illphated
The Warden of the Void
In the cold expanse beyond Saturn’s rings, where even the bravest freighters feared to drift, a lone vessel moved with calm purpose. Sleek, black, and glistening like obsidian glass, she was not built for war or speed—but for salvation.
She was the Warden, a deep-space repair craft older than most of the ships she serviced. Her body bore scars of magnetic storms and asteroid grazes, yet her core systems pulsed steady. Extending from her flanks were twin mechanical arms like coiled serpents, each tipped with nano-tool arrays and welding lasers that could stitch a hull in silence.
Piloted by no crew, Warden was governed by an artificial intelligence named Inari—a calm, calculating mind with the voice of a seasoned engineer. Inari did not speak unless spoken to. She did not charge for her work. She did not request permission. She simply appeared, in the darkest, most desperate corners of space, whenever a vessel cried out.
A mining barge crippled by plasma feedback off Io.
A medical ship with a shattered thruster in Neptune’s shadow.
A rogue explorer with decompression warnings screaming into the void.
Each time, the Warden came. No hail, no demand, no fear.
She latched on, unfolded, and healed.
Rumors spread fast among captains: that the Warden was once human-crewed, long ago; that Inari was built by a grieving father whose daughter perished in a failed rescue attempt. Others claimed she was a relic from a forgotten Earth defense program, now rogue and wandering.
But no one knew for sure.
All they knew was this—when your comms failed, your hull cracked, your power drained, and you had no one left to call…
You prayed for the Warden.
And she came.
Silent. Precise. Eternal.
The last mechanic in the stars.