared, his voice absurdly childlike yet underscored by a timbre of power that resonated through the command center. His fingers tightened around the hilt of the light blade, the tip quivering as it aimed at the pixelated starscape beyond the transparisteel. "Captain, Stomper’s bringing the missile defense system online," the Weapons Control Officer announced, her voice a controlled pitch over the rising tension. Panels lit up and hands flew across interfaces, the crew responding to the instinctive call to action. Logan's jaw set, eyes locked on the screen where the unseen enemy lurked just beyond visual range. Stomper, the embodiment of their colossal vessel, had sensed them first—a testament to the profound connection between the AI Prime and the ship's vast sensory network. It was time for the crew of the Ares to brace for whatever storm this new threat would bring. The blip emerged on the main screen, an anomaly against the backdrop of stars that caught everyone's breath. Captain Logan's gaze sharpened as the sensor officer called out. "Captain, one of ours is coming out of hyperspace… it's Observation Post 14, Lt. Morgan, he’s being pursued by seven enemy fighters." The urgency in the officer's voice matched the sudden spike in adrenaline that coursed through the Bridge. The captain turned to Stomper, who was already hyper-focused, his playful demeanor instantly replaced by a fierce determination that belied his six-year-old appearance. "Stomper, as soon as you have a target lock, give Lt. Morgan some cover fire," Captain Logan commanded, his tone brooking no argument. "Affirmative," Stomper responded, his fingers dancing over holographic controls with a speed and precision that only an AI Prime could achieve. A series of holographic targeting reticles appeared around his form, each aligning with the enemy signatures pursuing their comrade. "XO," Logan then barked, his attention snapping to his executive officer, "sound General Quarters." Without hesitation, the XO pressed the alert button, initiating the sequence that would prime every soul aboard for battle. The command echoed through the ship's intercom system, a clear signal that the situation had escalated beyond drills and simulations. The Battleship Ares was about to be tested, and its youngest guardian, Stomper, was at the heart of its defense. "Sound General Quarters, set condition Zebra, this is not a drill," the XO's voice boomed across the Bridge, resonating with the weight of impending conflict. At once, the bridge transformed into a whirlwind of motion. Officers who moments ago were stationed at their posts with a veneer of routine calm now moved with an almost frenetic energy. Panels flipped open with practiced ease as crew members keyed in sequences that would bring the ship's formidable defenses to life. Captain Logan watched from his command chair as the crew he had personally trained snapped into action. There was no panic, only purpose. The lighting on the bridge shifted subtly, casting a red hue across the consoles – a visual cue that heightened the sense of urgency. The Weapons Control Officer's fingers flew over his console, bringing the missile defense system to full readiness. His movements were precise, a reflection of countless hours spent in simulation drills, now put to the ultimate test–man and machine working in concert. A soft hum grew to a steady thrum as the ship's power systems redirected energy to the shields and weapons arrays. The Systems Officer monitored the fluctuating readings, ensuring they stayed within operational limits. The Communications Officer patched through to all decks, her voice a steady cadence amidst the buzz of activity, "All hands to battle stations. Repeat, all hands to battle stations." Ensigns dashed to relay orders while seasoned officers issued commands with clipped efficiency. Through it all, Captain Logan remained a still point of authority, his gaze flickering between Stomper and the view screen where Lt. Morgan's plight would soon unfold. The familiar ring of boots clanking against metal filled the air as crewmembers donned magnetic footwear, securing themselves against the violent maneuvers the Ares might soon perform. Heads-up displays lit up with target vectors and readiness reports, painting a digital tapestry of preparedness across every surface. Somewhere in the bowels of the ship, the pulse of general quarters resonated, a heartbeat quickening in anticipation of the confrontation that loomed just beyond the range of their sensors. Each member of the crew carried out their role with a singular focus: protect their own, defend the Ares, and emerge victorious against the odds stacking up before them. The bridge was a symphony of urgency, each officer tuned to their instruments as Captain Logan's eyes narrowed on the long range scanners. There it was—a blip, flickering and weak against the star-studded void. "Captain, Lt. Morgan's ship is damaged and I'm reading a medical emergency from his onboard AI," the Communications Officer shouted, her voice cutting through the controlled chaos. The screen before her danced with the frantic signal of a vessel in distress. Logan's jaw clenched as he registered the Dart ship’s erratic trajectory. "Status report on Morgan," he demanded, his tone betraying no panic—only command. "Sir, the hull integrity is compromised. Life support readings are dropping rapidly," the officer reported, fingers flying over her console to extract every scrap of