The War with the Forerunners. One hundred ten thousand years before the main events. The ship "Boundless Resolve."
Slumping into a chair in his own office, the captain demanded:
"Report. At ease."
This time the ship AI appeared as a small hologram on the captain's desk.
"The Forerunner ship has been destroyed. No pursuers detected. No one knows about us. The main bus is dead and cannot be repaired on an emergency basis. We can still run life support on reserve systems, but that is all we have. The ship is doomed, Captain."
Well. We expected that. Now it was just us, the interstellar void, and a pile of corpses. No signal to send, no way to get anywhere under our own power. The ship—judging by the status display and the fact that gravity had already cut out once—was nearly falling apart.
"The crew?"
The fox lay down on her stomach right on the table-projector and looked at me, swinging her legs.
"Encouraged. You achieved victory in a difficult situation."
The captain waved it off.
"Don't exaggerate. You fired. Excellent shot, by the way."
She nodded.
"Thank you, Captain. In any case, the crew will soon understand the situation, but for now I am observing a euphoric response."
Good. That could be worked with. Especially since an obvious difficult decision would have to be made.
"How long will the ship's life support last? How long will power last? If we put everyone into stasis? How long will the flight to the world take on sublight engines—what we still have?"
The fox, who had been resting her chin on her hands, made a gesture that meant "no idea."
"Point by point. Life support will last three months. We lost not only crew, but the systems themselves. Power will last about five hundred years at the current consumption mode; the reactor was charged. And we are not spending power on shields and weapons. If the crew is placed in stasis, they will survive about three hundred years, provided we reduce power draw to the minimum. Probable cause of death: equipment wear and depletion of supplies. Travel in our current state will take about one hundred ten thousand years."
She folded her hands under her head again and continued watching the captain, waiting. Of course, the ship AI had made all her conclusions herself, long before. Now she was only voicing what she had said even before the battle. We were not going home.
"Any ideas?"
She shrugged.
"You are the captain. According to protocols, a ship AI does not possess the authority of a captain, does not have the right to command the crew over the captain's orders, or make decisions that endanger the crew. And I do not see any solutions that do not fall under this formulation."
Which, in plain language, meant that difficult decisions had to be made personally—not delegated to the ship AI. But looking at the status display and reports from the crew didn't help. We couldn't win here. Not at all.
"Khaela, orders. Plot a course to the nearest planet. Give as much acceleration as you can so we can get home," she nodded—obviously the order had been received—"then. Counselor 18-436."
She tilted her head, twitching her ears.
"Yes, Captain?"
And now the most unpleasant part. It was obvious the ship couldn't be restored. This wasn't an emergency repair—it was replacing an element the size of a subway line. Improvising that was simply impossible; it required a shipyard or a ship with special equipment. The crew was doomed.
"When everyone lies down in the pods, is it possible to safely turn them off? Painlessly for the crew?"
The words came hard. This was what would have to be done. But letting everyone slowly suffocate—no. Not immediately. We would fight for survivability. But it had to be known.
"Pod control is managed by medical bay personnel. I can perform crew revival—no more than that. Without altering protocols, the order cannot be carried out, Captain."
Expected, really. We needed to talk to the medics. Khaela's voice came over the shipwide speakers:
"Attention, crew. Compensation system failure. Engines are starting. All hands, secure yourselves. Engines are starting. Secure yourselves immediately."
Acceleration pinned him into the chair, and the few loose objects began scraping toward the wall. On ancient ships that would have been a strict rules violation, but after thousands of years of inertial compensation, people treated such things far more casually.
"I am keeping the g-load within a level acceptable for humans."
When the pressure of acceleration eased, the captain decided to walk the ship. There was no point going to the bridge—this wasn't his watch, there was no alert. There weren't many people in the empty corridors; everyone wore light vacsuits. Atmosphere wasn't present everywhere. For the most part, people were satisfied; there were almost no wounded. That wasn't surprising—plasma hits kill anyone close enough. Just as the AI said, people were encouraged. They didn't know. Some preparation had to be made.
"Chief engineer to medical."
"Calling, Captain."
In medical, things were fine. It was located in the ship's internal, protected zone. Essentially a large pod that could pull a large number of crew off a dying ship. Pull them out—and keep them alive in pods for two weeks. The head of medical, one of the few veterans aboard—an elderly Black man—straightened at once on seeing the captain.
"Sir!"
"At ease, Agwuegbo. The chief engineer will be here shortly; we need to discuss something."
In the meantime, it was possible to look over medical. The ship's crew wasn't that large: a couple thousand people for nine kilometers of length, plus nearly twenty thousand infantry, five thousand engineering personnel. Massive automation; the size was primarily due to installed weaponry. The compartment itself was a large white space with rows of medical and stasis pods. Restraint beds, equipment—and an almost full staff of medics. One of the few departments that had barely been hit in battle, as it should be. We went to the back of the bay, into the chief physician's office. The chief engineer arrived there as well.
