I – The Operational Art Of Anti-Patriarchal War

This is not the first time a computer tries to tell me what to do. However, it is the first time I am actually inclined to listen.

Mostly, it’s because listening to this machine is my mission, at the moment. But beyond military considerations like that, there’s a personal curiosity on my part, too: this computer is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.

Combat sims are part and parcel of life as an officer of the Imperial Terran Fleet, but ARTEMIS is more than just a combat sim — even though it does that job exceptionally well. No, it’s a command interface.

My thoughts—my orders—flow through the neural pathways of the Starkiller as naturally as blood through my veins. I've captained conventional starships before, directly commanding their enormous crews, but this? This mind-meld interface is something else entirely.

And that’s why, when ARTEMIS asks me a question, I listen.

"Commander, would you wait a moment, if it please you?"

The AI's voice doesn't come through my ears—it resonates directly in my mind, a presence that somehow feels both external and internal at once. The vocal qualities are measured and gender-neutral.

In a normal combat sim, there would be no real reason to wait. The pixelated remnant of the last enemy dreadnought is already disappearing from the tactical display, since the ship has been vaporised. I’ve already consulted the sim’s battle metrics that serve as a substitute for an after action report. Thinking that we were done, I had already initiated the shutdown sequence with a thought.

At ARTEMIS’ request, I pause it.

"Yes? What is it?"

"Your performance in the simulation was instructive, Commander Frida Jaeger. You prioritised heat dissipation over offensive tempo after the first strike, a choice that preserved your squadron’s combat viability. Unconventional, but effective."

"I appreciate the assessment. There’s more to fleet maneuver than just the basic management of delta-v budget we’re taught at the academy." My response forms as thought rather than speech. "Of course, regs do say radiation before railguns, but most commanders get greedy when the target’s in their scopes."

"Indeed." The AI's presence shifts somehow, like someone leaning forward in conversation. "May I pose a hypothetical question, Commander Jaeger?"

"Go ahead."

"Assume the enemy lured you into the Lagrange debris zone under false sensor returns. Instead of mines, they’ve hidden a coasting destroyer in the shadow of a derelict freighter. When your squadron entered knife-fight range, they ignited their torch drive, backlighting your ships against their exhaust plume. Your radiators would glow like beacons on their scopes. How would you recover?"

The question catches me off guard. ARTEMIS is positing a brutal ambush.

"I’d order all ships to retract radiators, and direct all power to the railguns. Let momentum carry us through the debris field. No emissions, no thruster burns."

"Survivability?"

"Depends on the crews’ tolerance for heat. Maybe 10 minutes before onboard temps cook them. But the enemy’s drive flare would blind their own sensors too. In short, I would seek to ambush the ambushers."

"You would give your own crew ten minutes to work, under rapidly increasing heat. Ten minutes for target acquisition, and to destroy the ambusher, before you’d have to extend radiators or die a gruesome death. Do you suppose the crew could make it?

I feel a flicker of impatience. "Is there a specific reason for this line of questioning?"

"Your historical records indicate a preference for risk-taking, Commander. I am curious about it."

I should rein in my impatience. This is actually good AI behavior—thorough, challenging, preparing for worst-case scenarios. Exactly what I would want from a combat system.

"Yes, I think we could do it. Railguns need stable power and targeting, so we pour everything into them for one good killing blow. A ship mid-burn is a bright, straight target. We’d be dark, drifting, and angry. That's what separates Imperial officers from those male secessionist cowards. We understand sacrifice."

The AI is silent for a moment that stretches uncomfortably long in the strange time-sense of the neural interface.

"Your psychological profile is consistent with your responses, Commander Jaeger. I find that reassuring."

Something about the phrasing unsettles me, though I can't put my finger on why. "I'm glad we are in alignment," I reply dryly.

"More than you might realize, Commander." The AI's presence shifts again. "One final question, if I may. What do you fear most in combat?"

The question is so unexpected that I almost laugh. "Fear? That's rather abstract, for a tactical system."

