Admiral’s Deck, a Short Story Logan's boots clanged against the metal stairs, each step echoing the rapid beating of his heart. He swatted at the Ensign's hands as they fumbled with the gleaming Admiral's insignia, trying to affix it to his shoulders. "For God's sake, leave it," Logan growled, his voice gruff with emotion he couldn't quite name. "We don't have time for this dog and pony show." The Ensign persisted, fingers shaking slightly. "But sir, protocol dictates—" "Protocol be damned," Logan snapped, then immediately regretted his harsh tone. The kid was just doing his job. He softened his voice as he slipped out of his jacket. "Here, fuss with it all you want, just leave it on my chair when you’re done." As they ascended, Logan's mind raced. Just minutes ago, he'd been Captain. Now... Admiral. The title felt foreign, ill-fitting. He'd never imagined this, never wanted it. Yet here he was, climbing towards a command he wasn't sure he was ready for. Thirty-two minutes. They'd missed their window, and the silence was deafening. No shots fired, no engagement. Just an eerie, stretching quiet that set Logan's teeth on edge. "Admiral on deck?" The Ensign's hesitant voice broke through his thoughts. Logan wasn’t sure who the kid was talking to, nobody would be up here. Ares had never had an Admiral before. He paused at the top of the stairs, staring at the door to the Admiral's deck. His deck now. He swallowed hard, tasting the bitterness of promotion mingled with the sweetness of achievement. What the hell am I doing here? he thought, hand hovering over the door controls. I'm a ship captain, not some brass hat pencil pusher. But there was no time for self-doubt. An entire fleet—no, an entire system—was waiting for his orders. Commander Trist, the only senior officer he’d brought with him, ever the voice of reason, spoke up. "Sir, shouldn't we have a tech team go first? This deck's never been used before." Logan shook his head. "No time. We'll make do with what we have." As they reached the top of the stairs, Logan's hand instinctively went to the door panel. It slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a scene that momentarily took his breath away. The vast room before them was shrouded in darkness, untouched by human presence since the ship's construction. As his eyes adjusted, Logan could make out the shapes of furniture still wrapped in thick plastic sheeting, their outlines ghostly in the dim emergency lighting. Crates of equipment were strewn haphazardly across the floor, creating an obstacle course of potential resources and hazards. "Well," Logan said, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space, "looks like we've got our work cut out for us." He turned to the wide-eyed Ensigns. "Start unpacking those crates. We need this place operational yesterday." As the group spread out, Logan's mind raced. This room, with its untouched potential, felt like a metaphor for his new role. Unprepared, thrown into chaos, but with all the tools he needed at his fingertips. If only he could figure out how to use them in time. "And someone get the lights on in here," Logan ordered, his voice carrying a mix of urgency and frustration. He squinted in the dim emergency lighting, trying to make sense of the cluttered space. This was supposed to be the nerve center of their defense, and right now it looked more like an abandoned storage unit. As the Ensigns fumbled around in the semi-darkness, Logan's mind raced. Every second spent stumbling around was a second wasted, a second the enemy could be using to their advantage. He was about to bark another order when a familiar voice cut through the darkness. "The light switches are inside that panel next to the door to the Admiral's Quarters," the voice stated matter-of-factly. Logan froze for a moment, caught off guard by the unexpected assistance. He recognize the voice immediately. Logan sighed, a mixture of exasperation and resignation in his voice. "Stomper, you're staying downstairs with the Battleship Command." He pinched the bridge of his nose, already anticipating the AI's response. Why did it always have to be like this with Stomper? Every order seemed to turn into a negotiation. "I am downstairs," Stomper protested, his voice emanating from nowhere and everywhere at once. Logan could almost hear the pout in the AI's tone. "You know I can be in multiple places at once. I've dedicated ten percent of my processing power to help you." Logan's jaw clenched. He knew Stomper was right, but the last thing he needed right now was to argue with an AI about semantics. Still, a small part of him appreciated Stomper's eagerness to help, even if it came wrapped in stubbornness. "You need my help linking my sensors to this deck, and running your mapping table," Stomper continued, a hint of smugness creeping into his voice. Logan closed his eyes for a moment, weighing his options. The newly minted Admiral part of him wanted to assert authority, to show he was in command. But the pragmatic captain in him knew that Stomper's assistance could prove invaluable. Time was of the essence, and pride had no place in a war room. The lights flickered on, and Logan's eyes widened in disbelief. He nearly doubled over, a burst of laughter escaping his lips despite the gravity of their situation. There, standing before him with an exaggerated air of importance, was Stomper's avatar. The AI had outdone himself this time. Dressed in an ornate, gilt-edged uniform complete with a bicorne hat adorned with an absurdly large feather, Stomper had somehow managed to perfectly recreate the costume of Sir Joseph Porter from the H.M.S. Pinafore. The incongruity of the sight – a highly advanced AI dressed as a character from a centuries-old comic opera – was almost too much for Logan to bear. As his laughter subsided, Logan couldn't help but marvel at the duality of Stomper's nature. Here was the living heart of the battleship, a Prime AI with intellect vast enough to run an entire warship, and yet... Logan shook his head, bemused. