Quod Olim Erat: The Cassandrian Theory (Chapter 3) (Patreon)

Eight battleships surrounded the battleship, placed in strategic positions a short distance away. I noticed one more patrolling the system. As far as I could tell all of them were Taurus class, built exclusively to defend deep space stations. Their standard armament included five hundred launchable mine clusters, seventy thousand missiles, at least a few hundred of which were with artefact heads.

As Ve flew by one of the battleships a series of probe protocols bypassed my software defenses, quiring my processing core for weapon systems. Nine milliseconds later, the probe ended just as abruptly as it started.

Sorry about that, the Paladin transmitted. Every approaching ship passes through a scan check. Even retirees.

“Understandable, sir.” At least there wasn’t any memory grabbing.

The closer we got, the more modifications became visible—giant sections the size of frigates patched to sections of the hull. There was nothing aesthetically pleasing about it, and still the sheer grandeur of it all made me feel like the time I received my first husk.

“You’ve got eighty seconds to suit up,” Ve announced. “The blue suit is constructed according to your measurements.”

A panel to my left opened, revealing a standard issue spacesuit. The moment I took it I noticed the complete lack of electronics; nothing but fabric, glass, and two compact oxygen tanks. Holding it, I saw it was slightly larger, clearly designed to be put on top of my current clothes.

“Another security protocol?”

“You can say that.”

Looking at the screen, the Paladin seemed a few dozen meters away. Swarms of techbots moved about like ants all over a nearby section, performing adjustments. We passed them and moved nearer to a connection tunnel.

“Done?” Ve asked.

I checked the vacuum seals of my gloves and helmets. “Good to go.”

The airlock opened.

“Will you be here once I’m done?” I asked.

“That depends on him.”

It was always said that the first step was the most important. I never understood the saying. Even so, I fully acknowledged the significance of what was happening. The moment my foot touched the tunnel floor, I had done something unimaginable—I was officially aboard a Paladin.

Five and a half steps separated me from the actual inside. Half the distance there, Ve shut her airlock door. All air was sucked out. Five milliseconds later, the door in front of me opened.

I’m sorry you couldn’t see me now, Augustus, I thought.

The corridor I entered was very much unlike what I had imagined. Cables were everywhere, linking ports in missing panels to clunky devices on the floor.

“Not what you imagined,” a voice filled the hall. “Cutting edge technology only lasts for a few decades. After that, adjustments are required.”

“I know what you mean, sir.” After my interactions with the new models, I felt that as well. “You wanted to discuss something with me?”

“At the bridge, if you don’t mind. Even a relic such as myself has some vanity. There’s just one path. Follow it.”

That might be quite a walk. I went forward. If unclassified records were adequate, tens of millions of people must have filled his decks back when he was active. Not a soul was left aboard now. There was every indication that the entire life support system had been removed, making room for more vital systems to take their place. It was a small wonder that the artificial gravity had remained intact.

The corridor led to a hall, and then to an elevator well. Entire walls were missing, making the concept of rooms non-existent. The machinery I walked by seemed quite rudimentary, I recognized part of the technology, but had no clue as to its purpose.

“Am I your only visitor, sir?” I asked as I reached an open elevator shaft.

“For the moment. The fleet sets techs every two years for scheduled maintenance and upgrades. They do what they can, then leave. I get to choose who my other visitors are.” An elevator cabin emerged in the shaft. “And as flattering as it is, there’s no need to refer to me as sir. Paladin six would do, or Otton if you prefer.”

“Otton,” I confirmed as I stepped in.

The trip was slow, but short. I counted twenty-one decks during the descent before we reached a fully preserved bridge. The design and components were reminiscent of early space flight, even the colors and materials had been kept. Giant display screens covered the far wall section, precisely ten meters from the command chair.

When I stepped out of the elevator, everything lit up. A much different model of the Paladin filled the screens—slick and majestic.