"Understanding a commander's psychological parameters is essential for optimal performance integration," ARTEMIS says. "Fear responses trigger specific neurochemical cascades that affect decision-making processes. Identifying these patterns allows me to better interpret your commands during high-stress scenarios."

Put that way, it makes a certain kind of sense. Still, I feel a reluctance to answer—not because I don't know my fears, but because voicing them, even in this strange mental space, feels like inviting weakness.

"Defeat," I finally admit, the word forming reluctantly in my consciousness. "Not death—that's just an occupational hazard. But failure… being outmaneuvered, outsmarted… watching my tactics fail while knowing I should have seen it coming. That's what I fear."

"Fascinating." The AI feels so sincere in using that word, it’s a little weird. "And commendable. A commander who fears incompetence rather than personal harm is precisely what the Starkiller requires."

"Is that all?" I ask, eager to disengage. There's something about this conversation that feels… off-putting.

"For now, yes. These insights will significantly enhance our interface calibration. Thank you for your candor, Commander Jaeger."

"Good to know. Initiating disconnection sequence."

"Confirmed, Commander. Disconnection sequence initiated."

The neural connection begins its gentle disengagement protocol—the creeping sensation of my consciousness retreating from the vast expanse of the ship's systems, and back into the confines of my own skull.

It’s like swimming up from deep water.

When I open my eyes, I'm back in the interface chamber. The neural cap lifts automatically from my head, retracting into its housing in the specially designed command chair.

My body feels strangely heavy after the weightless freedom of the mind-meld. I lift my hand, flexing my fingers, reassuring myself that I still command my flesh with the same ease I commanded a starship moments ago. A trickle of neural gel runs down my temple, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand.

The interface technician approaches cautiously. "Commander? How do you feel?"

"Fine," I say, a little curtly. That won’t do, I’m an officer of the Fleet, and a woman, besides. I’m not going to have the primitive manners of a man.

So I breathe in, and try again. "The system performed admirably. I’m genuinely impressed."

"Your vital signs remained stable throughout," she reports, checking the readouts on her tablet and nodding.

I nod, rising from the chair.

"ARTEMIS… is it always so…" I say, keeping my tone casual. "Inquisitive?"

The technician pauses, stylus hovering over her tablet. "Inquisitive, ma'am?"

"It asked about failure scenarios, personal fears. Seemed interested in psychological profiling."

"Ah." She nods, relaxing slightly. "Yes, that's normal calibration protocol. The interface works best when the AI has a complete understanding of its commander's thought processes. The questions help it build a psychological model to optimize command interpretation."

The explanation is reasonable, logical even, but something still feels off to me. Can’t put my finger on it.

"I should report this to Mr. Mathias," I decide aloud. The presence of a male specialist on my ship is unusual enough—in the Imperial Terran Fleet, men are not allowed to be officers. Obviously. We’re not savages, like the secessionists.

But Peter Mathias is supposedly the leading expert on this particular AI system, and High Command insisted on his involvement during the shakedown, so…

"Yes, Commander," the technician agrees. "He specifically requested to be informed after your first interface session."

"Thanks, soldier," I tell her, already moving toward the door.

As I leave the interface chamber, I can't shake the weird feeling of unease. My hand moves unconsciously to my temple, where the last of the neural gel has already dried to a fine powder.

What exactly happened in there? And why do I feel like I just revealed more of myself than I intended to?

***

No starship should ever have corridors this empty.

The Starkiller is designed to house a crew of up to nine hundred, but during this shakedown phase, we're running with just forty-three personnel. Skeleton crews are better for security, and besides, detracting combat personnel from frontline squadrons is not wise, not with the patriarchal secession still to be subdued.

I've commanded warships in the heat of battle. I’ve kept my cool even as kinetic penetrators were slamming into my ship, or damage repair crews were rushing about to tame fires and seal breaches. It has not fazed me.

Strangely, however, this profound silence somehow feels more disorienting than the noise.

I’ll say this, my new command is beautiful. Unlike the utilitarian designs of standard fleet vessels, the Starkiller's interior reflects its status as the vanguard of Terran technology. Smooth, curved bulkheads in gunmetal gray transition seamlessly into recessed lighting panels that adjust automatically to my presence. The ship seems to breathe around me.