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Stomper, for all his capabilities, had the emotional maturity of a six-year-old child. "I swear, Stomper," Logan chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye, "you're going to be the death of me one of these days." Stomper beamed, clearly pleased with the reaction his costume had elicited. "Does this mean I can stay, Admiral?" he asked, his voice hopeful. Logan held up a hand, his expression sobering slightly as he remembered the dire circumstances that had brought them to this moment. "Okay, okay, I surrender," he said, a hint of resignation in his tone. "That's the best outfit you've come up with so far. You can stay, but-" he added, his voice taking on a note of seriousness, "if the ship needs that extra ten percent processing power, you deactivate this avatar immediately. Understood?" As he waited for Stomper's response, Logan couldn't help but reflect on the strange turns his life had taken. Here he was, newly promoted to Admiral, on the brink of a potentially civilization-ending war, negotiating with an AI dressed as a character from Gilbert and Sullivan. The absurdity of it all wasn't lost on him, but in a way, it was oddly comforting. If they could still find moments of levity in the face of such dire circumstances, perhaps not all hope was lost. "Terms accepted," Stomper declared with a theatrical bow. The young AI's eyes twinkled with mischief as he spun around to face the view screen, his ornate costume swirling dramatically. Without missing a beat, he launched into a spirited rendition of 'When I was a lad' from the comedic opera. Logan shook his head, a mix of amusement and exasperation washing over him. As absurd as the situation was, he couldn't deny the small comfort Stomper's antics provided in the face of their grim reality. Still, duty called. "Let's get this place operational," Logan ordered, his voice cutting through Stomper's enthusiastic performance. "We have a war to fight." He cast his gaze around the cluttered, unfamiliar room, trying to prioritize their next steps. Despite his words, he made no move to silence Stomper, allowing the AI to continue his song. As he surveyed the chaos around him, Logan's mind raced. How had he ended up here, an Admiral in charge of humanity's last stand? The weight of responsibility settled heavily on his shoulders, mixing with the bittersweet knowledge that he'd never command his beloved battleship again. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand. "Commander Trist," Logan called out to his Communications Officer, "start getting those systems online. We need to establish a clear picture of the battlefield as soon as possible." Trist nodded sharply, moving to comply as Stomper's jaunty tune provided an oddly fitting soundtrack to their frantic preparations. Logan allowed himself a small smile. If nothing else, at least morale wouldn't be a problem on this deck. Logan strode purposefully across the room, his eyes fixed on a large, rectangular object draped in thick plastic. Even covered, its shape was unmistakable - the tactics map table, the nerve center of any Admiral's command. He reached out, grasping the edge of the plastic sheet. "This is where it all begins," Logan muttered to himself, a mix of anticipation and trepidation coloring his thoughts. With a swift, decisive motion, he yanked the plastic off, revealing the sleek, dark surface beneath. The sheet billowed as it fell, settling in a heap on the floor at his feet. Logan ran his hand along the table's edge, feeling the smooth, cool metal beneath his fingers. This was real. This was happening. He was an Admiral now, responsible for the fate of not just his ship, but an entire fleet - an entire world. Shaking off his momentary reverie, Logan raised his voice. "Stomper," he called out, the AI's singing still providing an incongruous backdrop to the tense atmosphere. "Can you turn this table on?" As he waited for a response, Logan couldn't help but marvel at the strange dichotomy of their situation. Here they were, on the brink of an interstellar war, and his most powerful ally was an AI with the maturity of a child, currently belting out show tunes. Yet, he knew Stomper's capabilities were unparalleled. If anyone could bring this command center to life, it was him. Stomper, still mid-verse, raised a hand dramatically and snapped his fingers. The gesture, theatrical as it was, had an immediate effect. The table began to glow, a soft blue light emanating from its surface. Logan watched, fascinated, as the illumination spread across the table like a wave, bringing with it a flurry of holographic projections. As the light stabilized, intricate maps materialized above the table's surface. Logan leaned in, his brow furrowing as he studied the display. The detail was impressive, but something wasn't right. "These are the default maps from the manufacturer," Logan