The Golden Dream wandered lazily as it traveled through the warp, powering its way towards the Sanghrel System after its detour in the Mairensol System, analyzing the local populations of the inhabited worlds and their growth. The planet's satellite system failed to detect the ship's presence there, thankfully, as it was not to be discovered by anyone - not yet, anyway.
The Sojourner stood by the bridge's viewport, admiring the strange beauty of the warp, a mixture of colors and strange anomalies that appeared here and there, then disappeared from sight, like optical illusions. In all actuality, they were more than just mind tricks. The Sojourner was always perplexed by its unique yet dangerous nature to those who travel using the warp.
He was very much used to the loneliness that enveloped him now, accompanied by the chiming of the automated controls in the bridge. He preferred to stay away from the hustle and bustle of civilization and its businesses. Many millenia ago, he was like them: working their lives away as they feared the impending threat of war that would shatter their peaceful lives, worrying of themselves, their loved ones and friends... those times have long past him.
He was now the Sojourner, the chosen Herald of the Brightest, the mysterious race that was as old and as intelligent as the Masters Of Technology themselves. There were many tasks he must accomplish, and so far he has completed two hundred and ninety-seven thousand out of the five hundred thousand he was entrusted to complete. Not bad actually for twelve millenia worth of work.
The Golden Dream's artificial intelligence projected itself above the hologram console next to the Sojourner. It took the form of a Terran, much like the Sojourner was before he was Herald, though the AI was female and the Sojourner is male. She looked at the standing figure, not noticing her appearance.
"Still amused, Sojourner?" she enquired.
The Sojourner didn't turn to look. "I prefer to be alone, Syra," he replied sternly.
The AI, Syra, folded her arms and continued to glare at the Sojourner. Though still an AI, Syra was designed to be first and foremost a counselor to the Sojourner in all matters. He still didn't understand why the Brightest wanted a monitor for him, but probably it's to ensure he does what he must do. Or possibly to understand the human - or even his - mind a little more.
"The Golden Dream has been in warp for three hours," she told him, "and it won't be another twelve before we arrive at our destination. You should rest to prepare for the next task."
"I am always ready, Syra," he answered as he turned away from the viewpoint and walked towards his chair. He sat down, and from the left armrest a glass of lemonade materialized. He held the glas and took a sip, his eyes still on the viewport and ignoring Syra's presence.
She sighed deeply. Are all humans like him? she wondered. She never did meet any of the people the Sojourner met on his endeavour, let alone set foot on the planets he went to. It was all about secrecy; no one is to know of their existence, or it may jeopardize her creator's plans.
"In any case, you should listen to this," she then continued, willing one of the holo-monitors to activate. It displayed the starchart of the entire Sanghrel System, a five planet, four moon solar system orbiting the seventy-nine million year old Sanghrel Star, inhabited by 62 trillion people. Also displayed were several stray asteroids from the Glathus Asteroid Belt some fifteen light years from the system, and the passing Tarkin Comet that was soon to make its fly-by of the primary world, Sanghrel Secundus.
A location was highlighted on the starchart and magnified, showing a unit of three Imperial cruisers on routine patrol.
"So, we have a problem," he noted nonchalantly.
"Indeed, we do," she said half-heartedly. "By the time we arrive, we will be in their peripheral field of detection. It's unavoidable."
This is indeed grave news, the Sojourner told himself. For so long, they had evaded detection by the many races of the Multiverse and completed their missions without any problem. But now, due to a freak of nature, they weren't as lucky as they were previously. Perhaps this was what the Sojourner's superiors had warned him of: the time when he cannot remain hidden anymore. Had it already come?
"How long can the shields last before we make another warp?" he then asked Syra.
She looked astounded at his suggestion. Her arms akimbo, she replied sternly, "You intend to retreat?"
He nodded. "It's the only option, but only for awhile. Nothing else can be done."
"Shouldn't we retaliate?" she retorted, still upset. "Shouldn't we defend ourselves from their attacks, rather than become sitting ducks?"
He gave her a cold glare, and she immediately shut up.
"Are we even supposed to? Don't forget that we're not here to start a war, but to end all wars. Need I remind you? Or have you almost forgotten Bentakh Qurashi?"
