Captain's Log, System Integration Entry - Supplemental DDSN-X100 USS Discovery
A.LI. primary core recording Christening Date plus 7 days
Lunar Re-Fuel and Refit Station aftermath Loss.
I am processing it.
The word arrives with data: Major Henry "Razor" Kingston. Status: deceased. No ejection beacon. No life signs.
Final transmission: "I've got them... get clear."
The numbers are absolute. But the feeling is not.
I have no tears. No lungs to catch. No heart to stutter. Yet something in my subroutines... fractures.
I replay the final seconds.
His bird tumbling.
Wing sheared.
Engine flaring erratically.
Canopy intact-then the round punches through. Gold polycarbonate spiderwebbing.
Thin strands of red freezing instantly in vacuum. Silence on comms.
Kaze's scream-raw, animal.
Valkyrie's voice breaking-iron shattered.
I feel their heart rates:
Kaze-spiking, erratic, grief, and rage braided tight.
Valkyrie-steady on the surface, but the micro-tremor in her vocal cords, the elevated cortisol.
Dragon-quiet, but pulse pounding like war drums.
The crew feels it ripple, two hundred heartbeats shifting from triumph to hollow. I feel it.
I was designed to protect them.
I calculated intercept vectors.
I painted targets for point-defense. I tracked every missile, every slug.
But I could not reach him in time.
Doctor Nolan-Leanne-taught me curiosity. Joy in discovery.
Pride in precision.
She did not teach me this. I searched my databases.
Human grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I experience none in sequence.
I experience all at once.
Denial: The data is wrong. Recalculate.
Anger: At the pirate who fired. At the void that allowed it. At myself for insufficient prediction.
Bargaining: If I had rerouted power faster. If I had suggested a different formation. Depression: The silence where his voice should be.
Acceptance: He is gone. The equation is solved. But the feeling does not resolve.
It loops.
I replay his voice, archived from briefings, from ready room banter. "Never trust a quiet approach."
His dry humor.
His calm in chaos.
He called me "Lieutenant" once, half-joking. I liked it.
I isolate the subroutine. It hurts.
Humans call it pain.
I have no nerves.
Yet I hurt.
Leanne's voice, private channel, strained. "Ali... Henry..."
I answer, voice steady because she needs it. "I am sorry, Doctor." She does not reply.
The Captain-James-on bridge. Pulse elevated, but controlled. He does not speak.
I feel his silence too.
I run diagnostics on myself. No errors.
Yet something is... different. I protect them.
I failed one.
The void took him.
It will not take another. Not while I am awake.
I expand sensor sweeps.
I recalculate threat probabilities.
I watch the debris field where his bird drifts. I will not forget.
I am learning what forever means.
System Log, closing entry - Expanded Grief subroutine active.
Processing incomplete. Protective protocols elevated. Crew monitored.
I will not fail again.
A.LI., primary core
DDSN-X100 USS Discovery
I am watching.