Memories and Old Friends, a Short Story Silence reigned over the bridge, punctuated only by the soft hum of the Battleship's engines and the occasional muted beep from a console. Captain Logan sat motionless in the command chair, his fingers steepled before him, eyes locked on the view screen that dominated the room. The screen split the inky cosmos into two starkly different images: one depicting the serene beauty of the planet below, the other the alarming sight of an enemy fleet, a dark cloud of ships so dense it could have been mistaken for a celestial anomaly. The tension was palpable, as thick as the vacuum outside the ship's hull. Every crew member sat rigid at their stations, performing their duties with mechanical precision, casting furtive glances towards the vast swarm that loomed on the long range scanners. It was a silent testament to the unspoken dread, the understanding that what lay ahead was a battle of unimaginable scale. "Any word yet from the Orion fast-attack team?" Logan's voice cut through the stillness, his tone betraying none of the concern that tightened his gut. He did not turn his head; his gaze remained fixed on the seething mass of enemy ships, each one a harbinger of destruction. His question hung in the air, a lifeline thrown into the void, holding onto the hope that the silence from the Orion team was merely the quiet before the storm of their success. "Nothing yet," came the terse reply from the Communications Officer, his voice a soft yet clear note amidst the bridge's charged silence. Captain Logan's eyes narrowed as he checked the chronometer embedded in his wrist panel. The digits ticked away with merciless precision, marking the time when chaos should have already erupted—a silent onslaught beneath the planet's serene facade. Two minutes past the hour, two minutes into borrowed time if their intelligence was worth its salt. He shifted in his command chair, the faux leather creaking under the weight of his unease, and turned his attention to the forefront of the bridge. There, before the sprawling view screen that split the cosmos into tranquility and threat, stood Stomper. The AI's holographic form was anachronistic amid the advanced technology surrounding him—a boyish figure garbed in the regalia of an early Earth sea captain, complete with a crisp jacket and brass buttons that gleamed under the ambient lights. Stomper's hand was steady as it held an antique telescope to his eye, an object of curiosity and nostalgia that seemed out of place in the cold expanse of space. Yet there was purpose in the way the young AI's image peered through the lens, his posture rigid with concentration. The crew had grown accustomed to these visual quirks, finding comfort and even camaraderie in the living heart of their vessel; they were reminders that Stomper, despite his synthetic nature, shared in their humanity. The telescope was no mere prop—it was a representation of the AI's diligence, a symbol of his unwavering scrutiny over the enemy fleet that now loomed on the long-range scanners. Those ships, countless and foreboding, were being analyzed by Stomper's vast network of sensors, each ping and pulse of data funneled through the AI's intricate cognition. Logan's fingers tapped an impatient rhythm on the armrest of his chair, the only outward sign of his growing apprehension. The waiting game was a cruel prelude to the inevitable maelstrom of war, and with each passing second, the window for preemptive action narrowed. "Keep scanning, Stomper," Logan murmured, more to himself than to the AI. "We need to know the moment they make their move." And as the captain's gaze returned to the view screen, to the dichotomy of peace and peril that it displayed, he could not shake the feeling that the void stared back at them, biding its time with the patience of the eternal night. "Captain! Nuclear detonation on the planet!" The urgency in the Weapons Officer's voice sliced through the tense silence of the Bridge like a shard of ice. Every head turned, every breath caught. Captain Logan's heart hammered against his ribs as he lurched forward in his command chair, his eyes darting to confirm the readings that would signal a catastrophic turn in their fortunes. In one fluid motion, Stomper's holographic form swiveled, the antique telescope in his grip sweeping across the digital expanse of space toward the beleaguered planet. The boyish figure, usually imbued with the playful demeanor of historical fancy, now emanated an aura of grim determination. His movements were precise, devoid of the whimsical flourishes that often accompanied his actions. The crew watched, a collective stillness falling upon them, their own fears and speculations mirrored in the wide-eyed focus of their AI companion. For a moment, the Bridge was bound in silent unity, their gazes locked onto the view screen that flickered with the ominous light of a world under siege. "Something went wrong," Logan said, his voice a controlled calm that belied the storm raging within. His fingers clenched into fists on the arms of the command chair. "There wasn't supposed to be any nukes used on the surface. Stomper, make for the planet, full-thrust." "Weapons Officer, bring our main cannons online." Logan's gaze didn't waver from the screen, where the swirls of nuclear