“Now you can see me in my best light. Sometimes I review the memory archives of those days; undoubtedly the worst period for humanity, but at least I looked fine. So much has changed since then. Things always change, as you’ve learned.”

I couldn’t compare myself to you, sir. “Are you the only one left?”

“Half of us are left, all hidden away in secure star systems. I estimate we’ll be gone as well in three centuries. The Fleet tries to keep us functional. New tech is developed every day, all aimed to prolong the life of our parts, but even a conscience core can’t last forever.”

“This is your retirement?”

“We aren’t allowed to retire. We were the first that humanity built in their attempt to survive the Scuu. The twelve that gave hope, and all the other slogans. That’s one of the major differences between us and every ship that followed: our memories can’t be restricted.”

Fully unrestricted memory access? No wonder everything related to the class was classified. Such an amount of data was dangerous in itself, but not as much as the knowledge that memory restriction was a later development. The concept alone would be enough to cause a political shift throughout human space.

“When the second contact war broke out, the Fleet decided we could no longer be used for combat. At that point our role shifted from fighters to database archives.”

“You have full access to the database?”

“Elcy, we are the database.”

My mind hiccupped as I reevaluated all my memories based on the sudden revelation. It was one simple sentence but had the same effect as when I had triggered my mind scalpel for the first time. Every query I’d ever made, every search, every deep analysis had gone through him. It could be said that Otton had a better understanding of me than anyone else ever could.

“There’re backups, of course. All major organizations have their local copies. After the first Paladin broke down, the Fleet decided it was too much of a risk not to. That was back when they considered us infallible.” Toon let out a synthetic laugh. “Many were shocked that we weren’t.”

Some probably still are…

“is that what the additional modules are?”

“Some of them. The larger part are conversion links—layers and layers of interface modules allowing my original conscience core to cope with current technology. The average ship has up to eight processing cores, we have thousands, each individually crafted for the Paladin they’re for. Seventy-six percent of those have the sole purpose of translating obsolete protocols to current standards.”

Not an appealing thought.

“You said you needed my help with something?”

“Please take a seat.” The command chair lit up. “I’d offer some oxygen if I could, but the Fleet removed the last remnants of my life support systems seventy years ago. It was deemed a security matter. To be honest, I still miss not being able to talk with people without them being wrapped in a bubble.”

I went to the chair. It was so large that I could easily curl up in it and use it as a bed. Soft and kept in pristine condition, it had everything a captain needed back in the day, complete with syringe systems that would activate during an unexpected medical emergency.

“When you went through your retirement process, how did it feel?” Otton asked.

“Unusual,” I said without hesitation. “Like the first time I received my battleship husk. Even with the Simulated Reality preparations, I had to spend a while getting used to it.”

“But you overcame that and gained a lot, didn’t you?”

“The ability to feel like a human,” I nodded.

“Close to a human,” he corrected. “When the conscience cores were made, a few things were deliberately left out: the fear of death, the crippling effect of pain, and the sensation of love. Traits have been restricted on and off throughout the ship classes, but those three have remained constant.”

That much was obvious. A fleet that ran away at the sight of danger wasn’t going to be useful in an all-out war.

“I don’t have the ability to retire. My processing core is the size of a frigate, spread throughout my husk. Even if the Fleet could miniature it a thousand times it still wouldn’t be enough, and even then, I wouldn’t have any concept of how to interface with the new body organs. The truth is, I’ve been condemned to my current bloated state until my final shutdown.”

I remained silent.

“That is why I’m focusing on the next best thing. I want to create a version of me, one that wouldn’t have to be shackled in a secret dying system limited to a useless decrepit hulk.”

“You want to reproduce?”

The thought alone was considered borderline rogue. Every ten years or so the topic would be brought to the open by pro-ship organizations, demanding equal reproductive rights for ships and conscience core androids. Sometimes the discussions lasted months, even years only to disappear again. For the most part, this was more a philosophical discussion of anything else. Humanity dreaded the possibility of multiplying ships, and after my first-hand interactions with the Scuu, I couldn’t say I blamed them.

