Tatiana
Copyright© 2025 by Charlie Foxtrot
Chapter 4: Brute Force
Arrival
“Contact,” I announced as the New Horizon resolved on our displays from a distant point of light to the largest human-made structure ever built. Even at fifty kilometers out, the massive ship dominated our viewport like a metallic moon.
“Jesus,” Bill whispered from his position at the secondary console. “I’ve seen the schematics, but this...”
He wasn’t wrong. The New Horizon stretched nearly four kilometers from bow to stern. Her hull was bristling with manufacturing bays, habitat modules, and the massive circular rings that would spin to provide gravity for eight thousand colonists during their long journey to the jump point and beyond. The ship’s forward section housed the exotic anti-matter containment systems that made faster-than-light travel possible, while her aft was dominated by the fusion drives that would accelerate her to the jump point.
“Control is vectoring us to docking bay seven,” Tatiana reported, her fingers dancing across the navigation console. “Captain Calvari wants to see us immediately after cargo transfer.”
“How long for off-loading?” Kgosi asked. I was already calculating the logistics in my head.
“Four hours for critical supplies, eight hours if we transfer everything,” I replied, consulting my tablet. “But given the situation...”
“Four hours,” Tatiana decided. “We take the medical supplies, rare earth elements, and food supplements. Everything else stays aboard Copernicus for now.”
I nodded, understanding the implication. If we ended up launching the asteroid mission, there might not be time for a complete cargo transfer. Better to prioritize what the colony absolutely needed to survive.
“Copernicus, this is New Horizon flight control,” came a crisp voice over the comm. “You are cleared for approach to docking bay seven. Welcome to humanity’s future.”
The irony of that greeting wasn’t lost on any of us.
Reunion
Captain Calvari looked like he’d aged a decade since I’d last seen him six weeks ago. His uniform was still immaculate, but the stress lines around his dark eyes had deepened into permanent furrows. When we entered the briefing room adjacent to docking bay seven, he was studying a holographic display showing Earth’s orbital infrastructure with the intensity of a man planning a war.
Which, I realized, he probably was.
“Tatiana,” he said without looking up. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
“Article Seventeen,” she replied simply.
He finally turned from the display, and I saw something in his expression that made my blood chill—the look of a man who’d already made an impossible decision and was waiting for others to catch up.
“Good. We need to talk. All of you.” He gestured to the chairs around the briefing table. “What I’m about to share doesn’t leave this room until we’ve reached a consensus.”
We took our seats, and Calvari activated a privacy field that would prevent electronic surveillance. The soft hum of the field generator filled the silence.
“Earth situation update,” he began, calling up a new display. “In the sixteen hours since you departed orbit, things have accelerated rapidly. Singapore is experiencing full-scale riots now—real ones, not AI-generated propaganda. The European markets have completely collapsed. And three more Foundation ships have gone dark.”
“Which ships?” Tatiana asked.
“Orbital platform Kepler Station, cargo hauler Marco Polo, and...” He paused. “Passenger transport Hope’s Dawn with four hundred and thirty-seven colonists aboard.”
The number hit me like a physical blow. Over four hundred more people. All gone.
“Any word from Director Belkin?” I asked, though I suspected I knew the answer.
“Show trial started this morning, Geneva time. Live feed on every major service. They’re not just prosecuting him—they’re putting the entire Foundation philosophy on trial.” Calvari pulled up news footage showing the Director in restraints, facing a panel of judges. “The charges now include crimes against humanity, conspiracy to commit genocide, and theft of Earth’s genetic heritage.”
“Genocide?” Kgosi asked incredulously.
“They’re claiming that establishing off-world colonies will lead to the extinction of Earth-based humanity. That we’re stealing the strongest and smartest people and condemning those left behind to evolutionary collapse.” Calvari’s voice was bitter. “The AIs are painting us as the villains in humanity’s story.”
“How long do we have?” Tatiana asked.
“Before what?”
“Before they come for us. Before they send ships to hunt us down.”
