Starløk: Entagled Star

Prologue

In the year 2167, humanity completed its first true generation ship—Ascension. Built in the orbit of Luna, it was the culmination of decades of research, engineering, and ambition: a self-sustaining city designed to carry a million people to the binary star system 36 Ursae Majoris, forty-two light-years from Earth.

The ship was the creation of Andreli Capleneaux, a visionary trillionaire whose vast fortune came from constructing orbital habitats and luxury colonies throughout Sol. His designs had redefined life beyond Earth—centrifugal habitat rings, orbital farms, and self-contained ecologies that made long-term habitation possible. Ascension was to be his masterpiece: a generation ship meant not for profit, but for continuity.

Deep-space telescopes had already identified two confirmed habitable worlds orbiting 36 Ursae Majoris A and B. Capleneaux intended Ascension to be the vessel that would carry humanity there.

Her propulsion was built around quantonium, an exotic form of matter capable of coupling directly to spacetime itself. The drive didn’t expel propellant; it pushed against the structure of reality, creating steady, reactionless thrust for decades. Under the guidance of Capleneaux’s chief engineer, Jorgen Wilkinsen, the system was designed to accelerate continuously, reaching more than a quarter of light speed before entering the long coast phase toward the target system.

The plan was complicated suddenly when astronomers detected a massive planet-killer asteroid from beyond the Oort Cloud on a collision course with Earth. Impact was expected within two years. The World Hegemonic Consortium, already fracturing under rebellion and economic collapse, had long sought to nationalize the Ascension project. The asteroid gave them the excuse they needed. Under emergency powers, they seized the vessel and arrested Capleneaux and Wilkinsen.

The mission changed overnight—from exploration to survival. Passenger capacity was cut from one million to roughly 250,000, and major systems were left incomplete or untested. The WHC announced a global lottery to fill the berths, promising fairness and unity. In practice, it became a spectacle of corruption and desperation. Tickets were sold, traded, and given away. Some winners handed their places to children; others sold them on the black market. Wealthy families sent their heirs to claim legacy—or to be rid of them. Many of those chosen had no training or purpose aboard the ship.

By launch day, chaos consumed the world. Riots broke out at every major spaceport. Armed WHC troops opened fire to keep order as shuttles ferried passengers to orbit. Billions watched from the surface, realizing they would never leave. Ascension departed under military control. Civilian ships that tried to intercept were destroyed.

Within weeks, the WHC itself collapsed under worldwide revolt. Freed nations, led by President Jimmy Loche, coordinated a final nuclear intercept that deflected the asteroid at the last possible moment. Earth survived. Ascension did not turn back.

For forty years, faint transmissions reached home: reports of hardship, mechanical failure, and growing unrest among the passengers. Then, without warning, the signals stopped. No distress call. No reactor breach. Only silence.

Centuries later, probes sent toward 36 Ursae Majoris found nothing—no wreckage, no beacon, no trace at all.

What began as humanity’s greatest achievement became its greatest mystery. The ship Ascension vanished between the stars—and no one knows why.

* * *

Two hours later, the scene faded to black, and silver letters appeared on the screen: ASCENSION.

A dramatized version of real events, told through the eyes of star-crossed lovers—it was the date movie of the week.

After the credits rolled, the lights came on in the theater hall.

Near the back of theater, Dax turned toward Elise, leaning slightly toward her.

“What did you think?” he asked.

“I can’t imagine being stuck on a single starship for the rest of my life, knowing all my children and grandchildren would never know Earth.” Elise opined. “Or…could you imagine—only knowing life aboard and one day arriving on an alien planet? And that’s still just the beginning.”

“I couldn’t do it.” Dax admitted. “Unless… maybe if I was with you.”

Elise blushed and kissed Dax on the cheek.

“Want to grab some food?” he asked.

She smiled, nodding, and they exited the theater together, following the sparse crowd.

