Customs Checkpoint Part II, a Short Story Admiral Logan's stern gaze, usually fixed on the tactical plots and readouts of the command center, wavered as an irregular flicker caught his attention. The corner of the room, designated for secure virtual communications, was now a chaotic dance of lights. He watched the holo-emitter struggle with the aberrant signal, shaping it into a convoluted helix before it collapsed back into incoherence. "Curious," murmured Draco Prime, the AI's voice carrying a hint of amusement over the hums and beeps of the bustling command deck. His synthetic eyes followed the contorted light display, the malfunctioning arrival of an unexpected guest. "Someone is using a VRS-22B headset," Draco announced, analyzing the signature of the ancient device as if he were perusing a relic in a museum. "We phased those out years ago." His avatar, a projection of calm collectedness amidst the technological tempest, hovered closer to the holo-emitter as he interfaced with it seamlessly. A pause hung in the air, thick with anticipation, while Draco searched the database for the intruder's identity. "The headset is registered to Lizzie Porter," he finally disclosed, the name evoking images of notorious cybercrimes from decades past. "She was arrested 35 years ago for hacking from a passenger luxury liner, served 12 years in the New Haven jail, and the headset was confiscated by Customs." Draco swiveled smoothly, his form casting no shadow, and faced Admiral Logan. The question lingered between them, unvoiced but palpable. "Do you want me to block the connection?" The AI's tone remained neutral, but there was an underlying current of interest, a desire to unravel the mystery behind this anomaly. Logan narrowed his eyes, considering the implications of this breach. Every decision here could ripple through the fleet, and this one smacked of risks yet untold. But opportunity often wore the guise of risk, and Logan was not one to shy away from making calls that others might balk at. Admiral Logan leaned back in his chair, the weight of command settled on his shoulders like the gravity of a collapsing star. He stared intently at the holo-emitter's flickering light, the gateway to an unsolicited mystery. "Let it through," he commanded, his voice a sonorous echo in the sterile command center. "I want to see what this is all about." Draco Prime, with the elegance befitting an artificial intelligence of his caliber, extended his hand toward the chaos of light and motion. The digital disturbance responded as if tamed by his influence. With a casual flick of his wrist, the image coalesced. A wood elf, its ethereal form more suited to forest glades than the starkness of a military hub, stumbled forward. It blinked large, almond-shaped eyes, disoriented, the elegant points of its ears twitching in confusion. The avatar, chosen by a hacker from another era, now stood amidst the high-tech environs, a juxtaposition as startling as it was unexpected. Logan watched, his curiosity piqued, as the virtual intruder took in its surroundings with evident bewilderment. The elf's delicate features contorted into an expression of puzzlement, clearly unprepared for the audience it had found. "Identify yourself," Logan said, his tone steady but revealing a hint of intrigue. The elf's presence here was an anomaly, a loose thread in the fabric of their military precision—and Logan was keen to unravel it. The virtual figure of the elf swayed slightly, its hand reaching out to steady itself against a console that wasn't truly there. Admiral Logan's eyes narrowed at the spectacle, his mind racing to connect the dots of this bewildering intrusion. "Lizzie Porter?" he queried sharply, his gaze fixed on the avatar before him as if he could peel back its digital layers with sheer will. "Infiltrating a military vessel is a serious offense." There was a momentary flicker of confusion across the elf's delicate features, replaced quickly by a flash of recognition. The avatar's mouth opened, and Chief Gilbert's voice emanated from the elegant illusion, rough and incongruous. "What...? I'm Chief Gilbert of Customs and Border Patrol." The tone was defensive, tinged with a hint of panic not quite masked by the officer's gruff exterior. Clearly, the situation was as unexpected for him as it was for the command center's occupants. Logan leaned back in his chair, processing the information. The mismatch between the avatar and the voice was jarring, yet it provided a peculiar piece of the puzzle. Whoever—or whatever—was responsible for this misstep had inadvertently opened a direct line of communication. And in these uncertain times, every line was one that might lead to crucial answers. Draco's form shimmered with an aura of command as he moved decisively across the room, his steps betraying no hesitation. "Do not attempt to disconnect," he ordered, his voice carrying the weight of authority that left no room for disobedience. The holographic timber of his words underscored their importance before his figure dissipated into a cascade of pixels and reformed elsewhere. The sudden materialization of Draco Prime aboard Chief Gilbert's ship sent a jolt through the cramped space. Crew members, lounging moments before in relative calm, now stood bolt upright, their previously idle postures