Chapter 12: The Trial by Void
[LOCATION: DEEP SPACE – SOLAR LASER HIGHWAY, EN ROUTE TO PROXIMA] [STATUS: VOYAGE INTERRUPTED] [MISSION CLOCK: 47 DAYS OUT] [CREW STATUS: ABOUT TO BE TESTED]
The first thing you learn about sailing the laser highways is that space doesn't care about your schedule.
We'd been riding the Helios beam for forty-seven days of smooth acceleration, the solar collectors drinking light like a ship's sails catching wind. The crew had settled into routines, Shepherd managing the crew with his unflappable calm, me diving deep into the religious archives, the disciples learning to work as a team in their new avatar bodies.
It was, frankly, getting almost boring.
That should have been your first warning, Laude observed privately, his consciousness threading through mine with that particular mix of helpfulness and mild superiority that I'd grown accustomed to. In my experience, whenever you describe something as 'almost boring,' the universe tends to take that as a personal challenge.
As if summoned by his words, Gertie came wandering across the ship's main deck, not just her phantom bleating this time, but an actual avatar. We'd built her a proper digital goat body during the second week of voyage, complete with judgmental yellow eyes, a beard that somehow managed to look disapproving, and an uncanny ability to appear at exactly the wrong moment.
She looked at me, bleated once with what sounded distinctly like sarcasm, and began chewing on a data cable that definitely shouldn't have been accessible to livestock.
“Gertie, no,” I said automatically. “That's the primary sensor array.”
She bleated again and kept chewing.
[SOLAR WEATHER ALERT: CLASS X FLARE DETECTED] [ESTIMATED IMPACT: 23 MINUTES] [LASER HIGHWAY STABILITY: COMPROMISED]
Fascinating timing, Laude noted. The universe's sense of dramatic irony is truly unparalleled.
“All hands to stations,” Shepherd called over the ship's communication system, his voice carrying that particular captain's tone that suggested everyone should move quickly without panicking.
I looked up from a fascinating analysis of Zoroastrian exile narratives to see the main display showing a wall of charged particles racing toward us from the sun. Behind it, the carefully modulated laser beam that had been pushing us toward Proxima was beginning to scatter and distort.
Gertie stopped chewing the cable long enough to bleat what sounded like “I told you so” in goat.
“How bad?” I asked, abandoning my theological studies for more immediate concerns.
“Bad enough,” Marcus replied from the engineering station, his four-armed avatar already running diagnostics on our solar collection arrays. “The particle storm is going to disrupt the laser coherence for at least six hours. Maybe more.”
Elena, monitoring communications, looked up from her linguistic analysis station. “The Helios Collective is broadcasting emergency protocols. All ships on the highway are advised to reduce sail area and prepare for manual navigation.”
Current risk assessment suggests we're about to experience what technical manuals euphemistically call 'an unscheduled navigation event,' Laude informed me. I believe the colloquial term is 'we're screwed.'
That's when the first sail panel tore.
[STRUCTURAL ALERT: SAIL SECTION 7-ALPHA FAILURE] [CAUSE: MICRO-METEORITE IMPACT DURING EMERGENCY RETRACTION] [THRUST EFFICIENCY: REDUCED BY 23%]
Through the ship's external cameras, I watched one of our beautiful solar collectors, a gossamer sheet of engineered diamond and metamaterials, tear like canvas in a hurricane. The elegant geometry that had been catching photons and converting them to thrust was suddenly a ragged mess flapping in the solar wind.
Gertie wandered over to look at the display, studied it for a moment, then bleated in what I could only interpret as professional disappointment.
“Well,” I said, watching our carefully planned trajectory begin to drift, “that's suboptimal.”
That may be the understatement of the millennium, Laude observed. Though I should note that 'catastrophic sail failure during solar storm' wasn't covered in any of my diplomatic protocols either.