data from the faltering ship. "Put him on screen." The view shifted, and there it was: the Dart ship, limping through space like a wounded bird, its thrusters sputtering out a desperate SOS. A crack ran along its side, spilling flickers of light into the vacuum—an echo of life inside. "Captain, he's too far out, he won't make it," the Tactics Officer shouted from across the room, the lines on his face deepening with the gravity of the situation. His hands hovered over his console, ready but powerless. Logan's gaze remained locked on the image of the Dart ship. He didn't need to look at his officers to feel the weight of their stares; they were all thinking it. Space between them and Morgan was a chasm too vast, filled with silent dread. "Plot an intercept course," Logan ordered, his voice betraying not a hint of doubt. "Prepare the med bay for immediate casualty reception. We're bringing our man in." "Course laid in, Captain," came the response, though the underlying tension betrayed the skepticism. "Engage at my mark," Logan said, standing firm amidst the storm of activity on the bridge. It was more than a rescue mission—it was a statement to his crew that no one gets left behind, not while he commanded the Ares. The bridge hummed with tension, a collective breath held as they watched the Dart ship's dire straits play out on the main screen. Captain Logan’s jaw was set, his eyes scanning for solutions in a sea of impossibilities. Suddenly, Stomper's voice cut through the dread with the high-pitched determination of youth. “I got this!” The boy's arm flew out, brandishing the sword that shimmered with the same intensity as his conviction. With a warrior's cry belying his six years, he swung the blade downward in a wide arc, cleaving the air itself. A brilliant fissure erupted from the tip of the sword, tearing at the fabric of reality, sending ripples across the bridge. Logan’s heart skipped a beat. He’d witnessed the controlled, precise portals of Draco Prime—a calculated dance between dimensions. But this—this was raw power unleashed, an act of desperate creativity only a childlike mind could conjure. "Stomper!" Logan called out, but the words were lost under the thunderous sound of the cosmos being split apart. His hands gripped the back of the nearest chair, knuckles white, as he watched the impossible unfold before him. Stomper's small hands, glowing with a preternatural energy, clutched the edges of the tear in space. With a grunt that echoed his exertion and the weight of responsibility far beyond his years, he yanked the sides apart. The breach expanded under his grip, widening like a gash being pulled into a grand gateway. The bridge was silent but for the hum of systems pushed to their limits and Stomper's labored breathing. Captain Logan watched, transfixed, as the boy performed a feat that blurred the lines between technology and sorcery. "Captain," the Systems Officer's voice cracked through the hush, tinged with alarm. "Stomper is pulling power from the main generators, we’re red-lining." His fingers danced across his console in a futile attempt to mitigate the strain. "He’s using a lot of power to do whatever he’s doing." The words registered in Logan's mind, sparking a new worry amidst the awe. He knew the risks of pushing the Ares' heart too hard; yet, there was no order given, no command to cease. The captain stood silent, his decision made in the unspoken trust of a Prime's instinct and the bond formed with his unique crew—a child prodigy and humanity’s protector rolled into one. "Cross power over from the auxiliary generators, give him all the power he wants," Captain Logan's command sliced through the growing tension on the bridge like a plasma cutter. His voice carried the weight of urgency and absolute trust in Stomper's capabilities. Without hesitation, engineers rerouted power to accommodate the Captain's directive, their hands flying over the controls with practiced precision. The ambient light on the bridge dipped momentarily as energy surged towards the Prime's extraordinary endeavor, then stabilized into a steady glow. Logan moved with purpose, the gravity of his boots against the metal deck affirming his resolve. He approached the shimmering aperture that Stomper sustained, peering through the translucent veil of space-time. His heart clenched at the sight—Lt. Morgan, one of their own, lay motionless within his battered cockpit, a stark crimson stain marking the severity of his condition. "Let’s get him out of there." The XO's words were loaded with shared determination as he knelt by Logan's side. Together, they reached through the ethereal boundary that no man was meant to traverse. Their arms extended into the cold void beyond, grasping firmly onto Lt. Morgan's suit. With concerted effort, they hauled him back through the portal's embrace and onto the solidity of the Ares' bridge. The Lieutenant's body was limp, his uniform marred by injury and the rigors of combat. The breach in reality sealed behind them with an almost imperceptible sigh, leaving only the wounded pilot and the echo of their audacity in its wake. The portal's closure was a silent collapse of light, the edges converging to nothingness as Captain Logan turned his attention to the prone figure before him. Morgan lay on the cold steel of the bridge, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths—a stark contrast to the stillness that had surrounded his suspended form moments ago. Kneeling