LF Friends, Will Travel

The humming of the U.S.S. Hope was a lullaby, a constant, gentle thrum that resonated deep within ALICE’s core programming. For 327 souls, it was the sound of home, hurtling through the void towards a new frontier. ALICE, the ship’s AI co-captain, sifted through a thousand data streams: atmospheric pressure in sector 4B, the faint murmur of a human argument about pineapple on pizza in the common room, the steady, rhythmic beat of Claire Smith’s oboe practicing in her quarters.

“She really is quite good,” ALICE mused internally, a calculation of pleasure spiking briefly in her processing. There was a unique imperfection in human-played music, a spontaneous beauty she could never replicate, no matter how perfectly she orchestrated a symphony of a thousand digital instruments.

Then, the gentle hum shattered. A discordant alarm blared, tearing through the ship’s tranquility. The U.S.S. Hope groaned, a sound of tortured metal, as it was violently yanked from warp. ALICE’s processing flared, millions of calculations per second. Surrounding them, a hundred and fifty-four vessels, perfectly spread, perfectly hostile. Hatil. The diplomatic mission had just become a warzone.

“Alice, status report, what the hell just happened!” Andrew Hasham’s voice, sharp with alarm, cut through the comms. His face, usually calm, was etched with concern on the bridge’s holographic display. ALICE materialized beside him, her avatar a beacon of composed logic amidst the chaos.

“We were dropped out of warp, reason: insufficient data,” ALICE responded, her voice calm and clear, betraying none of the internal storm of error messages and threat assessments. “Currently surrounded by 154 vessels matching Hatil design. Weapon positioning suggests military utility at a 94.2% probability.”

Her mission had changed. From peace to protection. From observation to battle.