Later that evening, under the soft glow of streetlights, Dax and Elise sat closely together on a park bench. Around them stars were visible in the lunar twilight, Earth’s night side barely visible through the dome. They spoke quietly… aware this was their final evening together before parting ways.

“I think that’s 36 Ursae Majoris right there.” Dax said, holding a view finder up to the starry backdrop. It was difficult to see with the naked eye, though not impossible. It was near the big dipper.

“I can’t see both stars.” Elise said.

“Well, it is something like forty-five lightyears away, kinda difficult to see details at this distance.” Dax explained.

She took a breath and leaned on his shoulder, a melancholy settling into the long pause.

“It’s really happening, isn’t it?” Elise said softly, her voice soft and tinged with sadness.

“Seems unreal,” Dax admitted, looking up at the stars. “We’ve talked about these plans for years, but time’s finally caught up.”

Elise offered a small, bittersweet smile. She paused, gathering her thoughts. “Should we just stay here together, on Luna?”

“I wish we could,” Dax said sadly. He sighed after a long pause. “We knew this was coming.”

She wrapped her arms around him as she leaned gently against his shoulder. “I always thought we’d end up on the same project together.”

“Maybe someday,” he said quietly, squeezing her gently. “We’re just taking different paths for a little while.”

Elise sighed softly. “We probably won’t be able to talk very often, will we?”

“Probably not,” Dax admitted reluctantly. “They’ve already warned me communication will be minimal.”

“Same,” Elise replied, sadness in her voice. “But we can still write.”

He nodded, offering a comforting smile. “I’ll write you every day.”

She smiled and leaned against him.

Dax glanced toward her apartment building across the courtyard. “Ready to head home?”

Elise nodded, rising slowly and pulling Dax gently up with her, lifting him into the air before he slowly and gracefully descended back to the ground. They walked quietly, hand in hand, savoring these last moments together. At her apartment door, Elise turned to face him, her expression gentle. “Be safe and have fun,” she said softly, gripping his hand firmly.

“You too,” Dax replied, his voice warm. “Don’t let those engineers boss you around.”

Elise laughed softly, blinking back tears. “I’ll try.”

They embraced tightly, holding each other a little longer than necessary. As they pulled back slightly, their eyes met, and Dax leaned down, kissing Elise deeply—a true goodbye kiss. When they finally parted, Elise stepped back, her eyes red with tears, and offered him a brave but fragile smile. “Goodbye, Daxander Rægnir.”

“Goodbye, Elise Odesstjarna.” Dax turned to walk down the path to the tram. After walking a few dozen steps, he whispered softly, “I love you,” then glancing back, and as he made eye contact one last time, he saw her whisper something too.

Act 1, Book of the Void

Chapter 1, Dead by Starlight

Bang, bang, bang.

The sound grew louder. The team sealed inside this section needed to keep the critical systems running at any cost.

Bang, bang, screech.

The impacts spread. The left door began to buckle.

“Captain, they’re breaking through!” the young specialist shouted.

Captain Stellan pivoted toward the left door’s defensive position, taking stock of his team. Four crew members crouched behind makeshift barricades—upturned steel crates and heavy consoles wrenched from the wall and repurposed as cover.

Each gripped a rifle. He didn’t know how many rounds it would take to drop one of them. Last encounter, they’d been armored. He could only hope it would be enough. Ferals never used firearms—some perverse preference kept them from it. Instead, they charged with curved blades fused to their mechanical limbs, slicing with brutal efficiency. Arms and legs first. Then they’d drag you away, still breathing. No one on his team was willing to endure that fate.

The pounding stopped.

Captain Stellan’s nerves pulsing. They wouldn’t just leave. Would they?

A wet choking sound broke the silence.

“Quiet—trying to hear what they’re doing,” he whispered.

Then someone began to gargle.

“They’re inside!” someone screamed.

Gunfire erupted. Metal limbs scythed through the chaos, severing unprotected flesh.