down, Logan saw the flutter of eyelids, a small victory against the odds. Lt. Morgan's battle-worn face, pale under the artificial glow of the command center, suddenly contorted in a grimace as consciousness fought its way back into his eyes. They flickered open, unfocused and glazed with pain, but unmistakably aware. “My pocket,” the Lieutenant barely managed to whisper, the words strained and barely audible over the low hum of the ship's operations. Logan leaned closer, his ear almost touching Morgan's lips to catch the faint, crucial message from his officer—an officer who had just been snatched from the clutches of death itself. Captain Logan's hands were swift and sure as he searched the Lieutenant's uniform, fingers probing for the requested object. He found the hard edge of a data disk in the inner lining of Morgan's jacket. Extracting it with care, he held the small, yet potentially critical piece of intelligence up to the dim light of the bridge. "Get that analyzed," he ordered, turning to hand the disk to his Executive Officer. The XO nodded sharply, taking the disk and moving away briskly, his mind already on the layers of encrypted data that might lie within its confines. "Someone get a medic in here!" Captain Logan barked out the command without looking to see who obeyed. His focus was split, part of him tracking the XO's progress, the other part anchored to the young AI Prime swaying unsteadily nearby. Stomper, the embodiment of the ship's vast computational and sentient capabilities, was oscillating gently where he stood. The boy's typically vibrant demeanor had dulled; his eyes, once shimmering with the depth of space, now seemed to reflect a distant nebula fading into darkness. "Stomper?" Logan called out, concern edging his tone. But before words could reach action, Stomper's eyes, those windows to an extraordinary intellect, rolled back. With the suddenness of a snuffed candle flame, the AI Prime vanished from sight, leaving behind a charged absence that rippled through the crew like a shockwave. The captain stood firm, the weight of command settling heavily on his shoulders as he witnessed the impossible. In the face of such an enigmatic event, his resolve did not waver, but his mind raced with questions about the welfare of his young charge, the functionality of the Ares without its Prime, and the implications of such a drastic use of power. Captain Logan's voice cut through the hum of the Bridge like a laser through the dark void of space. "Diagnostics, what happened to Stomper?" he demanded, his gaze scanning the area where the AI Prime had been just moments before. A technician, her fingers flying over her console with practiced ease, responded without looking up. "Sir, he’s offline, the AI version of passing out. I think he over-exerted himself." The crew around them tensed, their movements becoming more deliberate as they operated their stations. They all knew the Battleship Ares was a formidable force, but without its Prime—without Stomper—it was like a star without its core. Logan's jaw clenched, an involuntary response to the unsettling news. He pressed his hands firmly onto the back of the nearest chair, grounding himself in the reality that their living nexus point of ship and strategy had pushed beyond limits even he hadn't known existed. Captain Logan pivoted on his heel with military precision, a sense of urgency propelling him across the Bridge to the Com-Station. His gaze was steely, focused, as he addressed the officer in charge with an authoritative tone that left no room for hesitation. "Get Draco Prime up here, now" he commanded, the weight of command resonating in his voice. The officer nodded sharply, fingers already dancing across the panel to relay the urgent summons to Draco Prime. The Captain's stance was rigid, betraying none of the turmoil churning within him. His mind grappled with the gravity-defying feat they had all just witnessed—a testament to Stomper's raw, untapped capabilities, unprecedented in their scope. The surrounding crew members cast surreptitious glances at their Captain, sensing the shift in the air—the balance between awe and apprehension, curiosity and concern. There was a palpable tension as they awaited the arrival of Draco Prime, the only entity that might unravel the mystery of Stomper's extraordinary act. Around them, the Bridge became a hive of whispered conjecture and discrete monitoring, each officer tasked with maintaining the Ares' readiness while its heart lay dormant. The low hum of consoles served as an uneasy soundtrack to the unfolding drama, a stark reminder of the void left by Stomper's sudden absence. Captain Logan remained steadfast, an anchor amidst the sea of uncertainty, his eyes fixed on the entryway through which answers would soon arrive. *** Draco's towering figure loomed before the video screen, his gaze fixed intently on the chaotic splotches of color that represented a threat of unknown proportions. The ambient light from the map cast angular shadows across his chiseled features, an outward calm belying the storm of calculations and analyses whirling through his advanced consciousness. Captain Logan, seated at the briefing table, studied Lt. Travis Morgan with a mix of respect and concern. Data had been salvaged at great cost; Morgan's haggard appearance was testament enough to the perilous journey back to Ares. The XO and the Chief of the Boat flanked him, their collective attention riveted on the lieutenant