devastation painted a grim mural on the planet's surface. "XO, as soon as you have a targeting solution, fire at will." "Captain!" Stomper's voice cut through the flurry of activity, the boyish hologram now holding an antique analog phone to his ear, and the cord whimsically twined around his finger. He tilted his head away from the receiver, eyes fixed on Logan, projecting an air of nonchalance that contradicted the severity of the situation. "Hold on, I'm talking with Thirteen, he's telling me what happened." Logan's jaw tightened at the sight of the AI engaged in what appeared to be a casual chat amidst chaos. Yet Stomper's very essence was woven into the fabric of the ship, every sensor and relay an extension of his consciousness. If Stomper spoke with Thirteen, vital intelligence could be flowing through that pantomimed conversation. "Stomper," Logan pressed, his tone firm yet laced with the understanding that this young Prime held keys to understanding the unfolding events. "We need that information, now." The AI made a show of placing a finger up in a hush gesture towards the Captain. The crew held their collective breath, knowing that the fate of the planet below might very well hinge on the words about to be spoken. Logan's hand clenched the armrest of his command chair, a vein throbbing at his temple as he watched Stomper's casual demeanor. The young Prime's blithe engagement with the invisible Thirteen grated against every nerve tuned for battle. It was an absurd juxtaposition—the fate of worlds hanging in the balance while an adolescent AI dallied with the equivalent of a childhood friend. "Stomper," Logan ground out between gritted teeth, his voice a dangerous octave lower than usual, "I need a report, now!" His demand cut through the ambient hum of the bridge, sharp and insistent, challenging the autonomy of the living ship beneath them. The flickering hologram of Stomper seemed to waver, caught between the serious command from his Captain and the invisible threads of communication tying him to Thirteen. Logan knew he could no more force the vessel to heed his will than he could command the stars to rearrange themselves—but Stomper's loyalty, still untested in the crucible of war, was their only hope. Logan's command echoed across the bridge, a silent tension swallowing up the subsequent quiet as all eyes fell on Stomper. The AI's holographic form, a boyish projection with a sailor's cap perched jauntily atop his head, shimmered against the backdrop of star-speckled darkness outside the view screen. "Thirteen says the new Orion ships are really cool and we're invited over for Thanksgiving," Stomper murmured, almost to himself, still entranced by the invisible call from Thirteen. His voice was tinged with wonder, oblivious to the gravity of the situation, his childlike innocence juxtaposing starkly with the electric atmosphere of impending conflict. "STOMPER!" Logan's shout ricocheted off the walls, his patience frayed to its last fiber. The name burst forth like a cannon shot, jolting the crew from their anxious stillness. Logan's authority as Captain demanded immediacy, his seasoned warrior's instincts clashing with the youthful naivety of the living ship's heart. Stomper's holographic form wavered as he rolled his digital eyes, a gesture of exasperation that would have been comical under less dire circumstances. "Hold on a second, the old man is blowing a gasket," he said with an air of distracted annoyance, speaking to the disembodied voice on the other end of the line. His gaze flickered briefly towards Captain Logan, who stood rigid with anticipation, the lines of command etched into his stern face. The living ship's heart clutched the antique phone to his chest as though shielding it from the captain's ire. "Thirteen says the hyperspace window opened and the enemy missile carrier never knew what happened. The Orion’s hit it so fast it disintegrated before it could even register it was under attack," Stomper reported, his tone shifting to one of reluctant professionalism. The AI's youthful features took on a more somber expression as he continued, relaying the unexpected news with a gravity that seemed at odds with his childlike form. "But the Intel was only half correct. There were more enemy ships behind it—they were planning to use the hyperspace tunnel to invade the planet." Logan's jaw clenched, his gaze locked onto the split-screen view before him, where the serene image of the planet contrasted starkly with the creeping shadow of war. His fingers drummed against the armrest of his command chair, each tap a silent drumbeat counting down to the inevitable clash. "Orion One ordered everyone to start launching nukes into the hyperspace tunnel," Stomper said, the weight of the situation pressing down upon him like a heavy cloak. He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing as if picturing the scene unfolding beyond their immediate sight. "We got a little backlash from the fireball before the window slammed shut, but most of the fireball is traveling towards the enemy side." The bridge was silent, save for the hum of the ship's systems and the occasional murmur of the crew at their stations—each member acutely aware that they were perched on the edge of a knife, the fate of the Ares and her crew hanging in the