She sighed with regret over her words, and the embarrassment over that previous incident. "I'm sorry," she apologized, looking rather ashamed. "I... got carried away."
"Make sure you don't, Syra," the Sojourner replied nonchalantly, drinking up his lemonade. "You're beginning to display Rage. Don't let the sin consume you."
"It won't," she said, reassuringly.
"Then I hope you're right."
They remained silent for a brief moment, lost in each other's thoughts. The Sojourners disintigrated the glass into nothing, and sighed as the psychadelic view of warpspace bend and distort, caused by the strange forces residing in it. Syra was just like that, always unpredictable and headstrong. It could mean trouble for her if she doesn't keep herself in check. It could also mean their deaths, and the failure of their herculean task.
An event he prayed will never ever happen.
But surely they would have had a backup plan; the Brightest were after all the race that came before the rise of the Technolords. Surely they would have one in case their plans could not reach fruition in the given timeframe?
But how sure is he? They had not contacted him nor any other race since their 'disappearance' countless millenia ago. They may have been consumed by the Old Gods; they may have been exterminated by the C'tan; they may have died of extinction - the possibilities are endless. Who can say?
"So," he then spoke, "what are our chances of escaping alive?"
"At most a probability of 129 percent, which means extreme survivability," she replied. After saying that, she gave him a glare and said: "I thought you knew that already?"
He laughed softly. "Just asking," he murmured to himself.
She gave him a sneer before she faded away, back to consult with the Golden Dream's Monitor within the mainframe. The Sojourner was alone again, but he didn't complain. He was better off alone and he like it that way.
He checkd the ship's time: still about eleven and a half hours left to arrival. And then it'll all happen: the violent fury of weaponry unleashed by the cruisers, smashing the shields of the vessel and probably turning it into scrap metal - provided the shields buckled before the enemy's ammo reserves went out. That would take them forever, though...
He relaxed in his seat, his eyes still watching the vivid changing colors of warpspace through the viewport. He suddenly felt tired, and slowly his eyes began to close as he drifted off into sleep....
....as a verse from an old Terran tune slowly repeated itself over and over again in his mind:
The Sojourner stood by the bridge's viewport, admiring the strange beauty of the warp, a mixture of colors and strange anomalies that appeared here and there, then disappeared from sight, like optical illusions. In all actuality, they were more than just mind tricks. The Sojourner was always perplexed by its unique yet dangerous nature to those who travel using the warp.
He was very much used to the loneliness that enveloped him now, accompanied by the chiming of the automated controls in the bridge. He preferred to stay away from the hustle and bustle of civilization and its businesses. Many millenia ago, he was like them: working their lives away as they feared the impending threat of war that would shatter their peaceful lives, worrying of themselves, their loved ones and friends... those times have long past him.
He was now the Sojourner, the chosen Herald of the Brightest, the mysterious race that was as old and as intelligent as the Masters Of Technology themselves. There were many tasks he must accomplish, and so far he has completed two hundred and ninety-seven thousand out of the five hundred thousand he was entrusted to complete. Not bad actually for twelve millenia worth of work.
The Golden Dream's artificial intelligence projected itself above the hologram console next to the Sojourner. It took the form of a Terran, much like the Sojourner was before he was Herald, though the AI was female and the Sojourner is male. She looked at the standing figure, not noticing her appearance.
"Still amused, Sojourner?" she enquired.
The Sojourner didn't turn to look. "I prefer to be alone, Syra," he replied sternly.
The AI, Syra, folded her arms and continued to glare at the Sojourner. Though still an AI, Syra was designed to be first and foremost a counselor to the Sojourner in all matters. He still didn't understand why the Brightest wanted a monitor for him, but probably it's to ensure he does what he must do. Or possibly to understand the human - or even his - mind a little more.
"The Golden Dream has been in warp for three hours," she told him, "and it won't be another twelve before we arrive at our destination. You should rest to prepare for the next task."
"I am always ready, Syra," he answered as he turned away from the viewpoint and walked towards his chair. He sat down, and from the left armrest a glass of lemonade materialized. He held the glas and took a sip, his eyes still on the viewport and ignoring Syra's presence.
She sighed deeply. Are all humans like him? she wondered. She never did meet any of the people the Sojourner met on his endeavour, let alone set foot on the planets he went to. It was all about secrecy; no one is to know of their existence, or it may jeopardize her creator's plans.
