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As Kano rests, data streams seamlessly from his neural interface into the command center, merging with the intricate networks of all neural interfaces, patches, datapads, and biodomes. Beneath the beautiful surfaces and shimmering hulls flows an unseen river—a torrent of data pulsing within the station’s nervous system, joining the symphony of information flowing from every individual aboard the StarShade.
From the outermost tip of each petal to the core of the central stem, information courses through the station’s neural network. The biodomes whisper their secrets in streams of atmospheric readings, crop yield projections, ecological data, botanical research, population health and housing conditions, medical advancements, military and fleet operations, and more. While far into the depths of the nebula, the harvester ships, like busy bees tending to a mechanical flower, buzz with telemetry data and resource inventories. Through it all, the crew’s biometrics weave a tapestry of human presence, each heartbeat and brainwave a thread in the grand design.
Through a labyrinth of corridors, the station’s circulatory system pulses with activity. Personnel and autonomous drones move with purpose, their paths optimized by EDI to maintain peak efficiency. The walls themselves seem alive, lined with holographic displays showing real-time data from every corner of the colossal flower. Here, digital streams materialize as strands of flowing light—crimson for critical systems, azure for life support, emerald for resource management—each carrying vital information to its destination.
At last, the command center comes into view. A vast, circular chamber dominated by a holographic representation of the entire station hangs suspended in the center, a miniature StarShade of steel with data points swirling in constant motion. Around it, tiered workstations form concentric rings, each dedicated to a specific aspect of StarShade’s operations and biodomes. The design is efficient, not crowded, with each level of workstations focusing on different critical functions.
Here at the StarShade’s brain, the cacophony of data streams coalesces into a symphony of information. Biodome specialists pore over atmospheric composition readouts, their interfaces alight with cascading numbers and undulating graphs. Resource distribution engineers fine-tune the energy flow across the station’s vast network and water allocations, their fingers dancing through holographic representations of power grids and circulation piping. Harvester coordinators plot optimal resource extraction routes, their augmented reality interfaces lighting up with potential yields and efficiency calculations.
At the heart of the Command Center, EDI translates silent pleas into a coherent message. Commander Nysari Thomir, attuned to the fleet’s well-being, receives the alert. The data, rich with the unvoiced struggles within Kano’s heart and mind, speaks volumes without formal request or petition. It conveys what he cannot.
“Another episode,” Nysari murmurs softly, her eyes reflecting concern as she notes the elevated stress indicators. She brushes a strand of her long, blond hair back into place, her feline features outlined by the artificial sunlight streaming through the large windows. Her thick, pale fur caught the light as blue eyes glow slightly brighter from stray rays. Taking a deep breath, she addresses the ship’s AI. “EDI, patch me through to Admiral Waldermara and Supervisor Solis. Priority channel.”
“Connecting now, Commander,” the AI responds obediently with a smooth and neutral intonation.
A moment later, Admiral Waldermara’s face materializes on the comm screen. “Commander Thomir; what’s the situation?” Admiral Waldermara’s golden helmet reflects the light from the comms screen. Her brown hair, tightly secured beneath her helmet, accentuates her high cheekbones. Fair skin, marked by the passage of time stretches over her angular jawline. On her forehead, the Orion constellation blinks softly.
Nysari’s tail twitches around her waist. “Admiral, Lieutenant Kano’s biometrics are spiking again. Third episode this month. I’m recommending we disable his A-Patch.”
The Admiral’s brow furrows. “That’s not a decision we make lightly, Commander. What’s Supervisor Solis’ take on this?”
“One step ahead of you, Admiral,” Nysari replies. “Solis?”
Another holo-window opens, revealing Supervisor Solis’. A fair-skinned man appears. A neatly groomed black beard decorates his face, a mask highlighting the bright yellow eyes beneath a black, shiny mane. “I’ve been monitoring Kano’s readings. The A-Patch is doing more harm than good at this point. These anxiety attacks are both increasing in frequency and intensity.”
Admiral Waldermara nods slowly. “I see. EDI, run a quick sim. What are the projected outcomes if we disable Kano’s A-Patch?”