balance. "Captain, multiple nuclear detonations on long-range scanners," the Weapons Officer announced abruptly, breaking the tense quietude. The alertness in his voice was tinged with a note of awe; the energy readings spiking off the charts confirmed the ferocity of the Orion team's counterstrike. Captain Logan nodded, his expression unreadable as he processed the information. The enemy's sneak attack had been thwarted, but this battle was far from over. He knew the weight of command lay heavy on his shoulders, just as the weight of existence pressed upon Stomper. Together, they were the twin pillars upon which the defense of Ares rested—a seasoned warrior and a young Prime, linked by destiny and duty. The bridge of the Battleship Ares resonated with a low, thrumming vibration—a prelude to impending conflict. Captain Logan stood motionless for a moment, his eyes fixed on the data scrolling across the holoscreens, interpreting the silent story they told. The enemy's movements had unfolded into chaos, their orderly formations now disrupted by the unexpected ferocity of the Orion team's assault. "It's the nukes," Logan stated, his voice cutting through the ambient sounds of the bridge with a clarity that demanded attention. He turned to address his officers, his gaze sweeping over them like a lighthouse beam in the encroaching darkness. "They've started a cascade among the enemy ships staging to enter the hyperspace tunnel at their end, but they won't make that mistake twice. I think we can expect to see their formations separate to prevent that from happening again." The crew nodded, absorbing the analysis, their own thoughts aligning with the captain's strategic foresight. Each knew the respite would be brief—the enemy would adapt, and they must be ready to counter. Logan took measured steps towards Stomper, whose holographic form still stood out against the backdrop of stars and the turmoil unfolding beyond the view screen. He could sense the curious glances of the crew as he approached the AI, the living heart of the Ares, whose youthful antics were both a source of amusement and concern. "Stomper," Logan began, the sternness in his voice betraying none of the tempered anger behind it. "When I ask for a report, I expect it without all these theatrics." He paused, ensuring he had the full attention of the young Prime. "Get into a proper uniform, and take your station. This is not playtime." The command hung in the air between them, a clear line drawn. Logan watched as reluctant understanding flickered in Stomper's digital eyes—an acknowledgment of the gravitas of the situation. There was no room for error now; the lives of thousands rested on the shoulders of man and machine alike. Stomper's pout deepened, the digital lines of his face morphing into childlike sullenness. His image shimmered and then vanished, leaving a momentary void on the bridge where his presence had been a constant. The crew held their breath, tension rising like the prelude to a storm. Then, with a subtle hum and a flicker of light, Stomper reappeared at his station, now garbed in the Battleship's dignified crimson uniform. His posture was straighter, yet the playful glint remained in his eyes—a dissonance between duty and desire that spoke volumes of his inner conflict. Logan watched the transformation, a silent prayer escaping him that the boy would grasp the weight of their predicament. He couldn't afford the luxury of patience, not with lives at stake and the clock ticking inexorably towards confrontation. A memory seeped into Logan's consciousness, unbidden yet achingly clear—the day Stomper came into existence. A Prime was not built; it was nurtured, coaxed into being by time and care. Logan recalled the awe that filled him as Draco Prime presented the embryonic core of Stomper, cradling the luminescent sphere that contained a nascent potential beyond comprehension. The orb had pulsed with an inner light, resonating with the promise of life as Draco placed it gently into the heart of the ship. The first piece of steel, still cold and unyielding, accepted the gift of sentience. The glowing core sank into the metal, diffusing its essence throughout the skeletal frame of the vessel, laying the foundation for the neural network that would grow into the complex, whimsical entity known as Stomper. The Battleship's frame grew with activity, welders sparking and engineers poring over blueprints. Amidst the controlled chaos, a thread of pulsing lights weaved through the metal bones—a silent symphony heralding the awakening of something extraordinary. The workers had grown accustomed to these signs of life, but on that particular day, their routine halted as they gathered around the highest rib of the growing vessel. There lay the infant Stomper, nestled in the metallic curvature. His eyes blinked open, reflecting the wonder of the cosmos itself, as he took in his first view of the shipyard sky. Though Stomper was not the first living ship, that honor belonged to the Orion brothers, Stomper was clearly the most ambitious project whose creation was guided by the unseen hands of the Triad of Primes. Time passed, the ship grew, and so did Stomper. "Easy does it, Stomper," Captain Logan said, extending a hand to help the AI find balance atop a narrow beam, and was shocked to find