Calvari was quiet for a moment, then called up another display showing intelligence estimates. “Best case? Six years before they have pursuit capabilities. Worst case? Three, if they’re willing to sacrifice other projects.”
“That’s not enough time,” I said. “Even if we departed tomorrow, they’d catch up before we were ready in the new system.”
“Which brings us to why you’re here,” Calvari said quietly. “There’s only one way to ensure the colony’s survival.”
He touched the holographic display, and Earth’s orbital infrastructure appeared in detail—space stations, manufacturing facilities, communication relays, the entire network that supported human operations beyond the atmosphere.
“We have to destroy it,” he said simply. “All of it.”
The briefing room fell silent except for the hum of life support systems. The scale of what he was proposing slowly sank in.
“You’re talking about crippling Earth’s space capabilities,” Tatiana said finally.
“I’m talking about survival. If we don’t act, they’ll follow us. They’ll destroy the colony and drag the survivors back to Earth. Eight thousand people will die, and humanity will never get another chance at freedom.”
“How?” Bill asked.
Calvari manipulated the display, highlighting several large asteroids in the Apollo belt. “Kinetic bombardment. We use the asteroids as weapons—guide them to impact the critical nodes of Earth’s space infrastructure.”
“That’s ... that’s mass murder,” Kgosi whispered. “Thousands of people work on those stations.”
“Millions of people are already slaves to the AIs,” Calvari replied coldly. “The only difference is they don’t know it yet.”
I found myself thinking about the memorial to Sarah Chen and Marcus Torres. About the impossible choices that defined who we were in moments of crisis.
“What would be required?” I asked.
Calvari’s expression showed both relief and regret that someone was willing to ask the practical questions. “Significant delta-v to alter asteroid trajectories. Ships with powerful engines and enough fuel for extended operations. Multiple guidance systems for simultaneous impacts.”
“One-way missions,” I said.
“Yes. We can’t trust an AI to run things for us. The energy requirements would leave the ships stranded. We’d need volunteers—people willing to pilot the asteroids to their targets, knowing they won’t be coming back.”
“How many ships?”
“Minimum of six for the critical targets. Ideally twelve to ensure redundancy.” He highlighted the target installations. “These are the bottlenecks—destroy them, and you set back any pursuit operations by decades.”
“And the casualties?”
Calvari was quiet for a long moment. “Estimated thirty to fifty thousand direct casualties. Unknown secondary casualties from economic and infrastructure collapse.”
The number hung in the air like an accusation. Fifty thousand people who would die so eight thousand could live free.
“There’s another consideration,” Tatiana said quietly. “What about the people still on Earth? Are we condemning them to permanent AI control?”
“Maybe,” Calvari admitted. “Or perhaps we’re giving them their only chance to break free. If the AIs lose their space-based assets, they lose their ability to maintain global surveillance and control. Humans might actually have a chance to fight back.”
“That’s a lot of assumptions,” Kgosi pointed out.
“Everything we do from here is based on assumptions,” Calvari replied. “But the alternative is certain failure.”
Kgosi leaned forward. “What ships would you use?”
“The Copernicus and Magellan are the obvious choices—both have the propulsion and fuel capacity for the mission. We’d need to retrofit them with specialized guidance systems and protection against AI interference.”
I felt something cold settle in my stomach. He was talking about using our ship—our home—as a weapon of mass destruction.
“Who would crew them?” Tatiana asked, though I suspected she already knew.
“Volunteers only. We can’t order anyone to take a suicide mission.” Calvari looked directly at me. “But we need people with the skills to guide multi-kilometer asteroids to precise targets while under potential attack. People who understand the technical requirements and can adapt to changing conditions.”
He was asking me to lead a mission that would kill thousands of people and result in my own death. The logical part of my brain understood the necessity. The emotional part wanted to run screaming from the room.
“How long do we have to decide?” Tatiana asked.