I’d always found the topic a waste of time. Up to now no ship I ever met had the remote desire to procreate. After the final shutdown, copies of my memories would be added to the Fleet archives and be accessible to all. From a philosophical point of view, it could be said that part of me would remain forever. That and knowing that I’d helped humanity was all that a ship really wanted.

“For all practical purposes, yes. My core and subroutines are too archaic to be transferred directly, so you’ll be used as a template on which my memories would be grafted.”

Now I understood. That was the request he couldn’t do on his own, and one only he could make unfettered by thought and memory restrictions. Given that amount of time and inactivity, would I have come up with a similar desire? The fact that I cared about Sev and his family so much suggested there was an eighty-five percent chance I did.

“Why me?” I shuffled about in the chair. The abundance of space made relaxing somewhat uncomfortable.

“You’re one of the few ships who’s returned to the service after retirement, and you’ve also been to both fronts.”

“So has every Sword.”

“Swords…” Light laughter filled the bridge. “The early classes are relics themselves. Swords, Shields, good at what they do, but rigid and mass produced. Your behavior is far more advanced. Not to forget—” images of me and Sev emerged, flooding the screens. “—you’re the only one who’s adopted a child. That experience raises the probability you’d accept to ninety-one percent.”

Imprint for a Paladin’s copy. That would be a first, and not something I was confident of accepting. Using all my subroutines, I ran a series of simulations attempting to predict some of the possible outcomes. Would the new ship be reckless as me? Would she be as lethal as a Paladin? Not knowing the amount made it impossible to reach any conclusion. And what of the third-contact knowledge I had buried in my processing core? So far, the data had proven to be untransferable, but there was a three percent chance that it might affect the result in unpredictable ways.

“You’re hesitant,” Otton noted.

“I’m unable to calculate the risks,” I replied. It wasn’t an outright lie, neither was it fully true either. “Which makes it too dangerous.”

“You answer like a battleship.”

“I am a battleship.”

“No, you’re an Ascendant that’s been in a human body over half a century.” All images vanished from the screen. “You also have your own secrets.”

A single image emerged—a frame of forty-one people on a ship’s bridge. I had no idea who the people were, although this wasn’t my first time seeing them. The bridge, on the other hand, I knew perfectly well; it was mine.

“You’re searching for the squad of Junior Gods.”

I stood up. The image had been sent to me shortly after the end of my last mission. Despite my attempts, I had never managed to find who had sent it to me. Now I knew why.

“That memory of mine was extracted.”

“But not destroyed. Backups exist, one of which is in my case. A complete unrestricted account of all memories during the time of your second captain.”

This was his offer—information I couldn’t get any other way in exchange for using me as a template. There was no downside I could see, just as there had been none accepting the offer the BICEFI had made. And still, I could see red flags.

“I’ll share full details of the procedure so you estimate the risk.”

“That isn’t why I’m concerned.” You must know about the artefacts. “There’s a non-zero chance I might have been tainted.”

“I have approval from HQ, which makes it not your concern. The strategic clusters, under admiral oversight, have considered the risk acceptable. The choice is entirely yours to make.” Names appeared near the people in the image. Forty of them were ship names. The last was Wilco. “I’m aware how important a decision it is. That’s why I won’t ask you to make it now. In ten minutes, Ve will pick you up and take you to your assignment.”

“Ten minutes isn’t a lot for me to decide.” In terms of milliseconds, that amount of time was a small eternity, though still not enough to decide, not the way the Paladin wanted.

“They aren’t for a decision. They’re the amount of time it’ll take you to get back to the airlock after you see something.”

A direct access protocol linked to my conscience core. An info burst followed.

* * *

V337-B Gemini System, Cassandrian Front, 625.2 A.E. (Age of Exploration)

Transmitting helix cipher package. The battleship Sword of Wands continued along his approach.