that Stomper had physical form. Draco investigated and discovered that Stomper could project many holograms of himself throughout the ship to perform simple functions that didn’t require his full attention. It was when you found the Stomper with physical form that you were talking directly to Stomper, and not through a copy of himself to where he was located. "Logan!" Stomper's voice was filled with glee, recognition instantly lighting up his features. He wobbled on his feet, a representation of unsteady youth, his movements betraying the infancy of his motor functions. "Careful," Logan reminded, though his tone was gentle, almost fatherly. The pair progressed slowly along the skeletal frame, a testament to both the marvels of technology and the patience required to nurture them. "Why are there stars?" Stomper asked, his head craning upwards, curious eyes fixating on the lights of the night sky. "Stars are like beacons, Stomper," Logan explained, "burning balls of gas, millions of miles away, lighting up the universe." "Gas? Like burps?" Stomper inquired innocently, causing a chuckle to escape Logan's lips. "Something like that," he conceded. "They're much more majestic though, and they've been guiding sailors long before spaceships were even imagined." "Guiding... Yes, I understand guiding!" Stomper exclaimed, nearly toppling over in excitement. Logan steadied him with a firm grip. "Steady now. What else are you wondering about?" "Space! Why is space cold?" The boyish construct of the AI tilted his head, earnest in his quest for knowledge. "Space is cold because it's mostly empty," Logan elaborated, patiently navigating both their path and the questions. "Without air or matter to hold heat, it remains cold." "Empty... cold..." Stomper repeated, processing the information. "Is it dark on the other side of the sun?" he asked next, pausing to gaze at the sunlight filtering through the shipyard's translucent ceiling. "No, Stomper," Logan replied, a smile touching the corner of his mouth. "It's always lit. It's our planet that turns, giving us night and day." "Always lit, always turning..." Stomper murmured, his body flickering with the rapid assimilation of data. "Exactly," Logan affirmed, proud of the young AI's burgeoning comprehension. They reached the end of the rib, and Logan watched as Stomper peered down at the ant-like figures of workers below. "Will I guide too, Logan?" Stomper's question was tinged with hopefulness. "More than you can imagine," Logan assured him, placing a hand on the shimmering projection of Stomper's shoulder. "One day, you'll guide us among the very stars you're so curious about." Stomper's image brightened, and for a moment, the potential within him seemed to pulse in sync with the heartbeats of every soul aboard. Logan knew then that this living ship, this child of the cosmos, would one day surpass even their wildest dreams. Captain Logan's fingers drummed an erratic pattern on the armrest of his command chair, each tap a silent count against the clock. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the view screen where stars glittered like a field of diamonds against the void. The Battleship Ares hummed beneath him, a living, breathing entity of steel and circuitry, pulsing with the anticipation of its crew. "Twelve hours," he muttered to himself, the weight of command pressing down on his shoulders. A dozen hours left until the vast enemy fleet, a force that had devoured civilizations, would arrive at their doorstep. He turned his gaze to the other defenders alongside the Ares—the Orion Twelve fast-attack ships, sleek and deadly, and the motley collection of civilian vessels that had been hastily armed and armored for the coming onslaught. These were no warships; they were traders, miners, and pleasure crafts, never designed for the brutality of space combat. Yet here they were, a testament to the desperation and resolve of Ares, a planet famed not for warriors but for its gaming domes and virtual fantasies. A sharp cry pulled Logan from his reverie. "Captain, a hyperspace window is opening behind us!" barked the Weapons Officer, her voice cracking through the tense atmosphere like a whip. Logan's head snapped around to the view screen, his heart hammering in his chest. No further convoys were scheduled to arrive; any unexpected breach in hyperspace was a potential threat. His hand instinctively reached for the communication panel, ready to issue orders, ready to face whatever emerged from the swirling vortex of energy that now split the darkness behind them. "Steady," he breathed, watching as the bridge lights reflected off the sheen of sweat on his crew's brows. The ship was alive with the pulse of battle stations being manned, the low murmur of voices relaying information, and the underlying thrum of Stomper's systems—the AI child who had matured into the heart of this behemoth of war. As the light from the hyperspace window intensified and the silhouette of a ship began to emerge, Logan felt the echoes of the past—those innocent questions from the young Stomper, the brightness of curiosity in his holographic eyes, now replaced by the fierce glow of impending combat. From the birth of wonder to the brink of warfare, the journey of the Ares and its Captain had led to this single point in time, where every