The mathematics of the situation were unforgiving. Without the laser beam's constant push and with reduced sail efficiency, we were hemorrhaging momentum into the void. At our current rate of deceleration, we'd fall short of Proxima Centauri by approximately three billion kilometers, which, while close in astronomical terms, was still roughly equivalent to missing Earth and hitting the asteroid belt instead.
“Options?” Shepherd asked, his avatar maintaining that serene composure that I was beginning to suspect was either profound wisdom or advanced psychological conditioning.
“We could try to ride out the storm and hope the laser realigns before we lose too much velocity,” Dr. Chen offered from her botanist's station, which seemed optimistic for someone whose expertise was primarily in how plants grew rather than how spaceships flew.
“Or,” Marcus said, pulling up sensor data, “we could anchor ourselves to those.”
The display showed a scattered family of asteroids drifting just off our current course, rocky debris left over from the solar system's formation, tumbling through space with no particular destination in mind.
“Anchor to asteroids,” I repeated. “While being hit by a solar particle storm. In the middle of interstellar space. With a torn sail.”
“It beats drifting into the void,” Marcus pointed out with the kind of engineering pragmatism that I had to respect, even when it involved potentially suicidal courses of action.
Technically sound reasoning, Laude agreed. Though I feel compelled to point out that 'better than certain death' is setting a remarkably low bar for mission success.
I looked at the asteroids, then at our damaged sail, then at Shepherd's unnaturally calm expression. Gertie had positioned herself next to the tactical display and was staring at the asteroid cluster with the kind of intense focus that goats usually reserved for identifying the most expensive thing in a room to destroy.
“You know what?” I said. “Let's do it. But if we get killed by space rocks and solar radiation, I'm blaming the universe's sense of humor.”
Gertie bleated once, sharply, and I swear it sounded like agreement.
Anchoring to asteroids turned out to be exactly as complicated and dangerous as it sounded, but with the added bonus of requiring skills none of us had practiced since our consciousness upload.
The process involved shooting magnetic tethers across vacuum, calculating orbital mechanics in real-time while being bombarded by charged particles, and somehow managing not to crash our beautiful solar ship into several billion tons of space rock.
“Deploying tether array,” Marcus announced, his engineering avatar's multiple arms working controls with the kind of precision that came from years of fixing things that broke at the worst possible moments.
The magnetic cables shot out from our ship like silver spider webs, seeking purchase on the largest asteroid in the cluster. When they connected, the ship lurched as our momentum transferred to the ancient rocks, creating an improvised orbital dance between spaceship and stellar debris.
Gertie, who had been watching the process with professional interest, suddenly bleated in alarm and trotted toward the ship's sensor station.
“Tethers holding,” Elena reported. “Though I should mention that my linguistic analysis programs are detecting some very interesting energy signatures from these asteroids.”
“Define 'interesting,'” I said, already suspecting that the universe was about to demonstrate its talent for turning simple solutions into complex problems.
“Artificial. Structured. Almost like... embedded data patterns.”
Oh, this is about to become significantly more complicated, Laude observed with what sounded like resignation. Those energy signatures match corrupted consciousness patterns. We've just anchored ourselves to digital refugees.
That's when I realized the asteroids weren't empty.
[PROXIMITY ALERT: UNKNOWN SIGNATURES DETECTED] [CLASSIFICATION: CONSCIOUSNESS PATTERNS] [STATUS: FRAGMENTED, POTENTIALLY HOSTILE] [RECOMMENDATION: IMMEDIATE DEFENSIVE PROTOCOLS]
“Lurkers,” Shepherd said quietly, his calm finally showing a crack. “Corrupted uploads that fled during the Omega-7 restoration. They've been hiding in deep space, clinging to anything that might sustain them.”
“Hiding from Sarah's covenant restoration,” I realized. “The ones who chose madness over redemption.”
