Wren's POV

A crashing sound echoes from a bursting door slamming against the rock.
A couple of earthbound co-pilots burst out of this built-in-stone hangar. By the look of it, some need a breathing spell. Their com gears over their heads, they shout at what I presume to be their pilots fighting in the fire of battle. My eyes soon crease with concern as the door springs back and close.
Silence reigns in Kilian. Every eye-bat, every contained heartbeat and soft motion of his, breathes resilience. And yet, his head is turned away from me. He can’t accept the fact I could be right. There’s no doubt about it.
Because, as I anticipated, it is not going well.
One Space controller is leaning against the stone, an inch from the entryway, holding his head in his hands, hunched. I sense despair in the man, probably from a cut-off communication that never came back...
Gods, I know that feeling all too well.
We stop at the entrance, and a retinal scan flashes a small wave of light into Kilian’s eye. I only saw these in history books. I’m fascinated, to put it mildly... He then opens the door, an inviting arm gesturing me to step in.
“Hello, ANDY-30 to serve you. Control desk 09B is ready to use. Follow me.”
“Well, hello there, big boy.” What a cute robot. They’ve put a child’s voice in its program, and although its limbs are uncovered, it feels so lifelike. There isn’t a layer of skin on the robot. It has a skeletal look, with bars and rotators flexing in and out and iron crystal tubs shooting out at every move.
“Not now, Andy,” snarls Kilian as he attempts to circumvent this impressive bright-red robot.
“ANDY-30 to serve you. Control desk 09B is ready to use. Follow me.”
Andy doesn’t seem to get the message. He’s a social one because he’s sticking around, shifting his body to counter Kilian’s. Can’t blame Andy. It’s a fact that I am a magnet for robots, especially those with repeat modes ... My flatlining brows of apathy confirm this.
“ANDY-30 to serve you. Control desk 09B is ready to use. Follow me.”
Kilian huffs. I simper, and he hears it because he beams a look of amusement to me, eyes smiling from this androic comedy.
“He’s stupid. Let’s ignore him. All he knows is where to find free console desks for co-pilots,” he says with a shoulder shrug.
“I’ve got the same at ho... I mean, Pallamir’s medical droids are as thick,” I laugh back.
“Come, it’s over there.”
I follow Kilian across this vast area. Massive recurved screens dominate the center of circular tables, dropping endless codes and scripts. I jog my eyes around them, helmsmen shouting in their mics, cheering or calming their pilots. It’s a stressful clattering, my ears brimming with brouhaha.
As Kilian walks me through the Control Platform, I catch, “You tire me, Pharos! With your headlocks, your jinks, and your loops. Can’t you just listen to me for once! Lock the scumbag already!” Everyone is under pressure. None wants to lose their pilots.
My eyes can’t detach from those hundreds of teammates assisting their pilots in flight maneuvers, anticipating the next enemy move, quickly analyzing algorithmic predictive indexes, and other graphs rushing down the screens...
And then I stop in my tracks, Kilian’s grip making me stumble only once.
A colossal projection at the far end. It’s an ominous screen, one radaring Pallamir’s fleet in real-time—thousands of red dots in motion and a handful of blue ones...
We’re as good as dead.
And then, the more I observe this room, the more I think I might be wrong.
The Sand Rose pack is far more knowledgeable than Pallamir will ever be. Aztarix members rely so heavily on instant technology that we could never accomplish what they do. Basically the work of AI.
This fighting style also appeals to me. To never be alone, even when the space ripper knocks at your door. Somewhere you know your co-pilot is there with you...
When we, Chimeras, go into war, we are left with ourselves once through the Space portal.
No one is there.
But us. Burping our last breath in a shady space/jet firework as we explode in micro pieces... Romantic.
“Follow me, Spades.”
We walk into a room. Darkness surrounds us. It looks nothing more than a janitor’s locker with a rusty android siding the door and cables dissipating into the penumbra.
Soon, however, a golden light stretches across the room as Kilian pulls a lever—lamps switching on one after the other with a muted flap-like sound.
An Elliptis!