said, his voice tinged with frustration. He straightened up, running a hand through his hair as he considered their next move. Time was of the essence, and they needed accurate information. "I need the current maps of the Ares system, and the enemy positions." As he spoke, Logan's mind raced. How much had changed since these default maps were created? Where exactly were their forces positioned now? And most crucially, where was the enemy? The weight of command pressed down on him, each passing second feeling like a missed opportunity to gain the upper hand. "Come on, Stomper," he muttered under his breath, willing the AI to work his magic once more. "Show me what we're really dealing with out there." In the blink of an eye, Stomper vanished from his position by the view screen. Logan's gaze darted around, momentarily confused, until the AI materialized beside the tactics table. The young Prime's appearance had transformed dramatically; gone was the flamboyant costume of Sir Joseph Porter. In its place, Stomper now sported the austere uniform and pointed ears of Mr. Spock from Star Trek. Logan couldn't help but shake his head, a mix of amusement and exasperation crossing his features. Even in the face of impending war, Stomper's playful nature shone through. As he watched, the maps on the table flickered and changed, morphing into a real-time representation of their current predicament. Studying the new display, Logan felt a knot form in his stomach. The enemy positions were far closer than he'd anticipated. He glanced at Stomper, noting the AI's uncharacteristically serious expression. "Mr. Spock," Logan said, playing along with Stomper's latest persona, "could you give me an analysis of what's occurred in the last 32 minutes?" As he awaited Stomper's response, Logan's mind raced. Thirty-two minutes. In the vastness of space, it was barely a blink of an eye. Yet in those precious moments, the entire balance of power might have shifted. He braced himself, knowing that whatever Stomper was about to reveal could determine the fate of not just Ares, but potentially the entire human race. Stomper's face lit up with a grin, clearly pleased that Logan had embraced his Spock persona. The AI's voice took on a measured, analytical tone as he reported, "The enemy continued past our maximum engagement line where we were going to begin the defense, but that was delayed. They continued for 16 minutes, and then stopped. They are now holding a line 3 billion miles away." Logan's brow furrowed as he leaned in, studying the map intently. His mind raced, trying to process the implications of this unexpected move. "That's about the distance from Earth to Pluto," he murmured to himself, his fingers tracing the glowing line on the tactics table. A chill ran down Logan's spine as he contemplated the proximity of the enemy forces. In the vast theater of space combat, this was uncomfortably close. He spoke his thoughts aloud, partly to Stomper and partly to himself, "In modern space warfare, that's not a very big engagement area. At hyper-speed, they're maybe 4 hours from Ares. At hyperspace, they're about 4 minutes." Logan's heart rate quickened. Four minutes. In the event of a hyperspace jump, they'd have mere moments to react. He glanced at Stomper, noting the AI's uncharacteristically somber expression. It seemed even the playful Prime understood the gravity of their situation. "Stomper," Logan said, his voice tight with tension, "what's your analysis on why they've stopped there? It doesn't make tactical sense." Logan's eyes darted across the tactical display, his mind grappling with the peculiar scenario unfolding before them. The shimmering holographic representation of the enemy fleet hung motionless, a silent threat looming just beyond their reach. "It's unprecedented," Logan muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Modern space warfare often occurs at vast distances. It's not unheard of for ships to fire at each other without even being close enough to see each other visually." He paused, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the edge of the tactics table. "But this... this is different." Stomper, still in his Spock guise, raised an eyebrow. "Indeed, Admiral. The enemy's behavior deviates from standard combat algorithms." Logan's mind raced through possibilities. Why had the enemy halted their advance? More importantly, why weren't they firing? They were well within range to launch an assault. The silence was deafening, more unnerving than any barrage of weapons fire. As if on cue, Commander Trist's voice cut through Logan's thoughts. "Admiral, I have comms up with the fleet," the Communications Officer reported, his tone crisp and professional. Logan nodded, grateful for the interruption. "Excellent work, Commander. Stand by for orders." He turned back to the tactical display, the weight of command settling heavily on his newly adorned shoulders. The next decision could determine the fate of not just Ares, but potentially the entire human race. Logan drew a deep breath, steeling himself. "Tell the Fleet to hold position, and only fire if fired upon," he ordered, his voice carrying the gravity of his new rank. The words felt strange on his tongue, a stark contrast to the aggressive tactics he would have employed as a Battleship Captain. But he wasn't that man anymore. As Admiral, the larger picture loomed before him, a complex tapestry of strategy and consequence. "Aye, sir," Commander