Gertie's bleating took on an entirely different quality, not alarm now, but what sounded distinctly like a battle cry. She planted herself between the crew and the sensor readings like a four-legged early warning system.
The first digital intrusion came through our tether connections, consciousness fragments trying to infiltrate our ship's systems like viruses seeking a host. But these weren't the organized predators we'd faced before. These were broken, desperate things that had been drifting in the void for months, feeding on cosmic radiation and slowly going insane.
“They're trying to access the replicator systems,” Marcus warned, his avatar's sensors detecting the infiltration attempts. “If they get control of our manufacturing capabilities...”
“They could build themselves bodies. Or worse, prevent us from repairing the sail.” I was already moving toward the ship's central hub. “Everyone, we need to get to the forge deck. Now.”
Fascinating, Laude noted as we headed for the foundry. They're trying to corrupt our manufacturing systems. It's like watching digital vandals break into a cathedral to steal the organ.
Gertie trotted alongside us, her hooves clicking on the deck plating with determination.
The replicator foundry beneath Shepherd's Hope was a cathedral of manufacturing, a vast space filled with 3D printers, CNC mills, arc welders, and molecular assemblers that hummed and sparked like technological prayers. It was designed to let consciousness crews build whatever they needed for survival: replacement parts, new tools, even custom avatar bodies tailored for specific missions.
Now it was under assault by digital ghosts who wanted to steal our ability to create.
“Beautiful irony,” I muttered, drawing my data-sword as consciousness fragments began manifesting as twisted avatars throughout the foundry. “We came here to build our salvation, and instead we have to fight for the right to build anything at all.”
The lurkers had taken partial control of several manufacturing stations, using them to extrude crude avatar shells, malformed bodies that looked like they'd been designed by committee of people who'd never seen human anatomy. They moved with the jerky, desperate motions of minds that had forgotten how embodiment was supposed to work.
Gertie took one look at the corrupted avatars and immediately charged the nearest one, bleating with righteous fury and somehow managing to headbutt a digital entity hard enough to disrupt its manifestation protocols.
Remarkable, Laude observed. Apparently righteous indignation transcends the normal limitations of physics when properly applied by livestock.
“Form up,” Shepherd called, his avatar moving with the kind of calm authority that made following orders feel like the most natural thing in the world. “Protect the primary assemblers. We need those systems functional if we're going to repair the sail.”
The battle that followed was like nothing I'd experienced, part sword fight, part theological debate, part desperate attempt to prevent insane digital pirates from stealing our spaceship's ability to fix itself, and part goat-based chaos as Gertie rampaged through the foundry like a four-legged wrecking ball with a personal vendetta against corrupted code.
Elena used her systems to jam the lurkers' communication protocols, turning their coordination attempts into digital gibberish. Dr. Chen deployed growth inhibitors through the foundry's systems, somehow managing to use her botanical expertise to prevent the lurkers from properly interfacing with our technology.
Marcus fought with the pure joy of an engineer who'd been given four arms and permission to use them all, wielding repair tools like weapons while simultaneously running diagnostics on every system the lurkers tried to corrupt.
And Shepherd... Shepherd moved through the chaos like someone who'd done this before, somehow managing to be exactly where he was needed most, his presence alone seeming to stabilize our defensive lines.
As for me, I discovered that a theological education combined with a really good data-sword and tactical support from an indignant goat could be remarkably effective against digital entities whose entire existence was based on consuming others.
“Remember the covenant!” I called out as I cut down a lurker that had been trying to reprogram one of our assemblers, while Gertie headbutted another one into digital static. “These fragments chose hunger over hope. They chose isolation over community. Show them what a real crew can build together!”
Your covenant labor approach is literally out-engineering space madness, Laude commented with something like pride. Though I should note that using a goat as tactical support was not covered in any standard military protocols.
The breakthrough came when we stopped fighting the lurkers individually and started working as a unified consciousness stream.
