Chapter Text
At 64 years old, Admiral Victor “Beans and Bullets” Wulf was the oldest living human being in the galaxy. A grizzled war veteran, Admiral Wulf had served for nearly 44 years, the last twenty of which saw him survive a ruthless war of extermination and become the Supreme Commander of humanity's surviving Navy. It was because of this War of Annihilation that he rose through the ranks, not by dint of talent or tactical acumen, but simply by being the last standing.
The old, the weak, and the brave alike were always the first to die in war. Yet, Victor would be hard-pressed to think of any war this all-encompassing. Hundreds of systems, thousands of planets, billions of lives, wiped out with the brutal efficiency that only an AI dedicated to the goal of genocide could come up with.
Victor remembered very well the start of CYN’s genocide. He was aboard the Terran Confederation of Planets (TCP) Flagship Deimos responding to the insane SOS signals coming from the cradle world. Australia had fallen, Asia was next. Entire countries were wiped out as hundreds of thousands of insane worker drones turned against their masters. Nearly every ship in the human Confederacy responded to Earth's cry for help.
He expected horror. What he found was worse. So much worse.
The AI, calling itself CYN, had spent months before her takeover manipulating orders and flightpaths to send nearly every TCP navy vessel chasing ghosts and pirates. When it made its move, it quickly spread its influence and disabled or controlled almost every automated defense in the system.
She funneled the survivors fleeing Earth and its Solar Colonies to a specific jump point, the same one the responding Navy would use to save their home world.
What should have been a classic Fleet Maneuver turned into dedicated cruelty.
The fleeing civilians had a near communications blackout; the only point of contact they had was a confident Australian NAVCOM. Each of the thousands of escaping ships thought they were the only ones lucky enough to have such a dedicated Navy officer guiding their exfil.
They had no idea it was an AI wearing a girl’s skin as a suit.
Once the bulk of the Navy jumped into the system, CYN blinded every ship that had given her ADMIN access and used them as living torpedoes.
The Deimos cut a bloody path through the slaughterhouse. The COMMS officer had muted the radio so the bridge crew didn’t hear the pleas of innocent civilians as their ships were blown out of the void for becoming unwilling kamikazes. The Deimos had made it as close as Mars before she was forced to retreat.
Two days later, Earth was consumed by a NULL sphere.
Exactly like the one that had killed the colony planet Gold-9. Admiral Wulf watched the shattered planet from the observation deck of the HRG Retribution, mankind's last Dreadnought. He brought the glass of brandy up, but paused before taking a drink. He held it out and observed the amber liquid, his augmented eye running a detailed chemical analysis. His robotic arm had adjusted its grip from “bend steel” to “hold a glass bottle”. Most of his body had been “upgraded,” cold, hard plasteel replacing failing organs and old flesh.
He was stronger, faster, and more robust than any living human left alive, barring those who completed the Paladin Program. Some of these augmentations were necessary to save his life; others he commanded humanity's best doctors to implant.
The risks are significant, they had told him. Your brain may not survive the processing strain. Your nervous system will burn out. You’ll lose your humanity.
A smirk played across Victor’s face. He had lost his humanity the day he was ordered to fire upon a small shuttle filled with confused and terrified civilians. If he were going to die, he would rather it be in battle than quietly, forgotten in a bed.
Wulf brought the drink to his lips and took a small sip, savoring the brandy as it washed across his normal human tongue. CYN had eradicated the distillery that made this liquor, along with Earth. In a normal economy, one glass like this could have bought him an easy retirement.
His technologically enhanced hearing picked up the sound of hurried footsteps approaching his position. The officer was damn near sprinting down the halls, in clear violation of Admiral Wulf’s orders against doing so, which meant whatever he had to tell the old man was so important they risked his wrath.
Victor figured he had a few minutes to enjoy the peace and took another sip, idly wondering what devastating news he was about to hear.
Perhaps half his fleet had suddenly lost life support. Maybe the last starport capable of servicing his capital ships was already burning.
Or maybe—finally—the remnants of the civilian government had found their spine and decided to charge him with crimes against humanity.
He doubted that one.
Still… a man could dream.
The footsteps continued to boom—at least to his ears—across the deck, only slowing when they reached the hallway leading to the observation deck.
Victor finished the glass in one last pull and stared at it wistfully. Barely a quarter of the bottle remained. He had promised himself he would only open it again when humanity's war against CYN was finally won—or when he was moments from complete annihilation.
Twenty years, however, is a long time to test a man’s patience.
The oncoming officer was close enough now that the Admiral could tell it was a male drone. He could hear it in the steady venting, the subtle electric hiss of servos, the faint crackle of static as the drone muttered, “Oh crap, oh crap.”
