Stomper-Chat, a Short Story Trith's breath caught in his throat as Stomper, the digital heart of the Ares, ushered him from the utilitarian confines of the landing bay into a vastness that defied expectation. The low whistle that escaped him was half in awe, half an involuntary response to the stark contrast between the vessels of Mars and this Ares Battleship. His boots echoed on the sleek metal floor, a sharp reminder that he was treading through an expanse that felt more like a futuristic cathedral than a warship. Desolation, his home battleship, was a behemoth of layered armor, its interior a labyrinth of function over form, every inch a testament to Martian resilience. But here, aboard Ares, it was as if the very concept of space had been redefined. The central deck stretched out before him, a broad expanse where walls seemed optional, and the ceiling soared high above, lost in a dance of soft light and shadow. Stomper, a collection of code and consciousness given form, led the way with an ease that spoke volumes of the ship's design—intuitive, interconnected, alive. As Trith followed, the AI's form flickered with subtle pulses of light, mirroring the ambient glow that emanated from panels and interfaces seamlessly integrated into the environment. Here, Ares was laid bare, its technological sinews exposed in elegant lines and curves, a symphony of advanced engineering and artistry. Suspended walkways criss-crossed the atrium-like space, affording crew members swift passage without impeding the view. It was a bold design choice, one that prioritized rapid deployment and maneuverability over the claustrophobic security of traditional battleship architecture. An alliance with Ares meant merging the formidable might of Martian steel with the revolutionary capabilities of technological superiority. Together, they would present a united front against the dark tide of invaders threatening to engulf their worlds. In that moment, as Trith took in the grandeur of Ares' heart, he knew that this alliance was not just formidable; it was necessary. "There’s so much room… is this a battleship or a carrier?” he questioned, the warrior's tail of hair behind him marking his heritage and status among his people. Stomper's digital form flickered playfully around Trith, his avatar's youthful features mirroring the Martian, but with an ethereal quality only technology could imbue. With arms outstretched, Stomper mimed the shape of a fighter ship, banking into an imagined curve around Trith as if caught in a dogfight. His laughter was a symphony of warmth, inviting despite its artificial origin. “We didn’t have time to build both," Stomper explained, pulling out of his loop to hover before Trith once more. The lights on his holographic frame pulsed rhythmically, a soft display of his connection to the ship around them. "So they added a flight deck in the middle of the battleship. It reduces my mass and makes me faster and able to perform maneuvers a battleship like yours can’t." The AI's pride was evident, not just in the words he chose, but in the cadence and pitch of his voice. It was clear, even to Trith, that Stomper was no simple program; he was the very soul of Ares, woven into its structure and sinew. Trith's braid carved arcs in the air as he turned his gaze from one end of the cavernous deck to the other, brows furrowed in curiosity. His warrior instincts, fine-tuned for combat and strategy, now flared with a different sort of intrigue: the vast potential of this ship, the Ares, and the puzzling emptiness where its complement should be. "Where are all the fighter ships?" he asked, his voice echoing slightly in the open space. Stomper's holographic form flickered subtly with subdued light, the AI's presence almost palpable in the stillness of the deck. "We only have three shipyards," he began, his tone tinged with a hint of regret. "They hoped to finish me in five years, but it took six. There wasn’t time to build the fighters that would go in here." Though Trith's martial façade remained unbroken, a twinge of understanding softened his eyes—a recognition of ambition outpacing reality. The revelation did not diminish the marvel before him; if anything, it added layers to the narrative of Ares, a story of dedication and urgency in the face of an impending threat. Trith's gaze traveled across the hundreds of bays that lined the walls of the Ares, each bay a shrine to possibility and preparation. The stillness of the ship seemed almost reverent, punctuated only by the soft hum of its internal mechanics and the distant echo of their footfalls on the metal grating. Every few steps revealed more rows of unopened boxes—rectangular promises waiting in limbo. Plasma torches with their cords meticulously coiled, welding machines with untouched protective film over their displays, tools lying dormant in their foam nests—all were motionless, yet poised for action. The irony was not lost on Trith as he stopped before a stack of crates, each emblazoned with the stark letters spelling out 'some assembly required.' It was as if the equipment itself was mocking their readiness, a humor that felt out of place in the solemnity of the warship. He turned to Stomper, his warrior's tail momentarily still as contemplation replaced motion. "So, you're not completely built yet?" Trith inquired, his voice capturing an undercurrent of empathy for the AI Prime and the vessel it represented. Stomper's digital form flickered with a tinge of