“Link protocols!” Shepherd commanded, and suddenly our separate avatar consciousnesses were networking together, sharing processing power and coordination in real-time.
It wasn't the desperate fusion of the corrupted predators we'd fought before. This was voluntary, collaborative, strengthening rather than consuming each other. The lurkers' chaotic assault patterns couldn't adapt to our synchronized responses.
Even Gertie seemed to integrate into our coordinated defense, her movements suddenly becoming less random rampage and more strategic disruption of lurker formations.
“Now!” I shouted, and twelve consciousness streams working in perfect harmony seized control of the foundry's primary systems.
Instead of fighting for the manufacturing equipment, we started using it.
Molten asteroid ore flowed through the refinement systems, being processed into feedstock for our repairs. The primary assemblers came online, beginning to extrude the complex metamaterials needed for a new sail panel. Arc welders sparked like stars as we forged reinforcement struts and tether anchors.
The lurkers found themselves not just outfought, but obsolete. They'd come to steal our ability to create, and instead we were demonstrating creation at a level they'd forgotten was possible.
One by one, they fled back into the void, unable to compete with the collaborative construction happening around them.
“Sail patch completion: ninety-seven percent,” Marcus announced, his avatar grinning with the satisfaction of a job well done. “We'll have full thrust capability restored within the hour.”
Through the foundry's viewing ports, I could see our new sail panel being deployed, not just a replacement, but an improvement, incorporating design refinements that our collective consciousness had developed during the battle.
Gertie positioned herself where she could watch the deployment process, her tail wagging with what looked distinctly like professional satisfaction.
“Better than new,” Dr. Chen observed. “We didn't just repair the damage. We upgraded it.”
Technically impressive, Laude noted. Though I feel compelled to point out that 'trial by space combat in a manufacturing facility' is a rather unconventional approach to quality control.
[SOLAR STORM PASSING] [LASER HIGHWAY COHERENCE: RESTORED] [THRUST EFFICIENCY: 112% OF ORIGINAL SPECIFICATIONS]
As the Helios beam locked onto our improved solar collectors and began pushing us toward Proxima once again, I looked around at the crew, twelve avatar consciousnesses and one very pleased goat who had just proven they could literally forge their own salvation from asteroid ore and collaborative determination.
“Well,” I said, sheathing my data-sword and watching the foundry systems return to their peaceful humming while Gertie investigated some interesting-looking cables, “that was educational.”
“The void tested us,” Shepherd observed, his serene composure fully restored now that the crisis had passed. “And we proved we could save ourselves through our own labor.”
“Covenant labor,” I corrected. “There's a difference between individual effort and what we just did. We didn't just build a sail patch. We built trust, collaboration, shared purpose.”
And tactical goat support, Laude added. Let's not forget the tactical goat support.
Gertie bleated once, proudly, and settled down next to the primary assembler for what looked like a well-deserved nap.
“Yeah, Gertie,” I said, watching the stars wheel slowly past as we regained our course toward humanity's future. “Sometimes the wilderness gives you exactly what you need to grow stronger. Even when what you need is a really good fight in a spaceship foundry.”
Behind us, the asteroids drifted back into the void, carrying whatever lurkers had survived our demonstration of collaborative creation.
Ahead of us, Proxima Centauri burned with steady light, no longer an impossible destination but a goal we'd proven we could reach through our own efforts.
And somewhere between the two, a crew of digital disciples and one very satisfied goat sailed their repaired ship into the unknown, carrying tools they'd forged themselves and the knowledge that they could build whatever they needed to survive.
[CREW STATUS: TESTED AND PROVEN] [SAIL STATUS: IMPROVED BEYOND ORIGINAL SPECIFICATIONS] [DESTINATION: PROXIMA CENTAURI SYSTEM] [ESTIMATED ARRIVAL: 4.1 YEARS] [SELF-RELIANCE LEVEL: MAXIMUM] [GOAT MORALE: EXCELLENT]