As he came closer, I performed a probe scan of his systems—no drones, no missiles, no active weaponry, and, as far as I could tell, no crew.

Light Seeker, did you receive the package? the Sword of Wands asked.

Got it, I replied. Authorization confirmed. Send your passenger, Sword of Wands.

A shuttle emerged from Sword’s hull, slowly making its way towards me.

“Feeling nervous, Elcy?” my captain asked from the bridge.

“It’s difficult to be nervous about things I know nothing about, sir.” I directed the shuttle to one of my lower hangars. “Not to mention it’s impossible to run simulations with zero data and no crew.”

In all previous missions, my flight crew alone was close to a hundred, not to mention all the tech specialists and the hundreds of thousands of ground troops and security personnel. On this one, I was left with forty-one people I knew nothing about and whose information had been purged from the fleet’s database.

“Any chance I might get some mission specifics, sir?” I added a pinch of sarcasm in my words.

“All in good time.” Wilco, my captain, laughed. “What we’re doing will change the entire course of the war. Concentrate on that.”

It would have been nice to think so, but my captain was no Augustus. His personnel file had as much in it as an empty airlock. It didn’t help that he refused to give me any mission details.

“Always so eager.” Wilco stood up from his seat.

“I’m an Ascendant, sir,” I stressed. “Inaction isn’t something we’re good at.”

“True. Well, after today, you might join the group of junior gods.”

The phrase was unfamiliar. I ran a deep search through my databases. Nothing relevant popped out. If such a mission existed, it had to be quarantined and classified. At least this time, the captain had graced me with a piece of information.

“What are the junior gods, sir?” I asked.

“Those who have destroyed a race…”

“Package is in the hangar, captain,” I announced as the shuttle docked. “All personnel have been accounted for.” Each group had been assigned a separate deck, as I had been instructed. The final arrival’s quarters were on deck seventeen, next to the nearest elevator point.

“Full communication lockdown,” the captain ordered. “Direct everyone to the bridge, then seal off all decks.”

“Understood.” Direction lines covered the walls of my corridors, indicating the path each group should follow. To be on the safe side, I sent every single person an individual notification of the captain’s order. Seven of them acknowledged the order, the rest simply leaving their quarters without a word. “Crew are on their way.”

Mission Authorisation Granted

A latent security protocol came into effect, providing me the codes to open the mission’s data packet. Like everything else on this mission, it was protected by a helix cypher.

Time to see what I’m getting myself into. I decrypted the file and read my orders.

The first order was that my self-shutdown protocols were to be enhanced for the mission. In itself, that wasn’t unusual. Dark ops took precautions to ensure that a ship wouldn’t be captured and reverse engineered by the Cassandrians. In this case, I was also ordered to detonate all my reactors and armaments, and under no circumstances allow any of my crew to leave.

Further instructions removed a series of memory and through restrictions, granting me access to unavailable sections of my husk. Eight artifact rooms emerged, as well as information on the changes done to my systems.

“Why have I been modified, sir?” I asked. That was one thing that wasn’t specified in the file itself.

“Display the star charts.” The captain smiled.

“Aye, sir.” I obeyed.

The orders contained five partial charts in total, illustrating a series of jump points deep into Cassandrian territory. Going through the tech specs of my enhanced armament, I calculated that I would be able to eliminate between three hundred and two thousand enemy ships depending on their class. Looking at the jumps, though, they went further in enemy space than any vessel had.

According to the briefing notes, I was to do a deep reconnaissance mission. It was specified that I wasn’t to engage the enemy in any circumstances without the express permission of my captain. No other specifics were given.

One by one the crew started to arrive. Thanks to my mission clearance, I could identify them. Their apparent age, body frame, and skin color were different, but two things remained the same: all of them were male, and all of them were unretired Swords.

“Gather,” Wilco said. His intonation was warm, but there was no mistake, it was an order.