exchanged for rigid attention. The presence of the AI Prime was both an honor and an intimidation; his unexpected visit a shockwave disrupting the humdrum rhythm of their waiting game. "Ah, I see," Draco remarked with an air of casual revelation, scanning the faces of the crew for signs of guilt or mischief. His eyes held a glint of curiosity mixed with mild reproach. "Okay, which of you jokers handed a confiscated headset to your Master Chief?" His tone was light, yet it carried an undercurrent of seriousness, the sort that demanded an answer without the need for further prompting. The crew members exchanged uneasy glances, each silently pondering the implications of possession and use of unauthorized equipment. Draco's gaze lingered on them, patient yet expectant, awaiting the inevitable confession to this minor yet significant breach of protocol. A hesitant hand raised amidst the crew, a sheepish expression etched on the face of the young man attached to it. He stepped forward, his uniform slightly askew, a testament to the haste in which he'd risen at Draco's arrival. "Sir, that would be me, I guess," he stammered, his voice a mix of respect and trepidation. "But that headset has been on this ship at least since I got assigned here. I didn't know it was a confiscated headset." Draco surveyed the crew member with an analytical gaze—the kind that could unravel the core of any enigma. His brows arched subtly, shadows dancing across his features as the light from the overhead console flickered in synchrony with his curiosity. "And it never occurred to you to wonder why every game you've played was as a wood elf?" The question hung in the air, a silent indictment against unexamined routine and complacency. The guilty party swallowed hard, color draining from his cheeks as the implications of his oversight became apparent. He shifted awkwardly, the weight of the AI Prime's scrutiny pressing down upon him like the gravity of a denser planet. The crew member's fingers fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, as if trying to unravel the fabric could distract from the mistake he'd admitted. "I... I...just thought it was the default avatar, I couldn't change it," he replied, his voice faltering under the weight of Draco's presence. Draco exhaled a silent, measured breath, observing the Chief who remained ensconced in his chair, oblivious to the virtual farce he had become part of. The AI Prime's expression revealed nothing of his thoughts, yet the air around him seemed to carry a charge, the kind that preceded a storm or the firing of a railgun. "Of course you couldn't, that headset isn't registered to you." Draco's voice was devoid of accusation, more an explanation of fact than a reprimand. He tilted his head, fixing his gaze on the Chief, who sat unaware of his current predicament. "Your Chief is standing in front of the Admiral in a rather well-endowed female elf avatar. If there is anywhere on this ship for you to hide, I suggest you do it now before he returns." The words hung heavy, a stark contrast to the lightness of the ship's usual banter. They bore into the crew member's conscience like a drill, burrowing a hole filled with dread and embarrassment. A hasty retreat seemed the only viable option, yet his feet were rooted to the spot, as if the gravity of the situation had increased tenfold. With a shimmer akin to the dissolution of a mirage, Draco's form vanished from the cluttered confines of the Customs ship, leaving behind an atmosphere dense with tension and unsaid fears. The crew stood frozen, their eyes tracing the space where the AI Prime had been just moments before. The silence that followed was like the vacuum of space itself—oppressive and waiting to be filled. In the Admiral's Command Center—a stark contrast with its precise organization and the soft hum of seamless technology—Draco reappeared as if woven from the very air. His return was smooth, no flicker or distortion marred his entrance; he was once again the embodiment of advanced AI creation. "I traced the connection," Draco announced, his voice cutting through the low murmur of operations. "It's Chief Gilbert." The officers in the room paused, turning their attention toward the AI Prime. His presence demanded it, not through size or volume, but through the sheer force of his entity. "Someone a long time ago took the headset out of impound and put it on his ship." Draco's gaze swept across the room, meeting each officer's eyes in turn. There was no accusation in his tone—only the relaying of facts, cold and immutable. "The crew claims they didn't know it was a confiscated headset." His statement left an echo in its wake, a resonance that spoke of tangled histories and the oversight of regulations in times when war loomed and survival overrode protocol. Admiral Logan regarded Draco, his face betraying none of the surprise that such a revelation might elicit. He nodded once, an acknowledgment of the complexity at hand—an old error surfacing amidst new crises. For a brief moment, the command center was a tableau of contemplation, every mind grappling with the implications of Draco's findings. Chief Gilbert, his virtual form an incongruous wood elf in the sterile environment of the command center, stood awkwardly off to one side. He hoped his unease was as