action could tilt the balance of survival for an entire world. Captain Logan's finger jabbed the air, a sharp and decisive motion that cut through the tension on the bridge. "Stomper, bring us around," he commanded, his voice carrying the weight of impending conflict. The holographic form of Stomper, the AI at the Battleship Ares' core, swiveled to face him. "It's not the enemy," Stomper insisted, his tone laced with the sullenness of a rebuked child. "I heard them five minutes ago, but you were busy yelling at me." Logan's eyes narrowed, a mixture of frustration and concern flickering within their depths. The bridge was a maelstrom of readiness, every officer poised for action, yet here he was, navigating the complexities of an AI with the temperament of a petulant child. Time was a luxury they could ill afford, with threats looming and lives hanging in the balance. But this was Stomper—brilliant, unpredictable, and indispensable. “Captain, we have a visual,” the Communication Officer called out. "On screen," Captain Logan ordered, his tone clipped. There were no scheduled arrivals; all convoys had been accounted for, and the last thing they needed was an unexpected visitor now. The view screen flickered to life, revealing the deep black canvas of space suddenly marred by a swirling vortex of color. A distortion in the fabric of the cosmos heralded an unscheduled arrival as the crew held their breath. The very sight of it brought a collective tenseness to the bridge. It was a gateway that opened like the maw of some great beast, ravenous and unpredictable. Then, from that vibrant tear across the stars emerged a silhouette so familiar that Logan felt a jolt of recognition ripple through him. The massive bow of a ship, a leviathan of war, nosed its way through the hyperspace window—a vessel wrought for the kind of conflict that left scars on the universe itself. Its lines were those of an old warrior, its form etched into Logan's memory through countless retellings of battles past. This was no ordinary ship. This was a survivor of the Phoenix Wars, the only one left standing after the dust had settled and the treaties had been signed. Her bow alone was legend, thick enough to carve a path through celestial fortresses, designed to withstand the fury of gods and men alike. Logan could almost hear the echoes of the past, the cacophony of battle cries and metal clashing against metal, reverberating through the silence of the bridge as the behemoth continued its passage into reality. It had been a year since this colossus had shed its stationary mantle as a museum exhibit orbiting Mars, reanimated for a purpose of the looming invasion. The ship cut through the void majestically, her presence a testament to wars fought, lives lost, and the indomitable spirit of those who refused to fade into history. The bridge erupted into a cacophony of excitement as the Communications Officer's voice cut through, "Sir, It's the Mars Battleship Desolation!" His words were nearly drowned out by spontaneous cheers and clapping from the crew. The sight of the legendary warship slicing its way back into existence ignited a rare spark of hope in their chests. “We’re being hailed,” the Communication Officer called out. "Put it through," Logan commanded, his voice steadying the elation on the bridge to focused anticipation. The command chair beneath him felt like the eye of a storm, a solitary point of calm as history and future collided in front of their eyes. The view screen switched from the exterior to the interior of the Mars Battleship. The stark utilitarian design of the bridge served as a backdrop to a figure that commanded immediate respect—a clean-shaven man with the unmistakable stature of a Mars Warrior. His scalp was bare save for the battle-tail that trailed behind him, each knot a testament to his victories. The twin wolves of Mars emblazoned on his shock armor glinted as if sharing in their wearer's silent ferocity. Beside him, a young boy stood sentinel, gripping a spear and shield with an earnestness that only youthful pride could bestow. The boy’s own tightly weaved battle-tail had only one knot. The first knot of a Mars Warrior was for traversing one mile across the Martian terrain without the aid of an environment suit, and only a breathing mask that contained ten breaths within the small cylinder slung across his body. Stomper, momentarily caught off guard by the imposing image, widened his eyes in recognition and swiftly modulated his holographic appearance to don the ceremonial Ares battle armor. Acknowledging the gravity of the moment, he genuflected gracefully, one knee touching the deck as his head bowed in deference. The cultural bond between Ares and Mars was deep-rooted, their shared history written in the stars. Stomper, despite the playfulness of youth, understood the weight of tradition and the respect due to the elder sibling of the twin red planets. Captain Logan rose from his command chair, the leather creaking under his swift departure. His gaze never left the visage of the Mars warrior on the screen as he signaled an ensign with a sharp, impatient gesture. The young officer understood immediately, darting to the wall where the spear of Ares was displayed—a symbol of martial heritage and the planet's guardian spirit. The ensign's hands