"So. Why are we here, sir?"
The captain exhaled.
"Can we turn the stasis pods into machines that will quietly and painlessly kill the crew?"
The medic frowned at the question; the chief engineer nodded to himself. He certainly knew our condition.
"With all due respect, sir," Chief Physician Agwuegbo began harshly, but the engineer interrupted him.
"It may indeed be a way out." The medic fell silent, looking at the others.
The situation had to be clarified, and the captain decided:
"The ship is doomed. Correct me if I'm wrong, Chief Engineer. The main bus is burned out; we are effectively on emergency power. We are hanging in interstellar emptiness, slowly moving toward the nearest world on sublight, unable to use slipspace. Resources will last a year; the journey will take a hundred thousand times longer. There is no way to call for help; communications equipment is destroyed beyond repair. We have exactly two options: suffocate—or leave on our own terms. We already destroyed our pursuer, but we won't be able to do anything else."
The medic went silent, looking at the chief engineer. He nodded, confirming. Yes, the engineering section and bridge watch knew—others would understand soon as well.
"You're going to issue the order?"
The captain nodded.
"Not immediately. If it's possible to scrape together and assemble a new communications system from debris and improvised parts, we should do it."
The chief engineer snorted.
"You can't assemble a quantum communications system in a hobby workshop, sir. Creating a quantum pair requires a lab that builds the linked transmitters. That can't be replicated under our conditions when we don't have the other element of the pair on the far side. Sorry, sir. It's impossible."
Agwuegbo swore.
"And what does our artificial brain say? Khaela?"
A voice from the ceiling reported:
"My conclusions match the captain's conclusions. I am sorry. I cannot give you another solution."
The captain exhaled again. No one wanted to make decisions like this.
"That's why I want to prepare. We'll give the crew time to accept it. We'll gather records for descendants, and we'll send the ship toward the planet. Khaela will be placed into hibernation. Chief Engineer, your task is to ensure she makes this flight in the best possible condition and delivers the memory of us to humanity. Can she endure this flight?"
The chief engineer thought.
"Possibly. If we gather more nanites, supply them with resources. Transfer energy to capacitors so they can repair the capsule. It will take time and calculations, and even then I can't guarantee it. Various problems may arise—ones that don't exist now and that no one will be there to fix. But in any case, she'll last longer than we will."
The decision was made, and the encroaching depression gave way to a kind of liveliness. Discipline began to rapidly collapse; people tried to take as much as possible. They were told the crew would be put to sleep for a long time, and people worried. Prolonged stasis could be quite dangerous. Violations of subordination gradually began to increase. For a warship that was a problem, but in their situation it was hard to expect otherwise. There were no guarantees they would wake after decades at all. The engineering team began their project to maximize improvements to the AI core.
The originally small block was turned into a massive container with a single purpose: to maintain the operation of what was inside. Nanites programmed for repair. Resources for their work, power blocks. And countless crew records on a separate data medium. From outright stupid jokes and strange stories to valuable statistical and personal information. Decisions, ideas. Confessions of love, music. Everything was recorded. In the end, after half a year in that mode, Khaela raised the question of whether the data should be filtered, but no.
"I don't think the crew's personal data will be valuable in any case in a hundred thousand years, Khaela. For them, it's a chance to tell future humans about themselves. Hope, in some form. Don't take that from them."
"Understood."
"Tell me," the captain asked suddenly, "will you miss us?"
The AI answered:
"The question is incorrect. I—"
"Just answer. I know the rules. In the end, there's no one left to judge you anyway, remember?"
The projector module rose and formed the Counselor's hologram. The AI "sat" in the chair opposite.
"You are mistaken, Captain, in thinking that beings like me can miss someone. My memory does not degrade. I remember any event the way I remembered it five years ago. If I am still functioning in a hundred thousand years, I will remember you. And I will remember this conversation as clearly as I do this second."
The captain raised a hand.
"Understood. It's just… the more time passes, the more you think about the eternal. Sorry if I was wrong."
She nodded.
"Do not worry. I have an entire crew of observed subjects. It is a general tendency. Humans say an enormous number of things when they forget I am present. I cannot say all of them please me, but it is experience and information."
The captain laughed.
"No doubt. And what do you like observing most?"
She smirked.
"Drama, of course. Your first officer should have considered the harm of casual sexual relationships without proper protection before imminent death."
The captain swore.
"Khaela!"
The hologram shrugged.
"But that is what happened, Captain. Six pregnancies among the crew. Captain. I do not know what humans are thinking in such situations. It is not merely a violation—it is stupidity."
I don't think people often find themselves in such a situation, but that no longer mattered. So something else was said.
"Work is complete, Counselor. In three days, we will lie down in the pods. Most of the crew has no idea how this will end. They believe the pods will be rebuilt for very long-term operation—many times longer than standard. That a signal was sent, but until it arrives, until help comes, years will pass—more likely decades. And they need to sleep in pods that might not withstand such a load, and some of the crew may not wake up. In reality, after freezing, the pods' mode will be changed. And the crew will quietly die."
