Camberia Virgo: Artrix Station (3)
“The state of Artrix Station isn’t good, not even as a white lie, Admiral.”
A few hours after a crash course in history, as I pored over the manual, White returned with a stack of reports. While I’d been hunkered down in the admiral’s quarters swotting up, it looked like White had exchanged some brief comms about the station’s situation.
“Maximum capacity, somewhere between five and six thousand. But the current population... over thirty thousand?”
I recoiled at the numbers alone. A density of 500 to 600 percent felt downright surreal. Way more people than planned for? That screamed disaster, no sugarcoating.
“Yes. We’ve spoken with the on-site lead, but they’re reporting they’re at their absolute limit. Their own food production has maxed out, so they’re scraping by on salvage from the wreckage of other obliterated stations.”
White projected the reports onto a holographic screen as she spoke. Graphs and details scrolled past in a steady stream. Sure enough, real-time seed stocks for food production were trending relentlessly downward.
At this rate, hitting output levels to feed thirty thousand was a pipe dream.
“White. Can the ship take on thirty thousand people?”
I asked on a whim, clinging to faint hope.
White went still, as if crunching numbers. Then she twitched faintly—computation complete.
“Admiral. The Everest-class battleship was designed for evacuating all humanity from a single star system in extremis. In theory, it can handle ten million with full self-sufficiency. Thirty thousand survivors? Child’s play.”
White declared it with shameless confidence, like it was beneath notice. A 15km behemoth? Yeah, it tracked... sort of.
“Resources from asteroid mining, fine. But food? Even a space habitat like Artrix is withering from seed shortages.”
I fired back from my stubbornly twenty-first-century viewpoint. Seeds didn’t last forever, frozen or not—the limits were hard-coded.
But White proceeded with zero concern, utterly deadpan.
“The database holds full genetic profiles for every food seed used across the Federation, Earth included. Seeds print endlessly from the Bio Printer. With sufficient organics, demand’s no issue. Beef included, naturally.”
She stated it like established fact. Space calendar in the 500s... that blew past the third millennium easy. Hypothetical tech from my era? Routine now. A thousand years ahead.
“Is Artrix’s Bio Printer busted?”
The obvious follow-up hit like clockwork. Seed depletion in a printer-ready world? Something else was rotten.
“Affirmative. Per the report, Artrix is an industrial hub, steel-focused. Capacity pegged at five to six thousand. No printers scaled for thirty thousand refugees. Nonstop unplanned mass production has tanked output. Holding out this long is a minor miracle.”
White laid it out flatly.
I drummed my fingers on the desk, eyes locked on the hologram. Evacuating every soul from Artrix to the UNSS Covenant was locked in. Forget humanitarian optics—with the government collapsed and most human worlds glassed, every last person was a critical asset. Worst case, stuff the holds and plot a long haul to the neighboring Andromeda block. Assuming it was feasible.
Time for the next topic: the Covenant herself.
I swiped the hologram aside to check the ship’s status. The kicker? I was the only lifeform aboard. Cryo occupancy at 0 percent—not “near zero,” but a hopeless, bone-dry zero. Maddening.
“White. Can this ship run normally with zero crew?”
I asked her icily, nursing a shred of hope that one AI could wrangle a 15km monster.
White’s reply lagged.
“Theoretically, yes. Practically, quite efficiently. But nonstop ops might demand ten-minute core cooldowns.”
She brushed it off breezily. To me? Pure risk. Ship-wide AI blackout mid-crisis equaled doom.
One more puzzle.
“Design specs say twelve escorts in the hangar. These eight included—can you fly them solo?”
I probed seriously, banking on her chops. No real expectations, though—if viable, she’d have scrambled them in the last fight for an easier win.
White paused, cogitating.
“Negative. In fluid combat, coordinating multiple escorts from the flagship is near-impossible. Quantum link might handle one real-time. Slower radio? Lag scales with distance—hopelessly inefficient.”
Deadpan delivery, pure business. Overloading her core on the main gig was bad; add two escorts? Catastrophic.
“Then, minimum crew for full ops in a pinch?”
Stoic-faced, I pressed. Manual minimum: three thousand. Ideal conditions only—real-world snags galore.
White pondered deeply.
“Full scenarios: ideal main crew fifty thousand. Escorts, five hundred apiece. Stripping reserves: fifteen thousand for main, three hundred per escort suffices.”
Serious as a systems check.
Leisurely cruise: fifty-six thousand. Grind mode: nineteen thousand. Way short-handed. Manual dives or not, solo White left zero slack for breakdowns.
“How the hell does a 15km dreadnought with twelve escorts sit crewless?”
I muttered, baffled. Ultimate weapons didn’t hoard in do-or-die moments. This defied logic.
White hovered silent. Crunching? Or politely ignoring my soliloquy?
Slim hope, anyway.
“White. Full system scan for life signs.”
Cold command, hologram glaring.
Camberia Virgo habitats fall date to Dust? Unknown. But live ones meant recruits—er, rescues. Priority.
“Intend to save every last survivor system-wide?”
White queried gravely.
I nodded. Resolve ironclad.
“Fresh asses? More the merrier, right?”
Lame joke tossed. White? Crickets. Bomb, then. Figured—a millennium-old dad gag wouldn’t land.