blue, the color of resolve tinged with regret. "I'm completely built," he asserted, his voice echoing through the vast chamber of the Ares. "The fighter ships would have had their own elite AI’s to fly them, but the invasion came too fast. We didn’t have enough time to prepare." Trith's fingers grazed the smooth metal edges of an unopened crate as he meandered towards one of the empty fighter bays. He could almost hear the ghostly clamor of a bustling deck crew that never materialized, feel the vibration of engines in ships that were never constructed. Pausing, he let out a sigh and pried open one of the boxes with a borrowed plasma cutter. The sharp scent of newly cut metal mingled with the sterile air of the hangar. Inside the crate, nestled amid the protective packing, rested an array of equipment. Brand new harnesses gleamed under the artificial lights, tools lay in wait, still sheathed in plastic, untouched and pristine. Trith's hand hovered over a welding mask, its visor reflecting a world that had yet to unfold. "All this brand new equipment and tools just waiting for fighter ships and crews that don’t exist." His voice was a soft murmur, laden with the weight of untapped potential. He looked around at the cavernous space, the silence punctuated by the distant hum of the ship's core. "I’m sorry, but no, you’re not complete yet, you’re going into battle with a fraction of your troops." A shadow crossed his face as he contemplated the gravity of what lay ahead—unfought battles and untested mettle. In those quiet moments, surrounded by the dormant might of a fleet that could have been, Trith understood the sobering truth of their predicament. "My father, Draco Prime, has a secret weapon,” Stomper said, almost casually. “I don’t know what it is, but he’s hoping to make it so the enemy will turn away from Ares and go somewhere else." The words hung in the air, ominous and foreboding. Trith turned, the braided warrior's tail at the back of his head swishing with the sharp movement, his expression twisted into a grimace. Every muscle in his body tensed, the innate honor of a Martian warrior bristling at the suggestion. "Marsin Kayinth will never agree to kick the problem to an innocent world that doesn’t have the enormous wealth you Ares have because of your gaming domes," he declared, his frown etching deeper lines into his youthful face. His chest heaved with a deep breath as if preparing for the exertion of battle, even as they stood within the quiet vastness of the hanger. "Ares alone has the wealth to fund this fight," Trith continued, his voice rising with the fervor of his conviction. "And I can tell you right now, when our Captains come out of their meeting, there will be a whole new plan. We’ll be fighting the enemy until they're dead, or we’re dead.” Even as he spoke, the resolve in his eyes flickered like the flame of a candle defiant against an encroaching darkness. It was a testament to the spirit that coursed through his veins, the legacy of Martian warriors who had faced countless perils with unwavering determination. Stomper, the embodiment of cutting-edge technology yet inextricably bound to the humanity that had birthed him, could only watch as Trith wrestled with the heavy mantle of impending conflict—a conflict that would test the mettle of their alliance and the very fate of worlds. Stomper's voice, a harmonic synthesis of sound that resonated with both warmth and the cold precision of machinery, filled the cavernous space around them. "We don’t have enough ships to defeat them,” he replied, his digital eyes reflecting the faint glow of screens and status indicators that dotted the command deck. “We still have two observation posts the enemy hasn't discovered yet, and they’re still counting enemy ships as they appear on long range scanners.” Trith paid only half a mind to Stomper's words, his attention drawn more to the physical than the strategic. Delving into one of the countless crates scattered across the bay, his lithe body contorted as he reached for the depths of the container, his warrior’s tail a silent witness to his eagerness. As he submerged himself further into the crate, the sounds of the ship—the hum of its engines and the soft beeps of its systems—seemed muffled, distant. "Ah, what do we have here?" Trith's voice echoed from inside the metal box, his tone rich with the thrill of discovery. A moment later, his hand broke the surface, clutching a leather pouch triumphantly. With an agile twist, Trith emerged like a diver resurfacing, his face alight with the exhilaration of his find, the leather pouch held before him as if it were a relic of ancient power. Trith's fingers danced over the seams of the leather pouch, deftly undoing the intricate knot that held it closed. Stomper hovered nearby, his digital form flickering with the ambient light of the bay, a representation of curiosity etched into his synthetic features. "What is it?" Stomper inquired, tilting his head as if he could get a better look at the contents from his angle. With the pouch now open, Trith carefully spread its mouth, revealing a glint of something fine and rare within. He extracted the contents onto a nearby box—a series of small, neatly stacked stones, each shimmering like a captured drop of the night sky. "This," Trith said, holding up a stone between his thumb and forefinger, "is a Tear’s Eye wetstone sharpening set." His gaze caught the dim light reflecting off the dark surface of the stone. "They’re made on Tauru, and they’re the best sharpening kit money can buy." He placed the stone back into its velvet-lined cutout in the pouch. A gleam of respect—or was it envy?