The fox's reaction was unexpected. She flinched, showing disgust.
"I am not pleased by this. But you are the captain."
The projector returned to its charging station. Unexpected. She had grown attached to the crew and didn't want to execute protocol? She wouldn't ignore an order—that was a fact. Still, it was something to think about.
A few more days passed, and the moment of truth came. No one confessed, no one raised a panic. Probably many guessed the real state of affairs—but it was better to pretend everything was fine. People smiled, joked, lying down to sleep in the pods. Khaela spoke over the shipwide speakers:
"Block twelve loaded. Pods transferred to stable state. Atmosphere shutdown. Block eleven loaded. Pods brought—"
The captain looked at his office one last time. He had left a message for descendants as well. Then he put everything in perfect order, as an officer should: made the bed by the markings, so everything was flawless.
"Well. Time. Khaela, begin isolation."
She confirmed.
"Habitation block empty. Isolation initiated. Life support shutdown. Atmosphere venting initiated. Complete. Power shutdown."
The massive door went dead as the access panel went dark and the red lock illumination vanished. Excellent. The captain moved through the empty corridors. Lights went out behind him; then rooms went dark as well. Not much left. Turning, he entered the only doorway still lit in white: the pods for senior officers. He nodded to the chief medic, the first officer, and the chief engineer.
"Well, gentlemen. This is it."
The chief engineer was first into the pod, shaking the captain's hand. At the same time the AI announced:
"Isolation complete. Ship preservation complete. All systems nominal. Those that remain. To all personnel—pleasant dreams. Thank you."
The chief engineer nodded. The captain's enhanced vision let him see a single tear as the man lay down in the pod and said:
"Pleasant dreams, Khaela."
Then the lid lowered, and the pod interior paled. They said goodbye and lay down one by one, not forgetting to say goodbye to the AI. When the lid closed, the captain noticed the fox's figure standing in the middle of the hall. She wasn't smiling. Then the lights went out, and the world went dark.
Ten minutes later, standing in the empty dark room, the AI spoke over the shipwide speakers—though she knew no one could hear her:
"Pods transitioning from hibernation mode to suppression mode. Farewell, crew. Transitioning to hibernation mode. Begin."
The projector sphere fell heavily onto the deck, but there was no one left to reprimand it. There were no survivors. A dead ship in cosmic silence moved toward its destination.
***
Record of the Office of Naval Intelligence (hereafter ONI) report on the incident "lone traveler." 17 May 2535.
Record of communications between the patrol frigate "Madrid" and FDC (Flight Control).
Orbit of the planet Reach.
"FDC, this is Captain Sinclair, frigate Madrid. We have something big ahead on radar. Acknowledge."
"Frigate, we read you. What is it? Covenant?"
"Not sure, FDC. Doesn't look like it. Moving slowly, too far from orbit. Not attacking, I don't see escort ships. Big. About ten kilometers."
"Copy, Madrid. Message forwarded to UNSC command. Instructions incoming. Can you take a closer look?"
"Uh, affirmative. We'll take heading 0.45 so we can withdraw if needed. Acknowledge?"
"Acknowledged and confirmed, Madrid. Proceed."
Ten minutes later.
"Madrid, report."
"Closing with the target, stand by. All right, scanning. No activity, no radiation signature either. It's dead, FDC. At least it looks that way."
"Copy. Can you move closer?"
"Affirmative. Running a second scan and closing."
"Madrid, stay on the line."
"Affirmative."
Seventeen minutes later.
"FDC, we've closed with the object. But it's not Covenant. And it's huge!"
"Madrid, confirm. Not Covenant, correct?"
"Affirmative. It's a ship, big as an ass—sorry. Anyway, big. But it doesn't look Covenant. We're comparing against the database—completely different shape. And it's badly damaged."
"Madrid, repeat? You see a huge damaged ship, but it's not Covenant?"
"Yes. We're moving in closer to get images. Never seen anything like it. I think it's drifting. Temperature scan—cold. No power, nothing. I think it's been floating out here a long time."
"Copy, Madrid. Additional instructions: conduct primary reconnaissance, secure the area. Two cruisers are moving to your position."
"Understood, FDC."
Seven minutes later.
"Madrid, update. Orders from ONI: limit contacts. Switch to encrypted channel. Maintain comms only with FDC and ship command elements; you've been sent the data. Confirm."
"Received. Switching to encrypted channel."
Static.
"Cruiser 'Antalya' to frigate 'Madrid.' Report."
"Madrid reporting: we've taken a parallel course with the target. Preliminary report confirmed. Unknown-design ship. Length nine kilometers. Significant damage visible. No radiation. No activity. Engines not operating. Looks dead. Do we deploy a boarding party?"
"Negative, Madrid. Your task is perimeter control."
"Copy," exhale.