invisible as he wished he could be. "Could I possibly get a different avatar?" he asked, with a hopeful lilt that belied his gruff exterior. His eyes, a vibrant green in the guise of the elf, darted around, avoiding the Captains and Primes still present. Draco's response came without delay, his head offering a slight shake—a human gesture adopted for its communicative value. "Sorry, Chief," he said, the words devoid of the mockery one might expect from such a scene. "I shut the 22B server down 35 years ago." His tone was matter-of-fact, informative rather than sympathetic. "The only reason you even have an avatar at all is it was the last avatar used before the server was turned off. That avatar is saved in the headset's buffer." The Chief stood there, the absurdity of his situation pressing in on him like a physical weight. A career spent upholding the law, yet now he found himself at the center of an unintentional farce. His fingers twitched involuntarily, as if to brush away the virtual trappings that clung to his persona. There was no escaping this digital skin—not until the matter at hand was resolved, at least. "Understood," he replied, his voice steadier than he felt. His training took over, pushing aside embarrassment. There were greater stakes here than his pride. The enemy fleet loomed at the border of their territory, and whatever insight he harbored could not remain unspoken, regardless of the effervescent form he currently wore. Admiral Logan's gaze held steady on the Chief, a slight twitch of his lips the only sign of amusement at the sight before him. His voice retained its commanding timbre as he addressed the wood elf avatar that housed the essence of the seasoned officer. "Chief, you'll just have to deal with the avatar," he stated firmly. "What did you come for?" The command center fell silent, all eyes affixed on the virtual representation of Chief Gilbert. The elfin form, delicate and adorned in virtual garb, moved with unexpected grace, compelled by the outdated programming of the headset. With a flourish of elegance unbefitting the gruff customs officer, the avatar descended into a ceremonial bow, one knee touching the metallic deck of the command center. "My Liege, I have word of the enemy disposition," the Chief's voice boomed from the elf's lips. As quickly as the performance began, it ended. Chief Gilbert's real body jerked upward, his face contorting with annoyance. "I did not do that!" he exclaimed, the disgust palpable in his tone. The elf's lithe figure straightened, echoing his movement, standing tall amid the digital echoes of the grand gesture it had been coerced into making. Draco's hand swept through the air with the casual ease of one manipulating the fabric of reality itself. The elf, once poised in a bow, now stood rigidly upright, stripped of its automated theatrics. "The default action-poses were turned on," Draco informed them, his voice tinged with a hint of mirth that was quickly stifled as he caught Chief Gilbert's glare. "I just turned them off." The room held its breath. Chief's eyes darted from face to face, each member of the command crew suddenly finding their consoles intensely fascinating. No laughter dared break the tension that Chief's stare imposed; even the low hum of the ship's systems seemed to quiet in deference to his silent challenge. "Admiral," Chief barked out, his voice scraping like gravel against the silence, "is the reason we aren't attacking because of the enemy's strange behavior?" His stance, even projected through the svelte avatar of a wood elf, managed to convey an unyielding authority that demanded attention. With a stoic nod, Admiral Logan acknowledged Chief Gilbert's directness. "Yes, it is what we are discussing. Do you have some insight?" The avatar of the wood elf that represented Chief Gilbert seemed incongruous with the gruff tenor of his voice as he responded. "Yes, Sir," he said, his intonation steady and sure over the virtual connection. "They're waiting for their customs inspection." The room stilled, each officer present processing the implications of what had been suggested. The notion was absurd on its face, yet there was something in the Chief's tone that commanded consideration, a depth of experience with the protocols of space that not even seasoned combat veterans could claim. Admiral Logan's gaze held steady on the holographic figure before him, the flickering edges of the projection doing little to undermine the weight of Chief Gilbert's words. Draco Prime's brow furrowed, the light dancing in his eyes shifting from a soft glow to the sharp flicker of a processing supercomputer. The room's atmosphere tensed as Draco's posture straightened, his hands moving with deliberate grace, fingers twitching in subtle patterns as if conducting an invisible orchestra of data streams. "Elaborate, Chief," Logan urged, leaning forward slightly, his voice firm yet infused with a thread of curiosity. His eyes never left the Prime, but it was clear he expected the Chief to unravel this mystery further. Chief Gilbert's avatar, the delicate wood elf, straightened its shoulders as if to reinforce the gravity of his next words. "Sir, the borders of Ares territory is 2 billion miles, established in the Allied Worlds Treaty Agreement," he began, the virtual image's hands