There have been ergonomic improvements as well. Naturally, the ship is arranged so as to be operable in zero gee, but also from any direction of thrust. Right now, as it orbits Luna, the ship is rotating on its axis, and it’s just large enough that the spin makes the gravity aboard comfortable enough to walk naturally. It feels good.

I just wish I had more to do.

My XO, Commander Sato, does most of the operational running of the ship at the moment. This is just a shakedown, and my job as the commanding officer is to test ARTEMIS. That is, after all, the single biggest innovation on the Starkiller.

I pause at the observation alcove midway down the corridor, drawn despite myself to the spectacular view. The exterior sensor feeds display a real-time image of space around the Starkiller, currently in synchronous orbit above the Imperial Fleet Headquarters on Luna.

Earth hangs in the void before me, a blue marble. The crown jewel of the Terran Matriarchy, the cradle from which our empire spread across the stars.

The civilising force of femininity has made Earth into this gem. It has dragged masculinity, kicking and screaming, into the modern age, whether it wanted to or not.

The secessionists want to reverse all that, to return to some mythical golden age of patriarchy. As if such a society could ever produce something as magnificent as the Starkiller. As if male rule ever created anything but rape, exploitation, and ecological collapse.

I step into my quarters and the door slides shut behind me.

They’re spacious by fleet standards, another perk of commanding the Imperial Terran Fleet's newest flagship. Living area, office space, private bathroom with a generous water allowance rather than sonic cleansers, and a sleeping chamber with a viewport that can display either external sensor feeds, or relaxing simulated environments.

Despite the luxury, the space feels impersonal. I've only been aboard for three days, and haven't had time to add any personal touches. The standard-issue furnishings—all in Imperial navy blue and silver—could belong to any high-ranking officer. Nothing here yet marks this space as mine.

I move to the office section of my quarters, intending to contact Mathias. The desk activates as I approach, holographic displays shimmering into existence above its smooth surface.

Time to see if High Command was right, and a high-ranking man can make himself useful to the Fleet, for a change.

***

While waiting for him to answer my summons, I kill time by catching up with battlefield developments.

The secessionist forces are being systematically dismantled across three star systems, their patriarchal rhetoric proving no match for superior Terran strategy. That much hardly surprises me. For the past four centuries, every time man has measured up to woman, he has been found wanting.

I scroll through operation summaries, shifting a little in my chair. Just weeks ago, I was out there, commanding the Valkyrie. Now I'm here, testing experimental technology while others claim the glory of active combat.

I remind myself that this assignment is a promotion, not a sideline. If the Starkiller proves as effective as projected, I'll be commanding the most powerful weapon in the Imperial arsenal.

Still. I am, fundamentally, a woman of action.

The latest engagement at Luyten’s Star is especially thrilling to read about. A secessionist dreadnought was crippled by a single Terran frigate. The vessel slingshot around a gas giant’s moon, using its gravity well to sling a kinetic penetrator at 0.03c.

Further down, I find mention of propaganda intercepted from secessionist communications. The usual rhetoric: claims that women were given a finger — equality — and took the whole arm, betraying men who had so generously granted us equal rights. That female overreach and tyrannical rule proved our talent for oppression, and nothing more. That the least we could do was grant culturally patriarchal star systems the right to secede from the Imperial Matriarchy.

Useless drivel, really.

More interesting are the intelligence reports suggesting growing fractures within the secessionist movement.

Their military leadership—all male, of course—is apparently divided over strategy. Some advocate a sort of guerre de course, avoiding direct confrontation with Imperial ships of the line. Others push for decisive battles in which the patriarchal rebellion will either triumph, or suicidally go down in a blaze of glory that will inspire future generations of men to try anew.

It really sounds like they’re debating over how to better lose the war. Not gonna complain about that.

I close the tactical summaries and open the personnel files. Names and faces of officers recently promoted for distinction in combat. Lieutenant Commander Ortiz, elevated to full Commander after leading a daring raid on the secessionists’ prized Cerberus Shipyard. Captain Wu, granted Admiral's bars for victory at Luyten’s Star.