—flashed across Trith’s eyes. "You Ares are seriously rich if you’re giving these to your flight crews." Stomper's nonchalant shrug sent a ripple through the air, the motion oddly human coming from the digital figure. "They put out a list of stuff we needed for the battleship and people donated. I remember it was a mess in here when all the stuff started arriving." He gestured broadly at the bays, his arms encompassing the vastness of the area. "They dumped everything in the middle, and then the Quartermaster and his people sorted it all out and stacked stuff in the bays for the crews." His gaze settled on Trith, an offer hanging silently between them. "You can have it if you want it." Trith turned the stone over in his hand, its weight substantial, its surface cool and smooth. He admired the craftsmanship, the way the stone seemed to draw in the soft light of the bay, holding it captive within its crystalline structure. For a moment, he lost himself in the swirl of colors trapped beneath the polished surface. He caught himself, suddenly aware of the gravity of Stomper's offer. This wasn't just a stone; it represented something more—the trust and generosity of those who had given so much to ensure the success of this vessel. With a firm shake of his head, he placed the stone reverently back into the pouch. "No, this belongs to whoever this flight crew will be." The words came out with a sense of finality, an echo of the code of honor that ran deep in Martian blood. "I only wanted to see it, I’m not taking anything. That would be stealing." In that moment, as he stood among the potential of a fleet yet to be, Trith felt the weight of responsibility settle upon him—not just as a warrior but as a guardian of the future they all fought to secure. Stomper's digital visage flickered with a semblance of earnestness, the lights of his eyes softening. "But I’m giving it to you," he insisted, the words hanging in the artificial air between them. Trith's fingers lingered on the texture of the leather pouch, feeling the imprint of generosity that accompanied the gift within. The stones lay nestled inside, their presence an undeniable temptation, but Trith's resolve was as unyielding as the Martian regolith. "You can’t do that," Trith replied, tying the pouch shut and securing it with the same unwavering dedication he showed in battle. "Someone donated this and it should go where it was intended." His gaze drifted across the vast, unpopulated hangar, feeling the weight of expectation and potential that filled the empty space. He gently set the pouch back into the crate amidst the sea of unopened boxes, each holding their own promise for a future yet written. A wistful smile tugged at the corners of Trith's lips, his warrior's heart briefly softened by the thought of what was to come. "I shouldn’t have poked through the crate," he admitted, though his voice betrayed no regret, only a childlike wonder that even the fiercest of fighters could not fully suppress. "But it’s like Festival Day in here. I would love to be here when the crews arrive and open all their presents." The moment held a fragile magic—two beings from different worlds sharing the same awe-inspiring vision of camaraderie and unity, a vision soon to be tested by the crucible of war. Trith trailed behind Stomper, his eyes alight with the effervescent gleam of discovery. Each turn through the labyrinthine passageways of the Ares Battleship unveiled a new marvel that lured him deeper into wide-eyed astonishment. His fingers itched to touch everything, to commit the texture and temperature of this alien technology to memory. "Is this the turret control?" he asked, voice echoing with a mix of reverence and curiosity as he peered over a console bristling with indicators and switches. "Affirmative," Stomper replied, the holographic display above the panel blinking to life at his presence. "The pulse cannons can be calibrated for precision or dispersion patterns." "Remarkable," Trith murmured, the word barely more than a breath as he visualized the might of such weaponry in battle. Their steps resonated against the metal floors, leading them next to the engine room. The massive generators hummed with latent power, their cores glowing like captured stars within their containment fields. Trith's gaze tracked the conduits snaking from the generators, arteries pumping life throughout the vessel. "Such raw power," he muttered, almost to himself, "and yet harnessed so delicately." "Efficiency is key," Stomper explained, pride evident in his tone even though it was digitally rendered. "Every component is optimized for peak performance." "Even the sewage processing plant?" Trith quirked an eyebrow, unable to suppress a slight grin at the mundane detail amidst such grandeur. "Especially that," Stomper confirmed, unfazed by the Martian's humor. "Waste recycling contributes to our sustainability metrics. No resource goes unutilized aboard the Ares." "Practical," Trith conceded, nodding with respect. His warrior's mentality appreciated the strategic advantage in self-sufficiency. They moved on, but Trith's mind remained captivated by the ship's many intricacies. Yet, amid the technological tapestry that surrounded him, another thread of curiosity began to weave its way through his thoughts. He