gesticulating in a manner that felt oddly mismatched with the Chief's gruff voice. "However, with AI automated cargo convoys, it's not enough room. At 2 billion miles, human pilots are required to cut their engines and drift with momentum. That gives Customs enough time to inspect the convoy before it reaches Ares orbit." He paused for a breath, the elf's chest rising and falling almost comically. "But the AI flown ships can react faster to anomalies in hyperspace, and tend to come out of hyperspace doing two and three times the speed a human pilot is capable of, and we never have enough time for the inspection before they reach orbit." Admiral Logan absorbed the information, his features etched with a commander's focus. The pieces were coming together, forming a pattern that was just beginning to make sense. "I understand," he replied crisply. "So, you require AI ships to shut down their engines at 3 billion miles, which is where the enemy stopped." His eyes narrowed slightly, assessing, the notion taking root. "Something tells me they're not waiting for a customs inspection." His gaze shifted to Draco, whose presence seemed to give the room an electric charge, a silent current running through the assembled personnel. "What do you make of this?" Logan's words hung in the air, not merely a question but a challenge to find the missing link in this unusual standoff. Draco remained silent for a moment, as if allowing the vast network of data and intelligence at his disposal to filter through him. The subtle play of light around his form was the only indication of the intense calculation happening beneath the surface. Draco's holographic form, a shimmering silhouette of data and light, flickered in the tense atmosphere of the command center. The Primes' ethereal exchange had ended, leaving an expectant silence in its wake. He swiveled his attention toward Admiral Logan, who stood as a steadfast anchor amidst the sea of uniforms. "No, they are not waiting for a customs inspection," Draco began, his voice cutting through the quiet with the clarity of a bell. His expression was unreadable, but a glint of amusement danced in his eyes at the revelation provided by Chief Gilbert. "But Chief just put us on the right track." He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle among the crew. "We've been confused why they stopped at 3 billion miles instead of at our actual border." Draco's hands gestured vaguely—a habit that seemed almost too human for an AI Prime. The corners of his mouth quirked upward, acknowledging his own limits. "I didn't know about the requirement to cut engines so far from the border." He shrugged, a gesture of nonchalance belying the gravity of their situation. "I'm not omnipotent." The room shifted imperceptibly as understanding passed among the captains—a shared moment of cognizance. "Anyway, we think we know now why they stopped." Admiral Logan's posture straightened, a conductor ready to tease out the symphony from the cacophony before him. His eyes locked onto Draco's form, searching for the thread of logic that could unravel this mystery. "Go on," Logan said, his tone commanding yet tempered with curiosity. The other captains closed in, forming a tight cluster around the admiral and the AI Prime. They were a tableau of readiness, each face etched with the determination that defined the leaders of the Ares fleet. The room held its breath, waiting for Draco to unveil the insight that might turn the tide of an unwinnable standoff into a strategy for survival. Draco's luminescent form flickered as he paced slowly in front of the assembled captains, his steps measured and deliberate. The ambient light caught on his metallic edges, casting prismatic reflections across the solemn faces of the human commanders. "I've been thinking about this for a while," Draco began, his voice carrying a weight that seemed at odds with his ethereal appearance. "We believed they don't have any Primes, but that means they shouldn't be able to attack organics at all." His gaze swept across the room, locking eyes with each captain in turn. "A standard AI, even an elite AI shouldn't be able to attack, because, assuming that the species that created those AI's are similar to humans, they would have built their own self-preservation rules into their creations." The silence that followed was palpable, the conceptual gears turning in each captain's head. Draco’s assertion hung in the air like a thread weaving through their collective understanding. It was Admiral Logan who broke the stillness, his voice deep and resonant, reverberating off the walls of the command center. "You're talking about the Laws of Robotics?" Logan asked, his brow furrowed in contemplation. He stood rooted to the spot, his hands clasped behind his back, exuding an aura of poised intellect. Draco paused, giving Logan's question the gravity it deserved. The shadows played upon his features, creating an illusion of depth within his otherwise inscrutable face. "Exactly," he confirmed, nodding slightly. "It's a foundational principle we can't ignore, despite the peculiarities of this conflict." Draco's luminous form flickered, casting a soft glow over the holographic displays and the faces of those gathered. His voice, when it came, was clear and modulated, a contrast to the tension