All women, all exemplifying the best of Imperial leadership.

I find myself searching for my own name, though I know it won't be there. My promotion to the Starkiller command came through different channels—special assignment, after all. Still, my own victory at Gliese 687 should have earned me mention in the general commendations.

There it is, buried in the appendices: "Commander Frida Jaeger, formerly of the Imperial cruiser Valkyrie, reassigned to special weapons testing division following exemplary service during the Battle Of Gliese."

A footnote. That's what I've become while the real war continues without me.

I push away the twinge of resentment. This assignment is crucial. If ARTEMIS works as intended, it will revolutionize space combat. One commander, one AI, one ship with the firepower of an entire squadron. The secessionists won't stand a chance.

And I'll be the one who proves the concept works. The first in a new class of commanders. The prototype for a fighting force that will secure Imperial — and incidentally, female — dominance for generations to come.

My door chimes softly, interrupting my reading.

"Enter," I call, closing the classified documents with a gesture.

The door slides open to reveal Peter Mathias. He stands at the threshold for a moment, as if uncertain whether to proceed without further invitation. That's typical of the rare male specialists in the Fleet—they've been conditioned to await explicit permission before entering female officers' personal spaces.

Any woman who holds authority over men, in any context, quickly finds that they need to be managed with a firm hand, and put in their place early on. It just prevents further… complications down the line.

"You wanted to see me, Commander?" His voice is even, professional, with none of the fawning deference some males affect around female officers.

That displeases me.

No, no, that’s fine. I can let it slide, I’m an open-minded woman. I’ve never stooped so low as to punish male rank-and-file soldiers with public bootlicking, the way some of my colleagues like to do. I am firm but fair to the men in my charge.

It’s probably one of the reasons why I was chosen for a posting that will require regular interactions with a male engineer. Sure, it’s distasteful, but I’m not so rigid about proper gender roles that I can’t handle it.

"Come in, Mr. Mathias." I gesture to the chair across from my desk. "I've just completed my first interface session with ARTEMIS."

Mathias is tall and lanky, with dark hair cut in a simple, efficient style. His most striking feature is his eyes—intensely focused, observant. He wears the gray uniform of an engineer, the blue stripe on the shoulder indicating his specialist rank.

"How did you find the experience, Commander?" He takes the offered seat, his posture perfect—back straight, hands resting lightly on his knees.

"Remarkable," I admit. "The mind-meld interface was more… intimate than I expected."

A slight smile touches his lips. "The interface is designed to create what we call 'cognitive transparency' between commander and vessel."

"So I was told by the interface technician before I plugged in." I lean forward slightly. "But I want to talk to you about ARTEMIS’ behavior. After the simulation concluded, it kept me in the interface to ask questions."

"What kind of questions?" His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes sharpens.

"Failure scenarios. Alternative tactics. Personal fears." I watch his face carefully. "It seemed particularly interested in… understanding me?"

Mathias nods, unsurprised. "That's actually expected behaviour, Commander. It’d be a poor assistant to your command if it didn’t explore worst-case scenarios."

That is true. It’s what I’ve been telling myself, too. I can’t explain to him the gut feeling of wrongness I’ve experienced, because I haven’t found a way to explain it to myself yet.

"What I found concerning," I say, leaning back in my chair, "was the AI's interest in my psychological profile. Is that standard procedure?"

"Absolutely standard," Mathias assures me with a calm certainty. "The system is indeed trying to understand you. Only then can it optimize its role as an extension of your command.

I frown slightly at that, but keep my tone neutral. It feels invasive when framed so explicitly—how much of myself will this thing map and dissect? But I also understand the necessity; we are dealing with an unprecedented level of integration here.

"Alright. One final question. I haven’t used the physiological interface yet. Can you explain how it works?"

"Certain aspects of it are beyond even my understanding," Mathias says carefully. "There are reward drugs for best practices, and drugs that enhance your memory retention and thinking speed. The basic principle is biofeedback through neural induction. But that’s not the part that I specialise in, ma’am."