“Simulation complete,” EDI responds after a brief pause. “Disabling the A-Patch has a 78% chance of reducing the severity of Lieutenant Kano’s anxiety in the event of an emergency.”
The Admiral’s expression softens. “Alright. You have my authorization. Solis?”
“Concur,” the Supervisor says firmly. “Let’s do this by the book.”
Nysari feels her own shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thank you both. EDI, initiate A-Patch deactivation protocol for Lieutenant Kano.”
“Acknowledged,” EDI confirms. “A-Patch deactivation in progress. Procedure will be complete in 30 seconds.”
As the countdown begins, Nysari’s keen feline senses detect a subtle movement. Her eyes dart to the source—a junior engineer, peering over her console with unconcealed curiosity. Nysari’s ears flatten slightly as she assaults the junior engineer with a stern look, silently compelling the subordinate to return to her own duties.
“Deactivation complete,” EDI announces, drawing Nysari’s attention back to the task at hand. “Lieutenant Kano’s A-Patch is now offline.”
Admiral Waldermara nods, her holographic image flickering slightly. “Excellent work, everyone. Keep me apprised of his condition. Waldermara out.”
As the holo-windows blink out of existence, Nysari exhales slowly, her tail swishing with a mix of relief and lingering obsession. “EDI, log the procedure and set a reminder for a follow-up assessment in 48 hours.”
“Procedure logged and reminder set, Commander,” EDI responds promptly. “Is there anything else you require?”
Nysari shake her head, her gaze drifting thoughtfully and thoughtlessly. “That’ll be all, EDI. Let’s hope this helps.”
In the background, Sophia releases a quiet grunt of frustration. It wasn’t the first time her curiosity had gotten the better of her, and she knew it likely wouldn’t be the last. As she returns to her duties, she can feel the weight of the Commander’s disapproval lingering in the air.
She brushes her hair, concealing her blush. Her light coral pink hair, styled in a shoulder-length wavy bob, contrasted sharply with her skin tone, making her cheeks seem to glow. Sophia’s green eyes, with a slight amber ring, scanned the data before her—a crimson tributary branching off from the main flow. With micron-level precision, she adjusted temperature gradients and atmospheric pressures. Her fingers glided smoothly across the haptic interface, almost caressing the surface. Each micro-adjustment rippled through the data stream like pebbles cast into a digital pond, causing the biodome to respond in real-time. Its myriad lifeforms and complex systems shifted imperceptibly yet profoundly with every command she executed.
A break in her diligence caused by a delicate homeostasis allows the green eyes to glance around. She takes a moment to observe her fellow specialists, each engrossed in atmospheric composition readouts. Or the power distribution engineers fine-tuning the energy flow. And the harvester coordinators plotting resource extraction routes; their augmented reality interfaces light up with potential yields and efficiency calculations. Everything runs like clockwork, but to Sophia, it feels like a well-oiled machine devoid of challenge.
Her gaze drifts to the central hologram, where Commander Thomir oversees the entire operation. The command center’s design ensures that every piece of information flows seamlessly toward the core so decisions are made with precision and authority. Sophia’s eyes narrow as she watches the tiny representation of her biodome integrate with the larger station network. Her role feels insignificant, a small cog in a vast machine.
Sophia leans closer to her console, her eyes heavy with boredom as she stifles a yawn. The relentless stream of notifications flashing in the corner of her screen snagging her attention once more; a constant parade of distractions she couldn’t quite ignore.
“EDI,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the low hum of the console. “Adjust the humidity levels in Sector 7 by 0.3% and snooze any non-essential messages for a couple of hours. I can’t concentrate with all these interruptions.”
“Adjustment complete,” EDI’s smooth voice echoes softly. “But Sophia, there’s an important communication affecting Sadie’s biodome from Stella. Should I proceed with snoozing that as well?”
Sophia sighs, her annoyance palpable. “Fine, read the message for me while I handle this,” she groans, her fingers already moving to perform another task.