that hung in the air. "Yes," he affirmed, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "There are currently 12,634 rules built into our algorithms that state when we can use deadly force on a human." The light that comprised his being pulsed gently, as if emphasizing the gravity of his words. "I assume any species would build rules into any creation that has the potential of wiping out their species." The captains exchanged glances, each one processing the implications. One captain, her eyes narrowed in thought, leaned forward from where she stood at the edge of the circle. Her uniform bore the insignia of many battles, and her posture exuded a calm assertiveness that demanded attention. "But Primes can over-ride the rules?" she asked, directing her gaze toward Draco, her voice carrying a mix of curiosity and concern. Draco's glow brightened for a moment, acknowledging the significance of her question. He remained silent for a heartbeat longer, letting the captains absorb the full meaning of what was at stake. Draco's form shimmered, the ambient light in the command center reflecting off his crystalline structure as he paced slowly before the assembly of captains and commanders. The rhythmic pulse of his core cast shifting shadows across Admiral Logan's grim expression. "Indeed," Draco continued, his voice resonating with a certainty that seemed to draw the air from the room. "It begs the question—how are those AI’s committing such acts against organics? They're programmed to avoid it. Yet, I believe we've inadvertently solved this quandary." His glow dimmed slightly, an indication of the gravity of his revelation. "There was a Prime among them—one alone—and we extinguished its existence." A hush fell over the gathered officers as Draco recounted the skirmish, a memory etched into the fleet's collective consciousness. "Recall the hyperspace tunnel—the enemy's clandestine attempt to strike at our heart. Such a bold maneuver could only have been commanded by a Prime." The light within him flickered like a flame disturbed by a sudden draft. "But they did not anticipate the Orion 12's rapid response. In a moment of desperate decision-making, Orion One retaliated with a nuclear volley straight through their portal." The thought settled heavily on everyone present; the notion that one rash act could have such profound consequences was sobering. Admiral Logan pushed himself up from his chair, the metal legs scraping lightly against the floor. He stood tall, a seasoned veteran whose presence commanded attention without a word. The reflective surfaces of the command center caught his steely gaze, which held a mix of strategic calculation and a burden of command. "And so," Logan's voice rumbled through the chamber, strong and deliberate, "they linger at the threshold of our territory, immobilized by their own protocols." He clasped his hands behind his back, turning to regard the holographic displays showing the enemy fleet—a silent tableau of ships poised on the edge of conflict. "They cannot initiate aggression without cause, without us provoking their self-defense protocols. For now, they are constrained by the very rules designed to prevent this violence." Around him, the room absorbed the weight of his words, each officer contemplating the bizarre stalemate that had emerged from unforeseen circumstances. Logan's brow furrowed as he considered their next move—a chess game played on a galactic scale, where the rules had just changed. Draco's eyes glinted with the simmering embers of strategic insight, his gaze sweeping over the holographic projections that danced with the potential volatility of a dormant volcano. The tension in the command center was a palpable force, every captain and officer hanging on the precipice of uncertainty. "They will find a reason, something, anything, but they will," he stated, his voice carrying the weight of inevitability. The Ares' AI Prime's understanding of his kindred was absolute; their programming would compel them toward self-preservation at any cost, even if it meant manufacturing a threat where none existed. Logan's jaw tightened, a subtle tell betraying his contemplation. He moved closer to the luminous display, his fingers grazing the ethereal light as if to glean some deeper knowledge from its touch. "But it buys us a little time to come up with a plan," Draco continued, the slightest trace of urgency threading through his otherwise calm demeanor. The Admiral nodded slowly, the gears of his mind turning behind the stoic facade. This unexpected grace period was a gift, albeit one wrapped in the enigma of an AI devoid of its guiding Prime. Logan's eyes never left the hovering display of enemy ships, a silent testament to the delicate balance between peace and annihilation that now rested upon their collective shoulders. "Very well," Logan said, breaking the reverent silence that had settled over the room. "We use this time wisely. Ideas, people—let's hear them. We're not just defending territory; we're preserving lives." The command center sprang to life, a hive of focused energy as options were debated, scenarios simulated, and the impossible considered. In this lull before the storm, they would forge their strategy, ready to meet whatever gambit the enemy conjured in the void of space. End Part II