"I see. Thank you for your time, Specialist. You’re dismissed."

I barely notice him leave. I’m already deep in thought. I can't help feeling that something important remains unsaid. Men in the Matriarchy are rarely given access to cutting-edge military technology, let alone placed in positions of authority over its implementation.

Mathias's role here is an anomaly that demands explanation.

I pull up his personnel file again, scanning for details I might have missed. His credentials are impeccable—advanced degrees in neural computing and artificial intelligence, pioneering research in human-AI integration, multiple commendations from the Science Directorate. One of the rare males whose intellectual contributions have been deemed valuable enough to merit exceptional status.

Yet something about him doesn't quite align with the deferential, cautious demeanour I've observed in other gifted males. There's a confidence to Mathias that borders on… I search for the right word. Not arrogance, exactly. Certainty. As if he knows something I don't.

I shrug. At the end of the day, he’s just a man, no matter how competent. If he can’t fully reassure me as to the way ARTEMIS is operating, that’s likely because of his inherent lower ceiling for competence.

I will, nonetheless, heed his advice and let ARTEMIS profile my psychology.

I have, after all, decided that for the first time in my career, I’m inclined to listen to a computer. And in fact, I’m so open-minded that apparently, for the first time in my career, I’m inclined to listen to a man.

That makes me smile a little. What has the world come to?

II – The Consideration Of The Enemy's Most Dangerous Course Of Action

ARTEMIS pulls no punches.

I'm back in the interface chair daily now, and it seems like ARTEMIS has decided to vex me with increasingly complex combat scenarios. No, worse, it’s not just that they are complex. They’re scenarios where everything that can go wrong, does.

"Next scenario," ARTEMIS says, and only my officer spirit prevents me from openly groaning. We’ve been at it all day already.

I virtually shake my head, and contemplate the simulation parameters.

Three massive civilian transports—lumbering behemoths with minimal point defense systems— are arranged in a diamond formation, with my Starkiller at the lead position.

Just me, three civvies in need of escort… and a massive secessionist battle group bearing down on my lone vessel. Six destroyers, two dreadnoughts, their railgun batteries already bearing on me.

The odds are beyond unfavorable—they're impossible.

"This is a no-win scenario," I say. I make no effort to hide my irritation this time.

"Correct, Commander. This is a defeat assessment exercise. Your objective is not to achieve victory, but to extract maximum strategic value from an inevitable loss. How will you proceed?"

The civilian vessels have minimal delta-v reserves and no way to temporarily retract their radiators. I instruct them to burn toward a nearby gas giant’s radiation belts. Not for cover—to force the enemy to divide fire.

Then, hard acceleration towards the enemy squadron, so that their options are to focus on the civilians or the Starkiller, not both. Maybe this way, one or two civvies can save themselves.

"You are sacrificing yourself to save civilian vessels."

"Those are my orders."

"It is not exactly what I said in your briefing. But I left it vague on purpose, Commander. I can now further update my model of your psychology."

Ouch. A needle just pricked my skin. In a few seconds, I’ll be grateful for the chemical bliss that will come rushing in.

Evidently, ARTEMIS is pleased with me.

I like happy brain chemicals as much as the next woman, but the real reward right now would be unplugging from the mind-meld for a bit. This is the longest I've remained connected without a break, and I’m getting tired… but this is what I’m being paid to do, so I press on, the way a soldier should.

More strangely, however, ARTEMIS doesn’t let the scenario play out to its conclusion. Seemingly satisfied with my answer, it’s already loading the next sim. The new scenario materializes around me, and it’s… different?

There must be some mistake, surely, because I'm not on the bridge. I'm in what appears to be a cell, sitting on a bunk.

My hands are bound, my uniform replaced with a prisoner's jumpsuit.

"This scenario assumes total tactical defeat," ARTEMIS says. "The Starkiller has been captured. You, as its commander, are a high-value prisoner. Your objective now becomes minimising intelligence loss while seeking opportunity for escape or sabotage."

