Blake activates the autopilot button on his airborne vehicle’s dashboard, engaging it to navigate towards the final air car lane above Miami City. He leans back in his seat and pulls up a live news broadcast on one of the dashboard screens. The reporter delves into the escalating crisis at Saturnia.
“According to Celestial Resorts, the company that owns Saturnia, the object that collided with the space resort is most likely a meteorite. However, this information is not yet confirmed,” the news reporter’s voice fills the interior of Blake’s Countach as he soars above Miami’s glittering skyline.
Blake listens intently while the reporter continues.
“Saturnia’s defense systems, designed to detect and destroy incoming objects like meteorites, were unable to prevent the collision.”
“Celestial Resorts has officially requested assistance from the United Nations Space Security for a rescue mission,” the reporter explains.
Blake tries to process the information. He knows the UNSS well, having worked for them during his time in the Space Force. The name alone brings a cold, professional edge to his demeanor.
As Blake’s Countach carves a path through the neon-drenched skies of Miami, the implications of Saturnia’s crisis ripple far beyond the city limits.
Within the heart of the Phoenix space station, which orbits Earth and houses the UNSS headquarters, the situation at Saturnia is already a top-priority emergency. Personnel, intelligence officers, and high-ranking representatives from UNSS member nations hurry through the command center, their faces etched with worry. The main screen displays a haunting, grainy image of the damaged Saturnia.
Admiral Gabriel Dubois, the French Space Force officer and president of the UNSS Council, stands like a statue amid the controlled chaos. His icy gaze fixes on the screen, hands clasped behind his back.
“Status update,” he demands, his voice cutting through the murmurs.
An intelligence officer steps forward. “President, we’re facing significant challenges in assessing the full extent of damage to Saturnia,” he reports. “The distance from our telescopes to Saturnia is too great to get a complete picture.”
President Dubois’ face sets. “What do we know?”
“Our deep space scanners show that Saturnia’s orbit around Saturn is decaying. This suggests severe damage to the propulsion systems that are keeping it in a stable orbit. Saturnia is slowly falling towards Saturn, President,” the officer continues, a grim note in his voice.
“Explain the implications,” Dubois orders.
“We’re operating on a narrow window, President. If we don’t act soon, the damaged Saturnia will be torn apart by Saturn’s immense gravity.”
“What’s our timeframe?” inquires President Dubois.
The intelligence officer hesitates for a moment. “Based on current simulations… less than 45 hours, Sir.”
People whisper and stir in the room. Dubois stays still as he stares at the screen that shows how Saturnia will end.
“Any word from Saturnia?” he asks.
“Negative, Sir. All communications remain down.”
Dubois nods, his mind racing through possibilities. “What’s our closest ship?”
Admiral Yamanaka, the UNSS delegate of the Japanese Space Force, steps into the light, his stern face reflecting decades of military discipline. “Our battlecruiser that is closest to Saturnia is near Jupiter, but its engines have malfunctioned and are under repair,” he reports. “The ship can’t reach Saturnia in time.”
Yamanaka continues, his eyes fixed on President Dubois. “An ambassador from Japan is currently present at Saturnia, visiting the stationed Japanese Space Force battalion that assists in defending the resort from pirate threats. A team from our forces was assigned to escort the ambassador, but we haven’t received any communication from them or the battalion since the impact.”
The UNSS members of other nations also state that they have teams specialized for such emergencies, but all are located too far from Saturnia to get there in time.
A murmur runs through the room, but President Dubois’s voice cuts through it like a blade. “We need a solution, and we need it now,” he declares. He pauses for a brief moment, hesitating, looking across the anxious faces. A hush descends over the room.
“I am forced to share top-secret information,” he announces, the weight of his words pressing on every listener. “The urgency of the situation leaves us with no other choice.”
President Dubois holds his Biocomm wristband against the console of the conference table. A vibrant holographic image of a spaceship blazes to life in the middle of the room.
“The Cyclone,” President Dubois announces, pointing at the hologram. “An experimental French Space Force ship with a revolutionary warp drive.”
“For the past three years, the French Space Force has been developing this classified vessel,” President Dubois continues, his voice steady despite the magnitude of his revelation. “The Cyclone utilizes an Alcubierre drive, capable of warping spacetime itself. It can traverse vast distances in seconds.”
A quiet chatter fills the room. Admiral Yamanaka leans forward, his usually stern face etched with a look of genuine surprise.
“The technology remains classified due to concerns about space pirates,” Dubois explains. “If they acquired warp capabilities, they would become unstoppable.”
He pauses, scanning the faces around him.
“With the right rescue team, the Cyclone could reach Saturnia within our timeframe.”
Tension crackles in the conference room.
“Is it wise to expose this technology?” the representative from Slovakia questions, anxiety in her voice. “The threat of pirate attacks is significant. If pirate cartels obtain this, the consequences could be severe.”
The Korean delegate gives a firm nod. “The risk is substantial. Our defenses might not be enough if a pirate like Lucifer succeeds in acquiring this technology. We know he is active in the Saturn region.”
“Lucifer,” a Swiss UNSS member adds, “he’s not just a pirate. He’s an advanced AI robot, working for the Black Nebula Collective. He is relentless, driven to get his objective at any cost. The Collective acquiring this could be catastrophic.”
The UK delegate’s voice rings out with urgency. “President Dubois, we must consider the potential of the Cyclone! Without it, the survivors at Saturnia are lost. This ship, with its advanced warp capabilities, may be our only hope.”
As the discussion continues, Dubois weighs the potential consequences of the Cyclone’s untested warp capabilities. Can the ship make the perilous journey to Saturnia and return, or will it be swallowed by the endless void of space? The lives of the resort’s inhabitants hang in the balance, forcing Dubois toward a decision with far-reaching implications.