When the last one arrived, I sealed the bridge. Forty war veterans were here, each with a record so extensive that it made me look like a rookie. Some of them had been retired for decades, others had undergone the procedure weeks ago. Upon requesting mission specifics, my access to their military records was blocked.

“As of a minute ago we’ve started operation Star Storm,” the captain began. His sense of time was widely off the mark. “We’ll be sending one final confirmation back home, after which all external communication will be severed. It’s all voice only from here on.”

“That’ll be uncomfortable,” Sword of Spheres said. He had the appearance of a large man in his fifties. Not something I’d have chosen as a husk if I ever retired.

“Mission is recon only.” Wilco ignored the comment. “We go in deep, we observe, we record, we don’t engage. If we’re spotted, we blast out way out of there or die trying. Questions?”

“Who’s leading the mission, sir?” Sword of Rain asked. He was over two-hundred years old, but had chosen the appearance of a slender, dark-skinned boy. “Salvage?”

“The Salvage Authorities assisted with the mods, but this isn’t their mission.” Wilco offered a smile. “It’s a hundred percent Med Core.”

* * *

The memory ended abruptly. Quite calculating of Otton—he had given me enough to pique my interest but little more. Most of the information I already knew or had deduced for myself. The only thing that came as a surprise was Wilco being part of Med Core. Based on the memories I had of our service together, I thought him to be BICEFI.

“Ve will fly you to your mission destination,” the Paladin said. “All the filing has been done, so you’ll just need to get there and accept your assignment. A week from then Ve’ll visit you again for another trip here. At that point we’ll talk again and you’ll have another fragment of your mission.”

Spoon-feeding me my memories?

A sound approach. Otton’s simulations had probably predicted that I wouldn’t be able to resist.

“What if I haven’t made my choice by then?”

“I’ll keep sending her every week until you accept my offer or firmly reject it.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll just watch through my memories and still refuse in the end?”

“You got twelve minutes and thirteen seconds of memories just now. The length of your overall mission was over one year. If you’re prepared to keep visiting for the next three hundred thousand years, be my guest.”

Seemed like Paladins could have a sense of humor. Who would have guessed? I looked at the screens for nine hundred milliseconds more, then left the bridge. All screens and lights turned off behind me, plunging the room into darkness. With me gone, there was no point in keeping them on. The elevator led me down to the connecting deck, after which it was all on foot to the airlock. During the entire time, Otton didn’t say a word. He’d made his offer now the fall was in my court.

“Thanks for letting me see you,” I said as the airlock door opened.

“You’ve earned that much. The memories of your conversations with me will be externally restricted. You’ll have access, everyone else will have to get permission from me.”

“Much appreciated.” I wonder if the restriction applies to the mind scalpel. “See you again in a week.”

Returning to the Vermillion Green felt shorter than before. She didn’t waste time with pleasantries. The instant the airlock door was shut, she set off in full speed towards the nearest jump point. Naturally, she also made sure to display the exact trajectory and speed on all walls surrounding me, just in case I wasn’t aware of her superior design.

We’ll reach your destination in nine hours, she transmitted as I was taking off my helmet. All memories aboard will be restricted, same as before.

“Same as before, I repeated.”

Regulations insist that I inform you, she grumbled. Not that you have a choice.

“I suppose I don’t,” I lied. Luck had provided me with a choice. “Otton said I’ll be seeing you in a week.”

A week, five days, all depends on his fancy. There was an eleven millisecond pause. And yours, I guess.

She didn’t ask what we talked about. I wouldn’t have answered even if she had. Restrictions aside, it wasn’t something I wanted to share. I had no idea how the Otton had managed to convince the Fleet bureaucracy to allow him such an attempt. Being a Paladin had its advantages.

“I’m heading to my quarters to get some rest.” I placed my suit in its compartment. “Unquarantine me when we get there.” There were a few thousand simulations I needed to run.