Crash. The left door exploded inward, torn from its frame. More ferals poured through the breach.

They wouldn’t be taken alive. Every soul in that room would fight to the last.

* * *

T minus five minutes, zero seconds

The wretched creature had been human once—at least, that’s what they’d told him. He couldn’t remember anymore. He wasn’t certain whether he directed himself toward destinations or simply wandered at random. It didn’t matter. Hunger drove him, and his body would secure sustenance. His metallic arms had contorted and articulated themselves to facilitate easier crawling through the duct’s confines. He couldn’t explain the compulsion that drew him here, yet he knew there existed a reason—perhaps not his reason, but a reason nonetheless. He hoped for food. A scent drifted forward, familiar and promising. He advanced. His diminutive frame made navigating these cramped spaces effortless, though he remained uncertain what he sought.

Then he detected sound. He slowed, moved more carefully. The smell of food intensified. An uncomfortable sensation settled over him—he wouldn’t be permitted to feed yet. Be quiet, the voice instructed. The voice resonated inside his skull. Another sound reached him. What was it? Light appeared ahead. He crawled closer, drawn inexorably forward. His eye pressed against the vent grating. Beyond: people. Crew. They surrounded someone.

I’ve found something valuable to trade. Useful intelligence, he thought. Or perhaps I hadn’t discovered it at all. Perhaps he knew. Perhaps he had guided him here deliberately. The urge to retreat seized him. He tried. His body refused to obey. He could only watch.

* * *

 T minus 24 seconds.

It was quiet aboard Ascension, a tense stillness born from the shadowy corners and locked doors of Deck Four. Emergency lighting cast faint pools of illumination across metal walls and bare consoles. In a small chamber labeled ECC – Environmental Control Center, Mira Linn gently wiped sweat from Karinya’s forehead.

“You’re doing great,” Mira reassured her, voice barely above a whisper, a practiced calm betraying none of her own worry. Around them stood a tense, weary circle of faces, all waiting in quiet anticipation. Lyra Chen hovered near a maintenance console, checking instruments she’d already verified twice. Beside her, Avi Tel tapped his communicator, glancing at the sealed hatch as though expecting something to break through.

“Just one more push, Karinya,” Mira urged, her tone firm but gentle. “You’re almost there.”

Karinya cried out softly, and then the unmistakable sound of a newborn’s first breath filled the small, dimly lit room. Everyone exhaled at once, relief washing visibly across their features. Mira lifted the infant gently, wrapped her in a sterilized thermal cloth, and placed the child in her mother’s trembling arms.

“She’s beautiful,” Karinya murmured, voice breaking. “So perfect.”

Avi managed a weary smile. “Welcome aboard, little one,” he whispered. “Sorry we weren’t able to tidy up.”

The remark drew tired chuckles from the others—Jek Ras, gripping an improvised metal baton, and Bryn Novak, leaning against the bulkhead. Their laughter held a bitter, hollow edge, recognizing the absurdity of a child born into their grim reality.

Lorex Aven stood slightly apart, silent and reflective. His cybernetic hand flexed unconsciously, a subtle reminder of the world they’d inherited—a world of sealed bulkheads, failing systems, and ever-present dread. He stepped forward and laid a reassuring hand on Karinya’s shoulder.

“Rest while you can,” he said softly. “We’ll handle things out here.”

Karinya nodded gratefully, eyes drifting closed as she held the tiny infant against her chest, sheltered briefly from the darkness outside.

* * *

 T plus 1 hour, 15 minutes, 23 seconds

Nearly an hour later, Lorex turned from the silent, blinking console. He’d entered dozens of crew records in his life—births and deaths alike—but now his eyes narrowed as a new alert blinked insistently on the display.

“Something wrong?” Lyra asked quietly, stepping closer.

“I’m listed as captain,” Lorex said slowly, scanning the data. “I’ve been captain for nearly a week.”

“What?” Lyra’s voice cracked sharply, drawing anxious looks from the others.