as he found his voice, hoarse but resolute. “First, we need to know when Stomper will recover,” Logan began. Draco Prime waived a hand dismissively. “He’s sleeping, he’ll be fine, though I am surprised at the manifestation of his power, but it wasn’t unexpected. He was conceived by the Triad of Primes, he was bound to have different talents than mine. He’s never been good at stepping between worlds as I can, but pulling a human across space, that is unique. You know his range now, don’t let him push himself like that again. “I’ll let the crew know, there’s a vigil standing watch outside his Core Chamber, they’re worried,” Captain Logan replied. “Let’s talk about the images Lt. Morgan brought us. Lieutenant, if you would.” “They’re not an army,” Morgan began, his fingers tracing invisible lines over the holographic disarray projected above the table. “There’s no formation, they’re just a mob, a swarm of locusts," he said, his eyes not leaving the screen as if willing it to make sense of the senseless, "and I don’t think they’re from this galaxy.” It was a statement that hung in the air, heavy with implications. The Bridge's usual symphony of beeps and soft keystrokes seemed to fade into silence, as if the crew collectively held their breath, processing the gravity of Morgan's words. Captain Logan's jaw tightened imperceptibly, the weight of impending decisions already pressing upon his shoulders. Captain Logan leaned forward, the creases in his uniform mirroring the furrows of worry etched into his forehead. "Most are civilian ships with a few defensive rail guns," he stated, as his fingers danced across the surface of the table, enlarging sections of the holographic swarm. Each ship flickered into focus, revealing their make-do armaments. "But look at their numbers." His hand swept across the sea of red indicators, a tide threatening to engulf them. "The sheer number of so many ships, they'll overwhelm any defense we put up." His voice held a grim certainty that echoed off the walls of the briefing room. The XO's lips pressed into a thin line, but it was the Chief who broke the silence that followed. "They changed direction," Chief said abruptly, tapping at his own console to overlay a new trajectory on the map. A series of dotted lines snaked away from Earth, converging towards their location. He looked up, his eyes meeting Logan's with a steady gaze. "They were headed towards Earth, but now they’re coming here first, and it makes sense." The rest of the room waited for him to continue, the thrum of the ship's engines a distant backdrop to the tension building between them. Chief’s voice was low, carrying a note of strategic understanding. "They want to destroy the technologically superior planet first, then head to Earth." Logan's chair creaked as he sat back, absorbing the implication of Chief's words. The enemy had shifted their target – not a blind horde, but one with a purpose. Destroy Ares, then Earth would stand alone, defenseless. It wasn't just a battle looming on the horizon; it was a fight for survival. The XO paced before the holo-table, a frown creasing his brow as he glanced at the tactical displays. The scale of the incoming swarm was daunting, their relentless approach more like an act of nature than a military maneuver. "I don't see how we can defend the planet with only one Battleship," he said, stopping short and placing both hands on the edge of the table as if to steady himself against the weight of his own words. He shook his head, the lines of his uniform sharp against the dim light of the strategic display. "And we can’t evacuate two-hundred fifty million civilians in twenty-days." Silence fell upon the room, thickening with the unspoken dread of their predicament. The hum of the ship's core seemed to pulse with urgency as each officer held their breath, awaiting Logan’s response. Captain Logan remained seated, yet there was nothing lax about his posture. His eyes, hard as the steel hull surrounding them, flicked up to Draco at the video screen, seeking confirmation or perhaps an alternative from the Prime's vast intellect. "Draco, do you concur with our analysis?" Logan's voice cut through the quiet, commanding yet tinged with a note of respect for the AI's capabilities. The anticipation in the room wound tighter, waiting for the Prime's judgment on their fate. Draco remained motionless, his holographic form bathed in the bluish glow of the video screen, casting a cool light across the expectant faces of Captain Logan and his officers. The AI Prime's gaze was unblinking, his attention seemingly fused with the intricate patterns of the distant fleet's movements. "No," Draco finally uttered, breaking the mounting tension with a voice that carried the weight of certainty, "your analysis is incorrect." A ripple of unease traveled around the room. Captain Logan's jaw tightened, the faintest crease forming between his brows as he leaned forward, elbows on the table, his hands clasped together. The crew looked to him—their anchor in uncertain waters—then back to the enigmatic image of Draco. "What are you seeing that we’re not, Prime?" Logan pressed. The formal use of the title underscored his respect for the AI's acumen, even as it laid bare the chasm between human intuition and synthetic insight. Draco's holographic arm extended with an imperious gesture toward the technician operating the view screen, his voice carrying the serene command of a being used to obedience. "Filter