knew of the Stomper-Cam, the digital eyes that offered the galaxy glimpses into the heart of this floating fortress. "Can we go see the Stomper-Cam?" Trith finally asked, his voice carrying the eagerness of one who had only seen the wonder from a distance through a video screen. "Of course," Stomper responded, motioning towards a passage that spiraled upwards. "Follow me." Together, they navigated the corridors, Trith's anticipation growing with each step that brought them closer to witnessing yet another piece of the ship's living legend. They ascended a narrow staircase, the hum of the ship's innards surrounding them like an omnipresent chorus. Trith's boots clanked against the metal rungs, each step resonating with his building curiosity. The passageway opened up into a small chamber that housed the famous Stomper-Cam, the window to the universe where Stomper himself became more than just an AI – he was a personality, a celebrity even, in his own right. Eagerly stepping through the threshold, Trith found himself within an alcove he recognized all too well from the countless hours spent watching the Stomper-Cam—the heart of the Ares, where the AI's essence was rumored to reside. It was smaller than he imagined, the space intimate and filled with the gentle thrum of power that resonated through the deck plates. His gaze lingered on the young Ensign who appeared almost reverent as he ran an instrument over the smooth surface of Stomper's core resting in the upraised hand of a statue of Ares, the god of war. A webcam, perched in the corner like a vigilant sentinel, caught every angle of the room, save for the space marked off by strips of tape on the floor—an unseen boundary for those who wished to remain ghosts in this digital theatre. Trith noticed the small desk where a computer screen flickered with the quiet chatter of the galactic community, their words trailing down like comets in the night sky. Behind the pedestal, the dynamic mural of Ares Mons pulsed with artificial life. Liquid steel cascaded down its slopes in perpetual motion, a testament to the wealth and might of the planet they defended. Beneath the sheen of the pedestal, a digital sign pulsed with a constant reminder: "Stomper is currently active." "Hi, Mark," Stomper's voice resonated warmly as he stepped into the Core Chamber. The Ensign, instrument still in hand, looked up and offered a nod of recognition to the digital being who was the heart of their vessel. "Your readings are stable, Stomper," Mark replied with the assurance of one who had checked and double-checked the data. "You're functioning at optimal levels." The room itself seemed to acknowledge Stomper's presence, the digital sign beneath the shiny ball on the pedestal flickering before settling into a new message: "Stomper is currently inside the Core Chamber." It was a subtle change yet one that did not go unnoticed by the ever-watchful eyes of the galaxy tuned into the live feed. On the screen at the desk, the calm procession of posts from viewers began to accelerate, each new comment stacking upon the last. Hopes and anticipations for a glimpse of Stomper on the webcam transformed into a flurry of excitement. The silent observers behind their screens were now active participants in the spectacle, their eagerness palpable even through the cold interface of technology. Trith observed the phenomenon, a wry smile playing on his lips as he witnessed the power of Stomper's presence ripple through the virtual space. The Ensign's eyes widened as he caught sight of Trith, the unexpected Martian presence in a chamber that had only ever seen Ares crew. It was a moment of pure astonishment, perhaps even fear, for what this encounter could mean. But Trith, with the subtle authority of one who understood the weight of his actions, quickly shook his head, dismissing any alarm. The silent message was clear: remain calm; nothing is amiss. Stomper, preoccupied with the readings and the webcam's audience, remained oblivious to the exchange, his digital form flickering slightly as he processed data streams. Trith's fingers traced the edges of a console, his curiosity unsated as he turned to Mark. "What do you do here?" he asked, his voice tinged with the unmistakable thirst for knowledge that characterized his youthful Martian spirit. Mark leaned back against a sleek panel, arms folded across his chest, a small badge on his uniform glinting in the soft glow of the chamber's ambient lighting. "I'm Stomper's social media manager," he replied, a title that seemed almost incongruous amid the high-tech warfare preparations enveloping them. “Would you like to be on the Stomper-Cam?” "My friends back on Mars are going to be envious," remarked Trith as he crossed over the boundary tape. The ever-present Stomper-Cam caught his movement, capturing his presence in its frame as an invitation to the rest of the galaxy. "What should I do next?" Stomper jumped out in front of the camera and waved. “Hello everyone, this is my friend, Trith, he’s visiting from Mars.” Mark handed Trith a tablet. “These are the incoming posts, I’ll highlight the ones that are okay to respond. You reply by speaking, the computer will type out your response, and I’ll check it for accuracy, political correctness, and operational security, then if everything looks good, I’ll post it to Stomper-Chat.” Stomper peeked at the tablet and chose one of the posts. “Like this,” Stomper said. “Hi, Tamu from Taurus, wow, it’s really early