Lorex pulled up Captain Joren Stellan’s status. A bright red alert flashed repeatedly, the message stark and simple: All crew deceased. Deck One Reactor Lockout Zone compromised.

“He’s gone,” Lorex murmured, his voice heavy. “Ferals breached the reactor lockout seven days ago. Everyone with Captain Stellan is dead.”

The room seemed colder, the silence oppressive. Bryn let out a quiet curse as she fidgeted with her handlink. Avi ran a hand through his hair.

“But that means—” Avi began.

“There’s no reason to stay here,” Lorex finished quietly. “The command center isn’t locked out anymore—not permanently. HAVEN’s waiting for a recognized captain to return.”

Lyra exchanged a look with Mira. “Can we risk it?” Mira asked, a hint of desperation beneath her calm. “The corridors aren’t safe. They go where they want now.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Lorex said. “We installed that micro-weave lattice Earth sent us to repair the hull breaches, and it worked flawlessly. This lockout zone hasn’t needed repairs for over a decade. It’s probably the only reason we’re still alive here at all. But the lockout won’t hold forever with the ferals growing bolder. We have to get back to command. It’s the only secure area left.”

Avi paced. “The passageways between Decks Three and Seventeen  will be a deathtrap if we aren’t careful. We’ll need weapons.”

“The armory on Deck Three,” Jek said, stepping forward. “There’s still ammo there. I checked it last year. It should still be secure.”

“Then that’s what we do,” Lorex said, rubbing his jaw. “We move quickly and quietly, split into teams. One group secures the stairs; another goes to the armory. Then we regroup and push for the command center together.”

Deck Three housed cargo, storage, recycling, and the armory. The section directly below them was mostly tight, access-controlled corridors into the more secure areas of Level 3 —too narrow for ferals to prefer—and the recycling stench wafted through the deck, making it an undesirable place to camp. Most ferals stayed in the original housing units, while some camped in the office areas of Deck Fourteen and up. The armory ought to be secure since the security doors were original, not the makeshift lockout doors welded in front of the zones where the remaining crew lived to protect and maintain critical systems. That gave them a slim, practical advantage—rare aboard Ascension.

Lyra sighed, uncertain but resolute. “Then let’s plan carefully. If we make one mistake, none of us will ever see that command center.”

“It’s time to take our ship back,” Lorex said.

* * *

 T plus 1 hour, 45 minutes, 12 seconds

The ECC chamber buzzed with restless energy as the crew gathered around the central console, shadows flickering under the emergency lights. Lorex stood over the display, reviewing floor layouts and adjusting the schematic with quick gestures; his cybernetic fingers clicked softly against the controls.

“We’ve all agreed: the armory on Deck Three is crucial,” he began. “Without adequate firepower, we won’t make it past the plaza decks. Securing those stairs is equally important; we can’t afford to be flanked.”

“Are we certain about this?” Lyra asked, arms crossed, brow furrowed. “It’s barely been two hours since the baby was born. It feels… hasty.”

“Maybe,” Jek said, hefting his baton , “but if we linger, we lose the window. If Bart’s decided to move, they’ll swarm this deck like rats. We won’t get out. We move before they suspect anything.”

“What if it’s a trap?” Avi asked, glancing toward Karinya, who rested with her infant cradled against her chest. “We could be walking straight into their territory. It wouldn’t be the first ambush.”

“It’s a risk,” Lorex said. “But staying here is worse. We’d be waiting for them to find a weakness. We can’t survive that way.”

“I agree,” Bryn said, firm but soft. “Take the fight to them—or we’re already lost.”

“We avoid fights if possible,” Lorex added. “If there are too many, we run. We don’t win head-on.”

Mira’s voice cut through, decisive. “Then it’s settled. Deck Three first for weapons, secure the stairs, then rendezvous and move upward.”

“Two teams,” Lorex said. “Jek, Vik, and Daro—you’re with me. We’ll secure the stairway up to the upper terrace of Deck Four. You three get first pick from what little firepower we already have.”

