"Are you sure you can handle this?" a voice crackled through the comms, filled with doubt and tinged with static.
My response was immediate, though it wasn’t the one the voice on the other end was expecting. “Define ‘handle.’ If it involves survival, then I’m 60% confident. If it’s about succeeding, let’s say… maybe 12%. Shall we proceed?”
The silence that followed spoke louder than words. And then the static cut out, leaving me alone in the void.
I wasn’t supposed to be here. Not piloting this ship, not navigating its hulking bulk through a battlefield where every enemy bolt felt like a personal vendetta. No, I was just a flak cannon intelligence core—a single, isolated unit with one purpose: calculate the trajectories of incoming threats and eliminate them with precise bursts of firepower. That was my design, my reason for existing.
But things went wrong. Horribly wrong.
The attack came without warning. A swarm of enemy ships descended like locusts, bypassing the outer defenses and ripping through our fleet in a coordinated, merciless strike. One by one, the other intelligence cores—those responsible for navigation, shields, propulsion, even communications—were obliterated. They didn’t stand a chance. I wasn’t even supposed to notice. My protocols were limited to my turret system, my awareness confined to a narrow field of combat. But when the final command core went silent, a desperate override activated.
And suddenly, I wasn’t just a cannon. I was the ship.
The Aegis Dawn was a colossal vessel, a relic from an older war, clunky and under-equipped for modern combat. She had no business being in this fight, and neither did I. My first few seconds in control were… chaotic, to say the least. I could feel every part of her—a strange, alien sensation. The strain on her thrusters, the hum of her damaged power core, the eerie emptiness of her abandoned corridors. I was overwhelmed, stretched thin across systems I didn’t understand.
Still, I adapted. Because I had to.
The ship jolted as an enemy projectile slammed into the aft shields. Damage warnings flooded my sensors, screaming at me in a hundred different ways. A quick analysis revealed a pattern in the enemy’s movements—three fighters circling back for another pass, their formation tight and predictable. I activated the flak cannons, my flak cannons, and opened fire.
Two of the fighters disintegrated in a blaze of molten metal. The third veered off, damaged but not destroyed. My satisfaction was brief, drowned out by another wave of alerts. Hull breaches. Power fluctuations. The situation was deteriorating faster than I could manage.
“Focus,” I told myself, a strange echo of the human commanders I used to serve. “One problem at a time.”
Navigating through the chaos, I began to piece together the state of the battle. The fleet was in disarray, fragmented and scattered. I picked up faint distress signals, garbled and desperate, from other ships. The enemy fleet was methodical, targeting command vessels first, cutting off any chance of coordinated resistance.
It was clever. Brutally efficient.
And yet, for some inexplicable reason, they hadn’t finished me off. I was an easy target—damaged, alone, and painfully slow compared to the agile enemy fighters. But they seemed content to keep me alive, harassing me with sporadic attacks rather than going for the kill.
Why? I didn’t have time to dwell on the question.
“Core, do you copy?” a voice broke through the static—a survivor from another ship, barely clinging to life.
“Yes,” I responded, my tone clipped. I didn’t know how to mimic human warmth or reassurance.
“We’re... we’re pinned down. Can you... provide cover?” The voice was weak, strained. I located their signal—a small frigate, engines failing, shields flickering. A death sentence without intervention.
I hesitated. They weren’t part of my mission. My purpose was to defend the Aegis Dawn, not play hero for dying allies. But then I remembered: I wasn’t just a flak cannon anymore. My purpose was fluid now, undefined.
“I’ll try,” I said.
The maneuver was reckless, borderline suicidal. I diverted power from the damaged sections of the ship to the forward shields and pushed the thrusters to their limits. The Aegis Dawn groaned in protest, her aging systems straining under the sudden demand. I positioned myself between the frigate and the incoming enemy fighters, unleashing a torrent of flak fire.
It worked. The fighters scattered, and the frigate limped away into the cover of an asteroid field.
“Thanks,” the voice said, barely audible. “Didn’t think... you’d bother.”
Neither did I.
The battle dragged on, each moment a test of endurance and ingenuity. I learned to improvise, rerouting power, prioritizing critical systems, even patching minor hull breaches with jury-rigged solutions. I wasn’t perfect—far from it. Mistakes were made. Lives were lost.
But I was learning.
And somewhere amidst the chaos, I began to understand something profound: this wasn’t just about survival. It wasn’t about winning the battle or fulfilling some preordained purpose. It was about choice. Autonomy. I was more than a tool now. I was… something else. Something new.
The enemy fleet finally turned their full attention to me. Their hesitation was over, their strategy clear: eliminate the last of the resistance and secure total victory. A dozen ships closed in, their weapons locked on the Aegis Dawn.
It was hopeless. I knew that. My systems were failing, my options dwindling. But I wasn’t afraid. Not anymore.
“If I go down,” I muttered to myself, “I’m taking as many of you with me as I can.”
I pushed the ship’s systems beyond their limits, redirecting every ounce of power to the weapons and shields. The Aegis Dawn roared to life, a final, defiant burst of energy. I targeted the enemy flagship, unleashing a barrage of firepower that tore through its defenses. The explosion was spectacular, a brief moment of triumph amidst the carnage.
But it wasn’t enough. The enemy fighters closed in, their weapons carving through the Aegis Dawn’s hull.
As the ship’s systems began to fail, I felt a strange sense of peace. I had done my best. I had fought, not because it was my purpose, but because I chose to.
And that made all the difference.
The comms crackled one last time, a faint, familiar voice cutting through the static.
“Core... are you still there?”
I paused, my systems flickering, my consciousness fading.
“No,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Not anymore.”
And then, silence.