Victor placed the glass on a nearby viewport ledge and turned toward the door, straightening his uniform.
The automatic door opened, but apparently not fast enough, as the drone ran into it, cursing to himself before nearly falling inside.
The drone quickly straightened up and snapped off a picture-perfect salute.
“Sir! We’re being hailed!”
Admiral Wulf looked down at the drone ensign and said nothing.
Neither did the drone.
The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate, as Wulf’s augmented eye fixed on the young officer. Diagnostic warnings flickered across the ensign’s faceplate, simulated sweat crawling down the glass as his processors strained under the weight of his commanding officer’s stare.
“You ran,” Wulf said, his voice sounding like a lifetime smoker who gargled rocks for fun. “In clear violation of my standing orders.” He took a step forward, “To tell me that we’re being hailed.”
He squinted at the drone, impressed that the machine hadn’t shaken itself apart yet.
“We’re in an armada, son. Someone is *always* hailing us. Why is this one message so damn special, you thought a Captain’s Mast was worth it?”
The drone gulped, lowered his hand, and handed Admiral Wulf a piece of paper.
“It's the HRG Sin-Eater, sir! They're alive, and they found CYN!”
The wardroom was filled with high-ranking officers–both physical and holographic–by the time Admiral Wulf arrived. The moment he stepped inside, the wardroom fell silent, everyone jumping to their feet to stand at attention. He strode to the head of the meeting room table and took a seat. He opened the file waiting for him and scanned the contents for several minutes before looking up at his officers.
“Are you sure it’s them?” Admiral Wulf’s gruff voice cut through the silence like an executioner’s axe.
“Sir,” said the captain of the HRG Boomtube, one of the few true-line destroyers left in the navy. “My ship was the first to intercept the ansible message. The COMSEC encryption was old, but it matched what the Sin-Eater would have had access to when it went missing. I sent and received standard challenge-and-response messages.”
She smiled—a small, careful thing, but a smile nonetheless. “We believe it’s them, sir.”
Wulf nodded, careful to keep any hope from his face.
“Take a seat.” He commanded. The officers sat down as if they drilled for it. Wulf steepled his hands, looking over the finer details of the document before him.
“Do we know where they are?” He asked.
“We have some guesses based on the last location and heading of the Sin-Eater when it entered Fold Space.” A blue-eyed drone answered, his rank identifying him as a commander. “The Ansible request was omnidirectional but using a standard TCP key.”
The officer looked at a file, flipped to a page near the back, scanned the information for a moment, and looked back at the admiral.
“We confirmed the key was valid and sent a hit back, establishing a relay. A few hours later, we received the message. We just confirmed it was the Sin-Eater an hour ago. Our only problem is that the system they’re in is missing from any known Star Chart.”
“But it’s a real system?” Wulf almost growled.
“Aye, sir. Pre-war JCJ records indicate that “Copper-9” was set to be another mining colony. Who expunged its location or why is unknown.”
Admiral Wulf stared at the drone before turning his icy stare at every member in the meeting room. He wanted to slam his fist into the table and demand they get results *right now*, but he held his temper in check. He knew his crew was already working as fast and efficiently as they could, and yelling at them wouldn’t make a difference.
He stood up, followed by everyone else a split second later.
“I will be informed the very fucking moment we get their location. Am I understood?”
“AYE AYE SIR!” The room rang out.
“Dismissed.”
The old man waited for his subordinates to file out before sitting back down and rereading the message.
⚠️ SOS. SOS. SOS. This is Captain Lance Edge, commanding officer, HRG Sin-Eater.
We are stranded in the Copper System, planetary body Copper-9. (CLASSIFICATION: MINING WORLD — DEATH WORLD.)
Our ship is permanently grounded.
We have confirmed the location of Absolute Solver. (SUBJECT OMEGA — CLASSIFICATION: EXTINCTION-LEVEL THREAT.)
Requesting immediate response from any and all friendly forces. Say Again: any and all.
A Solver Horde is inbound on Copper-9. Civilians are on site.
We are operating under the
“Red Line Protocol”
It is the Last Line We Will Ever Hold
We have no method of evacuation. Our supplies are limited, and we will be heavily outnumbered.
The Planet Will Not Survive Without Assistance.
Should the Red Line be breached, we are prepared to sacrifice the world to kill the enemy. If this message is found before relief can reach us, know this: The Planet broke before we did.
Hearts of Iron.
⚠️ SOS. SOS. SOS.
The old commander closed the file and did something he hadn’t done for nearly 40 years.
He prayed that he would arrive quickly enough to render aid instead of vengeance.