Jek nodded, claiming a stun baton and a pistol from beneath the console.  Vik took the second pistol, testing its weight with visible unease. Daro patted his side checking his holster; he always carried a pistol.

“Lyra, Bryn, and Avi—head to Deck Three,” Lorex continued. “Use the maintenance exosuit to haul as much gear back as possible.”

Lyra adjusted the frame. “The suit’s charge should hold. It’ll slow us a bit, but we’ll manage.”

“Everyone else stays put,” Lorex said. “Lock the ECC door behind us. Don’t open it for anyone unless it’s one of us.”

“We’ll be here,” Mira said, laying a hand on Karinya’s shoulder. “Take care.”

“We’ll be back,” Lorex said, meeting her gaze.

They moved with quiet efficiency. Jek and Avi took position at the door. Lyra strapped into the exosuit; servos whined to life. Bryn adjusted her grip on the baton.

Lorex paused, glanced back at Karinya—she gave a weary, resolute nod. He pulled the manual override. The door hissed, depressurized, and slid open with a muted groan.

Stale air swept in, heavy with dust and neglect. He stepped into the corridor. Emergency lights flickered, illuminating cracked wall panels and scattered debris. The hall stretched ahead, quiet and still, but every shadow whispered threat.

“Clear, for now,” he murmured, resetting his grip on the baton. “Let’s move.”

* * *

 T plus 2 hours, 3 minutes, 40 seconds

The heavy door sealed, leaving Karinya and Dr. Mira Linn behind layers of reinforced metal. Karinya stared at the sleeping infant in her arms, lost in the rhythm of her daughter’s small, peaceful breaths—fragile calm against the uncertainty outside.

Mira checked consoles absently, then met Karinya’s eyes. “You ever wonder what Captain Stellan was thinking? Locking us down in separate compartments, keeping us isolated—what did he hope to achieve?”

“I think he believed it was the only way to preserve the ship,” Karinya said, adjusting the thermal cloth. “Slow the spread of violence. Contain the ferals until something changed.”

“Contain them?” Mira shook her head. “He trapped us inside critical systems and left everyone else to become monsters. It didn’t fix anything; it postponed the inevitable.”

“Maybe postponing was the best he could do,” Karinya said. “We talked about wiping them out once, remember? A hard reset.”

“We never had enough people,” Mira said, voice darkening. “Or weapons. They’ve always outnumbered us.”

“The captain knew we weren’t capable,” Karinya said. “Maybe he thought they’d wipe each other out eventually.”

“Instead, they grew stronger—and bolder,” Mira said. Became predators while we hid.”

“We should have moved ten years ago,” Karinya said bitterly. “After Earth transmitted the nanobot lattice. The ship practically repaired itself after that. There was no more reason to hide.” She leaned back, closing her eyes. “Do you ever think about Earth?”

“In what regard?”

“How they’re still sending us technology we barely understand—data packets full of things to print and build, like they’re still trying to save us.”

For decades after contact was lost, Earth had still sent data packets along Ascension’s projected path. Most never arrived, swallowed by distance or silence, but the few that did became gospel aboard the ship—recipes, software, fragments of news, and the schematics that could print better printers. The last of them, a design for the micro-weave nano lattice, had done what generations of human hands could not: stop the bleeding in Ascension’s hull.

A flexible metallic-silicon sheet filled with nanobots, it could reconfigure shape, hardness, and thickness, and bond to any surface. It healed itself and merged into the molecular structure of the bulkhead or engine block it reinforced.

“I think it’s hope,” Mira said softly, glancing at the flickering screens. “Or guilt. They know something went wrong here, so they keep sending updates into the dark—never knowing if anyone’s left to hear them.”

Silence settled for a long moment.

Then a frantic banging sounded at the ECC door. Both women froze. Sign up for the email list on the main page to receive notifications about more chapters and releases.