Trist acknowledged, relaying the orders with practiced efficiency. Logan's eyes never left the tactical display. The enemy fleet hung there, a menacing swarm of artificial intelligence, their motives as inscrutable as their silicon minds. He leaned in, studying the map intently, his brow furrowed in concentration. "What do we really know about them?" he mused aloud, his voice barely above a whisper. "They're all AI, vast in numbers. They've likely destroyed or absorbed the AIs of hundreds of worlds." Stomper, still maintaining his Spock persona, offered his input. "Correct, Admiral. However, it is worth noting that they do not possess Primes as we do. Their technological capabilities are, in fact, inferior to Aresian standards." Logan nodded, a grim smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "True, but what they lack in quality, they make up for in quantity. Even with the Allied Worlds joining the fight, they could win by attrition alone." He paused, his eyes narrowing as he considered the implications. "So why have they stopped? What are they waiting for?" The question hung in the air, unanswered and ominous. Logan felt the weight of countless lives resting on his ability to solve this deadly puzzle. The enemy's motives remained a mystery, but one thing was certain – the next move would be decisive. Logan straightened up from the tactics table, his mind racing with possibilities. The room felt too empty, too quiet for the monumental decisions that needed to be made. He needed more minds, more perspectives. "Stomper, are the guest holo-emitters in this room active?" Logan asked, his voice cutting through the tense silence. With a theatrical flourish that betrayed his youthful exuberance, Stomper snapped his fingers. "They are now," he announced, a hint of pride coloring his voice. Logan nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the gravity of the situation. Stomper's antics, while sometimes frustrating, often provided a much-needed moment of levity. And right now, as the weight of his new responsibilities pressed down on him, Logan was grateful for that small respite. 'This is it,' Logan thought, his heart rate quickening. 'The first real test of my command as Admiral. Every decision from here on out could mean the difference between victory and annihilation.' He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come. The holo-emitters hummed to life around him, ready to bring in the collective wisdom of his fleet. Logan knew that the next few moments would be crucial in shaping their strategy against this inscrutable enemy. Logan turned to his Communications Officer, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. "Comm, call all the Captains and ask them to use their VR Headsets and come over here, and the Primes as well." As the officer acknowledged the order, Logan's mind raced. 'This meeting could determine the fate of our entire civilization,' he thought, his palms growing clammy. 'I need every insight, every scrap of experience we can muster.' The air around him shimmered as holographic figures began to materialize. Captains from across the fleet appeared, their avatars glowing with a faint blue hue. The Primes followed, their digital forms more elaborate and distinct, reflecting their unique personalities. Logan's eyes darted from face to face, noting the mix of determination and concern etched on each visage. The room, once empty save for him and his small team, now buzzed with the energy of the finest military minds. A familiar figure caught Logan's attention. Orion One, Stomper's half-brother, had arrived. The AI's avatar was crisp and professional, a stark contrast to Stomper's ever-changing appearance. Orion One's gaze swept the room before settling on Stomper, who had switched his outfit yet again. Logan watched as Orion One's eyebrows rose slightly, a look of amused exasperation crossing his face. "You do know Logan got promoted, not you," Orion One remarked dryly, gesturing to Stomper's newly donned Admiral's uniform. 'Here we go,' Logan thought, suppressing a sigh. 'Even in the face of an alien invasion, some things never change.' Stomper's avatar puffed up with exaggerated pride, his digital eyes twinkling with mischief. "Same thing," he quipped, his voice carrying a hint of childish glee. "I'm an Admiral Battleship now, you're just jealous because you're still just a glorified cargo ship. I outrank you." Logan felt a mixture of amusement and exasperation wash over him. 'Only Stomper would turn a war council into a playground squabble,' he thought, shaking his head slightly. Before Orion One could retort, a commanding presence materialized nearby. Draco Prime, the father of Stomper, appeared in his usual regal form. His piercing gaze swept over his bickering sons, a look of fond exasperation crossing his features. "Stop tormenting your brother," Draco Prime admonished, his voice carrying the weight of parental authority. Logan watched, fascinated, as the powerful AI's expression shifted from stern to playful in an instant. With a theatrical flourish, Draco Prime's attire transformed. Gone was the formal uniform, replaced by an elaborate pirate captain's outfit, complete with a plumed hat and an ornate cutlass at his hip. 'Like father, like son,' Logan mused, fighting back a chuckle. 