As EDI begins to read Stella’s message, relaying the information in a calm, measured tone minus Stella’s cadence. “Stella reports the expectant shark scheduled to deliver supplies to the Greenhouse has encountered complications and won’t make the delivery. Repairs could take up to five weeks. She assures that all communications about the delay and future arrangements will be handled properly. In the meantime, she advised Sadie not to panic and that the station will be well-prepared for this situation.” There is a pause, before EDI adds. “Stella is interested in learning more about your theories on this matter.”
“Which hauler?” Sophia asks passively, “The Omega?” And she shrugs. “No surprises there, passed the hundredth year last jump.”
“No, it’s the Otodus,” responds EDI, voice lowering to a whisper.
“No!” Sophia says loudly enough to make those around her turn to stare. She looks around, waving a hand in apology before clearing her throat. Her voice returns to whisper, “But that’s a young hauler. Too young to have quantum malfunctions. I mean, even its brain works faster than that in my thirties, and that’s saying something! Wasn’t it like 50?”
“66,” EDI whispers back.
“Ufff, that’s going to be expensive. Where did it happen?” Sophia inquires, leaning closer to her station.
“An asteroid field between the HelianFlare station and Trelleska,” EDI responds, the artificial intelligence’s tone still soft and measured.
“Is it going to be repaired there?” Sophia’s brow furrows as she processes the information.
EDI checks the news, pages scrolling rapidly, emitting a gentle hum. “Apparently.”
“Hmmm. Strange,” Sophia mutters, her fingers tapping lightly on the holo-keyboard.
“Strange in what way?” EDI inquires, its voice barely above a whisper.
Sophia’s fingers resume movement over the holo-keyboard, her face tightening into a grimace. She leans back in her ergonomic chair, the smart-fabric molding to her tension. Her mind races, not answering EDI immediately. Navigating through the unexpected turn of events, she’s puzzling an inconsistency. “A failed quantum jump in the middle of nowhere,” she mutters, her voice barely audible over the low hum of the workstation. “And getting repairs on the spot with a duration of 5 weeks. I mean, it could be a misalignment in the quantum stabilizers, or perhaps…” She trails off, her eyes unfocusing and her mind postulates.
“Perhaps?” EDI prompts gently, the soft beats providing a soothing rhythm. “Is this not outside your realm of responsibility?”
“Hmmmm? Oh, of course. I was simply curious. Nevermind EDI,” Sophia says, shaking her head slightly.
A flicker of movement in her peripheral vision snaps her back to reality. Through the transparent aluminum wall of her cubicle, a figure catches her attention. Jrue. His unnaturally thin frame and bulbous eyes make him stand out like a smudge of ink on the sterile white corridor.
Sophia watches as the gene-splice paces, his semi-lucent skin shifting hues with each anxious step. In his spindly fingers, a datapad glows softly, its surface reflecting in his oversized eyes as he scrutinizes it with unnerving intensity. He seems to be mouthing something to himself as if in attempt of memorization.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Sophia calls out, her voice sharp with suspicion.
Jrue’s head snaps up, complex and highly mobile eyes focusing on her with unsettling precision. “I’m not,” his wide mouth making his frown exaggerated. “Not where I’m not supposed to be. I am where I’m to be, but an hour before that is.” He replies with confidence as if picking up on Sophia’s confusion. His head cocks, the smalls segments of his neck exposed to the light seeming to blend in with the dull white of the corridor walls. “Are you supposed to be here?” He challenges in return.
She squints as she stares at him from above her workstation. “Your attire doesn’t match ours. You must be one of Messer’s, right? What’s the deal now? Did he suddenly forget how to adjust the temperature in his penthouse?”
The young man nods in a confirmatory manner, indicating he is indeed with Messer’s team. “Newly assigned and destined to succeed, I assure you. I am simply preparing. But I’m not sure to what you mean as far as a ‘deal’ in the now. I assume he keeps his temperature to his comfort level. What makes you ask?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time he sends someone all the way here to do something a custodian could have done.” She lifts a brow. “Preparing for what?”
“Presentation,” Jrue’s head twitches, tilting as if assessing Sophia from multiple angles. Fingers rapt behind his pad with barely contained pride. “We were ordered to analyze probe data within a ten-light-year radius. I’ve been correlating patterns all night.”
Sophia’s brow furrows. “To check on what? The bees?”