"In any case, you should listen to this," she then continued, willing one of the holo-monitors to activate. It displayed the starchart of the entire Sanghrel System, a five planet, four moon solar system orbiting the seventy-nine million year old Sanghrel Star, inhabited by 62 trillion people. Also displayed were several stray asteroids from the Glathus Asteroid Belt some fifteen light years from the system, and the passing Tarkin Comet that was soon to make its fly-by of the primary world, Sanghrel Secundus.
A location was highlighted on the starchart and magnified, showing a unit of three Imperial cruisers on routine patrol.
"So, we have a problem," he noted nonchalantly.
"Indeed, we do," she said half-heartedly. "By the time we arrive, we will be in their peripheral field of detection. It's unavoidable."
This is indeed grave news, the Sojourner told himself. For so long, they had evaded detection by the many races of the Multiverse and completed their missions without any problem. But now, due to a freak of nature, they weren't as lucky as they were previously. Perhaps this was what the Sojourner's superiors had warned him of: the time when he cannot remain hidden anymore. Had it already come?
"How long can the shields last before we make another warp?" he then asked Syra.
She looked astounded at his suggestion. Her arms akimbo, she replied sternly, "You intend to retreat?"
He nodded. "It's the only option, but only for awhile. Nothing else can be done."
"Shouldn't we retaliate?" she retorted, still upset. "Shouldn't we defend ourselves from their attacks, rather than become sitting ducks?"
He gave her a cold glare, and she immediately shut up.
"Are we even supposed to? Don't forget that we're not here to start a war, but to end all wars. Need I remind you? Or have you almost forgotten Bentakh Qurashi?"
She sighed with regret over her words, and the embarrassment over that previous incident. "I'm sorry," she apologized, looking rather ashamed. "I... got carried away."
"Make sure you don't, Syra," the Sojourner replied nonchalantly, drinking up his lemonade. "You're beginning to display Rage. Don't let the sin consume you."
"It won't," she said, reassuringly.
"Then I hope you're right."
They remained silent for a brief moment, lost in each other's thoughts. The Sojourners disintigrated the glass into nothing, and sighed as the psychadelic view of warpspace bend and distort, caused by the strange forces residing in it. Syra was just like that, always unpredictable and headstrong. It could mean trouble for her if she doesn't keep herself in check. It could also mean their deaths, and the failure of their herculean task.
An event he prayed will never ever happen.
But surely they would have had a backup plan; the Brightest were after all the race that came before the rise of the Technolords. Surely they would have one in case their plans could not reach fruition in the given timeframe?
But how sure is he? They had not contacted him nor any other race since their 'disappearance' countless millenia ago. They may have been consumed by the Old Gods; they may have been exterminated by the C'tan; they may have died of extinction - the possibilities are endless. Who can say?
"So," he then spoke, "what are our chances of escaping alive?"
"At most a probability of 129 percent, which means extreme survivability," she replied. After saying that, she gave him a glare and said: "I thought you knew that already?"
He laughed softly. "Just asking," he murmured to himself.
She gave him a sneer before she faded away, back to consult with the Golden Dream's Monitor within the mainframe. The Sojourner was alone again, but he didn't complain. He was better off alone and he like it that way.
He checkd the ship's time: still about eleven and a half hours left to arrival. And then it'll all happen: the violent fury of weaponry unleashed by the cruisers, smashing the shields of the vessel and probably turning it into scrap metal - provided the shields buckled before the enemy's ammo reserves went out. That would take them forever, though...
He relaxed in his seat, his eyes still watching the vivid changing colors of warpspace through the viewport. He suddenly felt tired, and slowly his eyes began to close as he drifted off into sleep....
....as a verse from an old Terran tune slowly repeated itself over and over again in his mind:
Don't know why I left the homestead,
I really must confess,
I'm a weary exile, singing my song of loneliness...
I really must confess,
I'm a weary exile, singing my song of loneliness...
this story is effing awesomesauceness multiplied by a factor of a jubrillion.
ReplyDeleteyour story-telling skills are improving young padawan! but you need to work on some of your spelling (typo?) and vocab, so keep churning out more stories to improve =)
i may just write a continuation of my own to this story, eh?
*jamaican accent* damn good job, me brudda!