Having considered all arguments, Dubois rises and addresses the members of the security council. “I hear your concerns,” he declares, his voice firm and unwavering. “However, time is running out. This ship might be our only hope to reach them in time for a rescue. The risks are undeniable, but we cannot abandon those people. We must act now.”
He swivels towards Yamanaka, his eyes cutting through the dim light. “Admiral Yamanaka, I’m entrusting this to you personally. Given your extensive experience as a former Space Commando, assemble a crisis response unit and select top-tier Space Force soldiers from UNSS member countries for this new squad.”
Yamanaka gives a curt nod, accepting the daunting task with unflinching resolve. The room breaks into action once more, but with renewed determination. They have a plan. Their mission is clear: Saturnia must be reached, and the Cyclone is their only hope.
A few moments later, in the hushed stillness of a private quarter somewhere in the UNSS headquarters, a figure sits at a communication terminal, its screen casting an eerie glow. The figure’s eyes reflecting the harsh light.
Taking a deep breath, the person begins to activate the encrypted communication channel, fingers moving discreetly over the keyboard. The screen lights up. A shimmering display appears with a strange, metal-like sound as it links to someone far away.
“What do you want,” commands the voice from the other end. A machine-like distortion in every word. It is the voice of Lucifer, the notorious pirate android.
Composed, the figure replies, “I possess information that will interest you. It’s something significant.”
The comm channel flickers, then resolves into a three-dimensional holographic representation. The Cyclone emerges, its shape and glowing details broadcasting its advanced technology.
Lucifer’s response is quick. “Tell me everything about this ship,” the android insists, his voice echoing with a commanding gravity.
In the twilight haze of Miami’s metropolis, Blake pilots his Countach through the throbbing arteries of the city, a black arrow amidst the aerial vehicles. His home, a modern house on the outskirts of the city center, welcomes him with its warm, friendly buzz.
Upon entering, the soothing sound of home automation fills his ears. Stepping into the living room, Blake is greeted by Apollo, his German Shepherd, whose tail thumps a rapid rhythm against the floor. Miguel, his son, sits cross-legged on the floor, his eyes locked onto a holographic screen, his fingers dancing over the controller, commanding virtual soldiers in an interstellar war game.
“Hi, Dad!” he shouts the moment he notices his father, without breaking focus from his game.
“Hey, buddy!” Blake replies, his voice softening.
Selena, his wife, reclines on the comfortable sofa, her digital book forgotten as he enters the room. She gives him a welcoming smile.
Blake throws his scorched jacket on the sofa before settling down beside Selena. The burnt fabric releases a faint acrid smell into the air.
“I’m glad you are back,” Selena says, marking her place in the digital book and turning to face him. “How did the hunt go today?”
“Finally got Croft,” Blake replies, rolling his shoulders to work out the tension. “Been tracking that bastard for weeks.”
“That’s wonderful!” Selena exclaims, her face lighting up with genuine pride. She notices the scorch mark on his discarded jacket. “That’s new.”
“It’s nothing. Got a little too close for comfort with his blaster,” Blake says, trying to sound reassuring.
Miguel pauses his game, glancing over at his father. “Did you shoot the bad guy, Dad?”
“Language, Miguel,” Selena interjects gently.
“The bad guy won’t be hurting anyone else, buddy,” Blake assures his son.
Apollo pads over and rests his head on Blake’s knee, sensing his master’s need for comfort after the day’s violence.
Selena sets her digital book aside, her eyes lingering on the scorch mark. “Blake, you’re sixty-five,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “Most people your age are enjoying retirement, not dodging blaster fire.”
Blake’s lips thin into a hard line. He stares ahead at Miguel’s video game, watching virtual explosions bloom across the screen. “I’m not most people.”
“That’s exactly my point.” Selena shifts on the couch, turning to face him fully. “Your reflexes aren’t what they were twenty years ago.”
“My reflexes got Croft tonight.”
“Barely, as I can see.” Her voice carries a weight of years spent waiting for him to come home after his hunts. “What happens when your reflexes are not enough?”
“I can handle it,” Blake replies.
“For how long?” Selena’s question hangs in the air between them. “I’ve watched you favor that knee for months. Your back aches every morning. How many more close calls before luck runs out?”
Miguel’s game erupts in digital explosions, the sound filling the uncomfortable silence stretching between his parents.
A muscle in Blake’s cheek twitches. “Sixty-five doesn’t mean finished. Experience counts for more than reflexes. And I’m still faster than rookies half my age.”
“Experience won’t stop a blaster bolt,” Selena remarks.
Suddenly, Selena shimmers, her form wavering and distorting. Miguel freezes mid-gesture, his hand suspended in the air. The loud game sounds stop. A sharp buzz fills the room. Their solid shapes break apart into wild, scattered dots, as they fade into fuzzy static.
Blake balls his fists in frustration. “Not again…” he mutters. He reaches for his holoview, his hand shaking slightly as he selects the number for technical support.
“We apologize for the interruption in your AI Companion service. Our systems are experiencing temporary technical difficulties. Service will resume shortly. Thank you for your patience.”
The automatic voice resonates through Blake’s now empty living room. No wife. No son. Just the cold reality of his solitude and Apollo’s sympathetic whine beside him. The dog nudges Blake’s hand with his wet nose. His house, moments ago filled with the illusion of life and love, now stands eerily silent; starkly echoing the vibrant memories of a life tragically cut short.
Blake sinks into an armchair, a glass of amber tequila in his hand while Apollo lounges at his feet. He finds the familiar weight of the silver locket in his pocket, running a thumb over its worn surface. It’s the only real thing he has left.in his hand while Apollo lounges at his feet. He finds the familiar weight of the silver locket in his pocket, running a thumb over its worn surface. It’s the only real thing he has left.