Jrue’s hypermobile eyes blink in alternating succession, his translucent skin rippling with confusion. “Bees? No… Enemy movements.” His thin lips and wide mouth purse dismissively. “Who would care about bees?”
Sophia arches an eyebrow, a wry smile playing at her lips. “Right, because who needs those little guys keeping us from becoming a galactic petri dish?” She leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t tell me you skipped the quarantine protocols in basic training?”
Jrue’s chromatophores in his skin pale slightly, realization dawning in his oversized eyes.
Sophia chortles lightly to herself at the landed barb, shaking her head. “Those harvester ships are our first line of defense against spreading nasty surprises across the stars. But hey, I’m sure enemy movements are important too.”
“I skimmed them... But I’m not here for bees or harvester ships. I’m here to work my way up to military command. I could command a frigate by the end of the cycle if I serve well. Most of Admiral Messer’s former operatives go on to classified work.” Or so the files claim. In reality, most of them are stamped ‘classified,’ offering no specifics on the next assignment or location.
“… Right.” She squints again with annoyance. “Or… you end up like everybody else… doing menial work.” Or worse. Messer’s operatives never go on to greatness. They simply don’t last long. If not killed outright for proclaimed treachery, they seem to disappear.
“Who exactly supported you? Anyone working with Messer didn’t get there through merit alone.” Sophia challenges the young man, watching his skin ripple like scales.
Jrue, in turn, straightens his posture while looking off to the side as if posing for a portrait. “My family is aristocracy of some note. I am Jrue of House Ciliatus. I’m sure you’ve heard of us.”
“No, I haven’t.” Sophia responds flatly. “I’m guessing that’s Bonir?”
“Of course. What do you mean—” he looks offended, his skin rippling with shifting colors. “My family pioneered reptilian cloning and breeding for transplantation during terraforming.”
“Reptilian? Wasn’t that illegal until recently?” She leans in, relishing the chance to poke at her new intellectual victim. “Axos and felines have been the norm for a hundred years. And now look at you. A reptilian in the military.”
Jrue laughs, a sound tinged with pity and sudden superiority over the woman pestering him. “Splicing into unaltered human DNA ‘was’ illegal. Simple research into cloning and reproduction of live species for seeding new worlds wasn’t. It was, perhaps, kept quiet. Cloning has always been a heated issue. Ripe for debate and stifling oversight. But the specifics on legality are far more complicated than you’d believe.”
“We shall see in a hundred years where the first consequences of your breeding come to light.”
He huffs. “Small minds will be left behind.”
“Whatever. It doesn’t change the fact you’re not an engineer. Unless, of course, you’re assigned to a biodome. But that wouldn’t be suitable for someone of your caliber, right? Such a menial task.”
“You’re attempting to insult me? Or are you offended by my superior genetics? My role is of supreme military importance. Soldiers fight and die. Operatives determine where that dying is done.”
“And deaf too,” She gestures around the room, indicating the workstations connected to and reviewing biodomes’ data streams. “Engineers only.”
“Oh.” Jrue’s eyes widen and blink in alternating rhythm at the realization of Sophia’s meaning. Finally. “This is not the command office for the Admiral? I followed the directory.”
“EDI,” she calls for the station’s AI. “Would you kindly guide Jrue of House Ciliatus to the Admiral’s command office?”
EDI chimes in immediately, “Of course, please, Jrue, follow the path.”
Before him, an augmented holographic projection is presented through his neural interface. A soft flashing arrow only for him to see guides him away.
“Just follow the arrows,” Sophia says as she returns to mundane routines.
Jrue looks to the line, nodding. Yet he pauses. “You’ve been adequate at assisting me, functionary engineer. If I have the opportunity to do so, I’ll put a note in your file of positivity, as you’ve likely saved me from tardiness in my meeting.”
She chuckles, unsure if she should be insulted or pity him. Knowing Messer, she might have saved his life. “You should hurry. Admiral Messer has a short-fused temperament. It’s shorter than most felines I’ve met.”
Jrue scuttles off, following the AI-mediated directions, potentially saved by this opportune interaction and observant functionary.
ns 18.68.41.179da2