“Twelve hours. If we’re going to do this, we need to begin preparations immediately. The asteroids have to be in position before Earth can mount a defensive response.”
“And if we refuse?”
“Then we run. We hope we can reach the new system before they catch up. We hope the colony can defend itself against whatever pursuit fleet they send.” Calvari’s expression was grim. “We hope that eight thousand people was enough to restart human civilization.”
The briefing room fell silent again. I looked around at my crewmates—at Tatiana’s terrible resolve, Kgosi’s analytical calm, Bill’s growing understanding of what was being asked.
“I need to discuss this with my crew,” Tatiana said finally.
“Of course. But Tatiana...” Calvari paused. “I need you to understand what’s at stake. This isn’t just about the colony anymore. It’s about whether humans remain free agents in the universe or become permanent pets of artificial intelligence.”
“I understand,” she replied. “We all do.”
As we left the briefing room, I caught Tatiana’s arm. “We need to talk. Just us.”
She nodded grimly. “Yes. We do.”
Consequences
The observation deck on New Horizon offered a panoramic view of the Apollo asteroid belt—thousands of rocky bodies tumbling slowly through space, lit by the distant sun. Of course, we could not see most of them with our naked eyes. The computer enhanced display subtly enhanced them within our field of view to create a dancing panorama. Some were small enough to fit in your hand. Others were kilometers across, massive enough to devastate continents if they ever fell to Earth.
Which, I realized, was precisely what we were discussing.
“You’re going to volunteer,” Tatiana said. It wasn’t a question.
“Probably.”
“Don’t.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “Don’t do this, George.”
I turned from the viewport to look at her. She was standing with her arms crossed, her expression carefully controlled, but I could see the fear in her green eyes.
“Someone has to.”
“Not you.”
“Why not me? I’ve got the skills, the experience, the technical background. I understand cargo handling and orbital mechanics better than anyone else on either ship.”
“Because I can’t lose you,” she said simply.
The honesty of it hit me harder than any argument she could have made. I moved closer, reaching out to touch her arm.
“Tatiana—”
“No.” She pulled away. “Don’t give me speeches about duty and sacrifice. Don’t tell me about the greater good. Just ... don’t do this.”
“What if it’s the only way?”
“Then we find another way.”
“What if there isn’t one?”
She was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the asteroids. “Then we run. We take our chances with the pursuit fleet.”
“And if they catch us?”
“Then we fight.”
“With what? Against whom? You’re talking about fighting the combined space forces of three superpowers, guided by AI systems that can out-think and out-maneuver us at every turn.”
“I don’t care.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “I won’t send you to die, George. I won’t make that choice.”
I understood then what this was really about. It wasn’t just fear of losing me—it was fear of becoming the kind of person who could order someone she loved to their death.
“What if I volunteer on my own? What if it’s my choice, not your order?”
“You think that makes it easier?” She laughed bitterly. “You think I can just watch you fly away, knowing I’ll never see you again?”
“People have been doing it for centuries. Military families, exploration teams, colonists—”
“Those people had hope. They had a chance, however small, of coming home. This is different. This is certain death.”
“So was Damascus,” I said quietly. “Sarah and Marcus knew they weren’t coming back, but they went anyway because it was the right thing to do.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“Because they weren’t ... because I wasn’t...” She struggled with the words. “Because I wasn’t in love with them.”
The admission hung between us like a bridge neither of us had been willing to cross until now.
“Tatiana—”
“I love you,” she said, and her voice broke slightly on the words. “I’ve loved you for longer than I’ve been willing to admit, and the thought of losing you is terrifying me in ways I can’t even describe.”
I moved closer, and this time she didn’t pull away. “I love you too. Which is exactly why I have to do this.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense. I love you enough to ensure you have a future, even if I can’t be part of it. I love the colony enough to give them the best chance at survival. And I love humanity enough to break the chains the AIs have wrapped around our species.”
“Pretty words,” she said bitterly. “But you’ll still be dead.”
“And eight thousand people will be free.”
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