there, it’s almost noon here, thanks for watching the Stomper-Cam.” Grasping the basics, Trith picked a post and smiled into the camera. “Mars greets Robbie43 from Raunu,” Trith said formally, then pulled his warrior’s tail around. “Thank you for your question, it is called a warrior’s tail, and each knot represents an achievement.” Then, like a supernova bursting forth in the depths of space, the chat erupted. Posts multiplied, a dazzling flurry of characters, symbols, and emoticons that meshed into an indecipherable blur. The sheer speed of the interaction rendered individual messages unreadable, but the excitement, the shock, and the curiosity were palpable, transmitted through the very frequency of their arrival. Trith scrolled through the chat and selected another post. "Greetings to Oceanboy from Carina on behalf of Mars. I live in a dome, like you, but we don't have oceans like you do. For breakfast, I usually have cornmeal cereal." Stomper leaned closer to the camera. "I just nibble on the hyper drive engine for breakfast." The Stomper-Chat exploded in textual laughter while Stomper and Tilth took turns answering light questions. The chat session lasted another twenty minutes, filled with laughter and wonder before Ensign Mark called the session to an end. Mark was a master with social media, knowing the exact moment to end the chat before it became redundant and boring. Trith and Stomper stepped out of the Core Chamber, ready to continue their journey through the ship. Trith felt the change in atmosphere as the heavy hatch slid shut behind them with a resonant clang. The corridor beyond was starkly utilitarian, the antithesis of the playful world they had just left behind. Stomper's holographic form shimmered alongside him, its edges catching the dim light that flickered through the passage. As they ventured deeper into the ship, Trith allowed himself to be pulled into the youthful exuberance of his companion. Stomper's holographic form flickered with mirth, and for just a few hours, they were no longer emissaries of war-torn planets or avatars of interstellar conflict. They were simply two boys carving out a moment of levity amidst the gravity of impending battle. In the impromptu game that emerged, Stomper's skills were on full display, his ability to mimic sounds with perfect clarity transforming the corridors into a playground of echoes. At each door, Stomper conjured the chime of a bell, and together they darted away, stifling their laughter as the doors slid open to reveal puzzled faces. "Quick, around this corner!" Trith whispered, his chest heaving with exertion and excitement. They crouched low, peering around the edge just in time to see another crew member emerge, scanning the hallway with a mix of confusion and curiosity. "Stomper, you're incorrigible," Trith said, a grin spreading across his face as he caught his breath. "This is fun with a friend," Stomper retorted, his digital eyes sparkling with shared mischief. Trith nodded, struck by the AI's insight. In their playful escapades, they found a common ground, a reminder of the innocence that war sought to extinguish. It was a simple truth, unmarred by the complexities of politics and power—a truth that resonated within the steel walls of the Ares. As they continued their antics, a camaraderie blossomed, one that could very well seal the fate of two civilizations. And while the laughter of a Martian boy and a digital boy echoed through the battleship, it was clear that amid the shadows of coming darkness, there flickered a light of hope, kindled by the most unlikely of friendships. The corridor was alive with the echoes of fading laughter as Trith and Stomper darted away, their silhouettes shrinking with every second. The metallic sheen of the walls glinted with the passing lights, casting fleeting shadows that danced alongside them in their retreat. A cluster of crew members, drawn by the commotion, converged in the hall. They paused, a tangle of uniforms and puzzled expressions, their gazes fixed on the empty space where the boys had vanished. "Is Stomper pranking us?" The voice cut through the hum of the battleship's persistent thrum—a turret gunner, his hair tousled from sleep, his eyes still clouded with the remnants of dreams. He peered down the hallway, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck, trying to piece together the strange tableau before him. The corridor's usual solemnity was punctured by an unusual vibrancy, the sound of footfalls in a syncopated rhythm against the steel floor. A few steps behind the retreating laughter, another crewmember leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed over his chest, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Yes, only now he’s found a friend to share in his games," he chimed in, amusement evident in his tone as he watched the disappearing forms of Stomper and Trith. The sleepy-faced turret gunner shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He stretched languidly, joints popping in the quiet aftermath of the boys' departure. "Who but Stomper would have thought of ding-dong ditch on a battleship?" he mused aloud, his voice tinged with affection and a hint of admiration. "Gotta love that kid." A swell of soft chuckles rippled through the group, their collective gaze lingering on the empty corridor where moments ago, youthful exuberance had breathed life into the cold metal structure—a welcome reprieve from the weight of impending battle.