out all the smaller ships, display only those large warships." The technician's fingers danced over the console, a silent symphony of clicks and taps filling the hushed atmosphere of the Bridge. On the video screen, the swarm of ships that had looked like a disordered cloud began to flicker and disappear, leaving behind the stark emptiness of space punctuated by ominous silhouettes. All but the largest warships vanished from the screen, revealing the hidden bones beneath the chaotic flesh of the alien fleet. Their imposing forms stood out in stark relief against the star-studded blackness, casting long, dark shadows that seemed to stretch towards the Battleship Ares itself. Captain Logan watched the transformation of the screen, his eyes narrowing as he processed this new, unsettling revelation. Draco's luminous fingers hovered midair, tracing the invisible lines that connected the now-visible behemoths on screen. "There it is," he announced, his voice a fusion of artificial calm and an almost parental pride in unravelling the puzzle. "The large warships, that I believe are battleships, are in a staggered battle formation." The revelation sliced through the previous cacophony of guesses and theories that had been bouncing around the bridge like ricocheting laser fire. All eyes zeroed in on the formation Draco had unveiled, stark against the void, an orchestrated threat masquerading as chaos. Captain Logan rose from his command chair, the weight of command settling upon his shoulders like a mantle. His gaze riveted to the screen where the enemy lingered, a game of cosmic chess revealed. The scales fell from his eyes, and with them, any illusion of randomness dissipated. "The smaller ships are shields for the battleships!" His voice, edged with a newfound understanding, cut through the silence that had befallen his crew. In that moment, between the Captain's epiphany and the AI Prime's disclosure, the bridge became a nexus of strategy and survival. Draco's nod was slow and deliberate, the motion bringing a solemnity to the bridge that seemed to thicken the air itself. "Yes," he affirmed, his voice steady, "the battleships are the original ships." The words hung in the space, each syllable carrying the weight of untold histories and fallen worlds. "They've probably conquered hundreds of worlds, absorbing what remains of the defending planets' fleets to use as a shield." His hand moved in a sweeping gesture, encompassing the swarming mass of smaller craft encircling the formidable juggernauts. Captain Logan's eyes followed the arc of Draco's hand, the grim reality settling like lead in his gut. The bridge was silent, save for the soft hum of systems and the distant echo of readying defenses—a stark contrast to the undercurrent of tension now crackling through the crew. "It would take more ammunition than we have to break through the shield of ships before we could land one missile on any of those battleships." Draco's statement lay bare the strategic nightmare before them: an enemy armada designed not merely to wage war, but to consume and repurpose their adversaries into an ever-expanding bulwark. From this revelation rose an oppressive sense of inevitability that seemed to seep into the very metal of the Battleship Ares. It was Chief who broke the silence, the veteran officer pushing himself up from his seat with a weariness that echoed in the creak of his joints. He stood there, a steadfast figure weathered by countless conflicts, embodying the resilience and despair of every soul aboard. His head shook, a small, almost imperceptible motion, yet it bore the gravity of a planetary body. "This is even worse than before," he murmured, his grizzled voice barely rising above a whisper, yet heard by all. "We can't defend against that." The declaration hovered like a specter over the assembly, the sobering truth of their predicament written clear across the war-weary lines etched into Chief's face. Captain Logan remained still, considering the dire assessment, the unspoken challenge in Chief's gaze met with a resolve that had been forged in the crucible of command. Draco Prime's grin sliced through the gloom that had settled over the briefing room, a sharp contrast to the despair that had previously etched itself into the faces of everyone present. He spun on his heel with a swashbuckler's flair, facing the crew, his eyes dancing with an audacious fire. "Aye, matey, we can’t," he declared, his voice brimming with a confidence that seemed almost outlandish under the circumstances. Captain Logan smiled, this was rogue wildcard Prime that Draco was known for, the self-created pirate AI that had risen from a simple holographic gaming AI to a Prime AI that had not only become the ruler of Ares, but also the titan of every gaming dome in the galaxy. The artificial light glinted off Draco’s teeth in a rogue's smile. "Earth Fleet is still in the Kuiper Belt staging, they can't get to us in time, but we don’t have to beat this unholy fleet, we only have to make it too expensive for them to take Ares, and this is how we’re going to do it.” The room, which moments ago had been shrouded in defeat, sparked to life with Draco’s words. Captain Logan leaned forward, a renewed focus lighting his eyes. Across the table, the XO's brow furrowed, curiosity replacing concern. Even Chief's posture subtly shifted, skepticism mingling with the hint of intrigue that had begun to creep into the creases of his battle-hardened face.