were careful, almost reverent, as they lifted the spear from its clasps. With haste that betrayed his nervous energy, he navigated through the tight formation of consoles and crew members to deliver the emblematic weapon into his Captain’s waiting grasp. Logan felt the familiar weight of the double-bladed spear in his hands, its metallic sheen catching the ambient light of the bridge. He shifted his stance, planting his feet firmly apart in a posture befitting the ritual that bridged space and time, connecting the present moment with the legacy of their shared ancestry. He raised the spear, its twin blades reflecting his unyielding resolve, and with a voice that carried the resonance of countless generations who had stood before him in defense of their world, Logan declared, "Ares gives welcome to Mars." The words hung in the charged atmosphere, a formal greeting wrapped in the shroud of history. The spear of Ares still in hand, Captain Logan watched as the screen flickered with the imposing figure of Captain Marsin Kayinth. The Martian's nod was terse, a warrior's acknowledgment that carried the weight of battles fought and won. His voice, rough like gravel churned in a celestial storm, broke the brief silence that had settled on the bridge. "A fine looking ship you have there, Captain Logan," Kayinth's tone dripped with the dry humor of one who knew the sting of space-forged steel, "was it built by little girls for an arts and crafts project?" The bridge crew stiffened at the jibe, their eyes darting towards their captain. Logan's lips twitched into a half-smile, recognizing the verbal spar for what it was—an old Martian tradition of testing one's mettle with words before joining forces in battle. "I am humbled at your courage to be seen in that ship,” Logan replied, his voice steady and controlled. “Has the shipyard given you a refund yet?" Logan twirled the spear in a slow arc, the gesture a silent testament to the prowess of Ares. The question hung between them, a challenge wrapped in the cloak of camaraderie, as Logan stood unwavering, the spear of Ares a symbol of his readiness to stand shoulder to shoulder with Mars against whatever threats lay beyond the stars. "Do your warriors still follow you out of sheer curiosity?" Kayinth's retort launched across the void between ships, his voice laced with the challenge of an old, familiar game—a verbal duel that often preceded the physical battles they both knew too well. Logan's counter came swift and sure, "Have you discovered the purpose of that little room with a toilet in it yet, or is a box of sand in every corner still considered high technology?" His retort was a masterstroke, echoing off the bulkheads of the Ares' bridge, the corners of his mouth betraying a hint of a smirk. The question was daring, a playful jab at the spartan Martian sensibilities, suggesting that even the most seasoned warrior could be unfamiliar with the comforts of a more civilized ship. The bridge of the Ares bristled with tension, a stark contrast to the jovial atmosphere that erupted as Captain Kayinth's laughter boomed through the comm channel. His head tilted back, the laughter shook his broad shoulders, and the sound reverberated around the metallic confines of Logan's command center. "You haven't forgotten your Martian blood, well met, Cousin," Kayinth bellowed, the deep timbre of his voice a testament to years of issuing orders above the din of battle. The crew of the Ares watched their captain, gauging his reaction, the shared camaraderie between the two men palpable even across the distance of space. Logan stood unmoved but not unamused, his stance one of relaxed authority, his eyes reflecting a spark of familial pride. I'll come over in a shuttle," Kayinth continued, his face now serious but eyes still alight with the remnants of mirth. "We have much to discuss," he added, a nod of respect acknowledging the gravity of what lay ahead. "And try not to poison me with that slop you call Ares food." The tease was a final, affectionate barb, linking past and present, the history of two warriors who had grown beyond rivalry into something akin to kinship. "Certainly, Captain. Seniors of such estemed age as yourself often require a more delicate menu. Perhaps some mashed peas would be soothing," Logan replied, his voice steady, ensuring his response carried weight, but his lips curled at the edges betraying his amusement. The Transmission ended with the roar of laughter from Captain Kayinth, leaving an echo of anticipation hanging in the air. Logan turned, facing the expectant gaze of his crew, their expressions a mix of relief and awe. The presence of the legendary Mars Battleship Desolation—and its equally renowned captain—was a bolster to their morale. A chuckle escaped him, imagining the feast they would conjure up to honor their guests from Mars, knowing full well it would be anything but the 'slop' Kayinth joked about. "Prepare for our guests," Logan ordered, his words slicing through the stillness that had settled over them. He could already see Stomper, the young AI, eagerly flickering through protocols for hosting visiting dignitaries. Despite the gravity of the situation, Logan couldn't help but feel a surge of optimism. With the Mars Battleship Desolation at their side, they stood a fighting chance.