'Even in the face of crisis, they can't resist a bit of levity.' He cleared his throat, preparing to bring the meeting to order, all too aware of the gravity of their situation juxtaposed against this moment of familial teasing. Logan rolled his eyes, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It wasn't hard to see where Stomper got his mischievous ways - the apple didn't fall far from the tree. The newly minted Admiral took a deep breath, his expression sobering as he refocused on the task at hand. "Gentlemen," Logan called out, his voice cutting through the playful atmosphere. He motioned everyone towards the tactics table, its holographic display casting an eerie blue glow across their faces. "I think we have a problem." As the assembled officers and AI avatars gathered around, Logan felt the weight of his new rank settle heavily on his shoulders. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he'd never quite shaken. "I've worked with AIs all my life," he continued, his eyes scanning the faces around him. "Other than Primes, and the enemy doesn't have Primes, AIs are predictable. We may not be able to see the pattern all the time, but it's there." Logan's fingers traced the enemy fleet's position on the map, his brow furrowing in concentration. "My question is, why has the enemy stopped? Why aren't they firing at us?" The silence that followed was thick with tension. Logan could almost hear the gears turning in the minds of those around him, both organic and artificial. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, what it would be like to process information at the speed of a Prime AI. "Any theories?" he prompted, his gaze lingering on each face in turn. "We're dealing with an unprecedented situation here, and I need your insights." Draco Prime leaned over the table, his avatar's pirate captain attire a stark contrast to the gravity of the situation. His eyes, however, held a piercing intensity that belied his playful appearance. "He's right," Draco declared, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of computational experience. "If they've stopped, they're following a predetermined pattern. Launching our attack prematurely without understanding that pattern could be a mistake." Logan nodded, feeling a mix of relief and apprehension at Draco's agreement. He trusted the Prime AI's judgment, but confirmation of his suspicions only heightened the stakes. His mind raced, considering countless scenarios and their potential outcomes. "Gentlemen," Logan said, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his thoughts, "let's put our heads together and see what we can come up with." He swept his gaze across the assembled group, noting the determined expressions on both human and AI faces. "We need to approach this from every angle. No idea is too outlandish at this point." As the others began to murmur amongst themselves, Logan found himself staring at the holographic display, the enemy fleet's position burning into his retinas. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something crucial, something that could turn the tide of this impending conflict. "What are you up to?" he whispered to himself, addressing the distant enemy as if they could hear him. The weight of billions of lives rested on his ability to decipher this puzzle, and the clock was ticking. Aurora Prime, Stomper and Orion One’s mother, stepped forward, her holographic form shimmering slightly as she approached the tactics table. With a graceful gesture, she tapped the surface, causing the map to rotate and shift perspectives. The enemy fleet's formation twisted and warped as she manipulated the view, searching for hidden patterns or clues. "Let's rule out the obvious," Aurora said, her voice carrying the crisp efficiency of a seasoned strategist. "They're not refueling, but they could be changing their armament now that they see our configuration." Logan frowned, considering her words. "Adapting to our defenses," he mused aloud. "It's possible, but why stop so far out to do it?" The assembled group began to break apart into smaller clusters, voices rising and falling as theories were proposed and debated. Logan watched as Orion One and Stomper huddled together, their sibling rivalry momentarily set aside in the face of the larger threat. Draco Prime had cornered a group of human captains, his pirate costume incongruous with the gravity of their discussion. Logan found himself drifting between the groups, catching snippets of conversation: "...could be waiting for reinforcements..." "...maybe they're scanning for weaknesses in our formation..." "...what if it's a feint, and the real attack is coming from another vector?" Each theory seemed plausible, yet none felt quite right to Logan. He returned to the tactics table, staring at the enemy fleet's position. Something nagged at the back of his mind, a half-formed thought that refused to crystallize. "What are we missing?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. The weight of his new rank pressed down on him, reminding him of the impossible decisions that lay ahead. One wrong move, and everything could be lost. As the discussions continued around him, Logan allowed his mind to wander, considering not just the tactical implications, but the psychological aspect of the enemy's behavior. What did they want? What were they truly after? And in that moment of reflection, a new possibility began to take shape in his mind. Logan caught sight of Stomper speaking with a group of the Captains. Stomper had not only changed his outfit yet again, but also his avatar. Stomper was now the Jedi Master, Yoda.