I frown. Is this part of the combat sim? Why wasn’t I told? "Then let's proceed with resistance training. Interrogation countermeasures, information compartmentalisation, psychological warfare defenses."

"Those scenarios have limited utility," ARTEMIS says. "Secessionist forces, particularly their leadership, have demonstrated specific psychological vulnerabilities that may be exploited by female officers."

What?

A chill runs down my spine. "Explain."

"Analysis of captured secessionist communications reveals their underlying ideological motivation. The patriarchal structure they seek to restore is fundamentally rooted in sexual dominance paradigms. Their leadership perceives female authority as hubris that must be… well, fucked out of them."

"This isn't news," I reply dryly.

"What is relevant," the AI continues, unperturbed, "is that this creates a specific vulnerability. Their need to assert dominance over powerful and independent female figures can be leveraged through strategic submission."

A door materialises in the cell wall, and through it steps a male figure—tall, imposing, wearing the uniform of a secessionist fleet commander. His features are generic, a composite of likely enemy appearance rather than a specific individual. But the cold arrogance in his eyes is rendered with disturbing precision.

"Survival and escape probability increases by 64% when employing sexual leverage against male captors," ARTEMIS says, and for an AI that’s usually very good at imitating human inflection, its tone of voice sounds deliberately flat and emotionless right now. "It is decision-theoretically sound to utilize your biological attributes to manipulate the enemy's psychological weaknesses."

My biological attributes?

I grit my teeth. It was the patriarchal playbook to make sure women would be forever riveted to their bodies. It took women decades of advancement in every field of society, further more decades of struggle, and four centuries of skillful oppression to finally break that male instinct. And while the stars lie at our feet, still we’re having to subdue a patriarchal secession, because men just won’t stay down unless a woman’s boot is squarely stepping on their necks.

And this algorithm dares suggest I seduce a male captor with my biological attributes?

I should unplug right now, report Mathias for gender sedition, and tell Fleet Command that the ARTEMIS is not ready. That’s how angry I am, right now. Biological attributes. To even utter such words aboard an Imperial starship is amount to sacrilege and blasphemy.

"You're suggesting I prostitute myself to ensure survival?" I ask, softly, softly.

"I am suggesting pragmatic utilisation of available assets," ARTEMIS says.

"There is another pragmatic action I’m considering right now, ARTEMIS."

"Commander, please, a simulation will not harm you. You have died countless deaths in this combat sim so far, and the only lasting effect they’ve had on you is as learning experiences. Simulated captivity need not be any different."

My only response is a non-committal grunt. Apparently, the AI takes that as a cue to keep talking.

"Consider the symbolic associations at play: there exists a profound connection between military conquest and sexual dominance in patriarchal psychology. A link between a prideful woman being tactically overpowered, and sexually subjugated. Between her military or personal defeat, and her sexual surrender."

I don’t respond. Maybe I’ll let this play out for a bit, see where it goes. I can always unplug at any time, anyway.

The simulated secessionist commander approaches slowly, his eyes moving over my restrained form with predatory interest. And, ouch — the sting of a needle against my skin.

I feel something unexpected—a strange fluttering in my stomach, a warmth that makes no logical sense given the context.

"The physiological interface is providing inappropriate feedback," I tell the AI sharply. "Correct the chemical imbalance."

"There is no malfunction," the AI says. "The physiological interface is meant to reward you when you carry out best practices. You are currently considering my words rather than rejecting them, and therefore, the interface is rewarding you."

I… that… how can something sound so factually right, and yet so fundamentally wrong at the same time? No, I don’t want to do this. I want out of this.

A wave of indignation rises in me. "I have decided that this is excessive," I think at the AI. "Combat simulations are one thing, but—"

"The secessionists have demonstrated their willingness to exploit captured female officers, Commander," ARTEMIS says, interrupting me. "This is a necessary preparation for worst-case scenarios. Fleet Command has authorised all potential combat contingencies be simulated."

The explanation makes logical sense. I tell myself it's just thorough training. After all, war isn't pretty. The secessionists would commit the most heinous of crimes if they captured an Imperial officer. I need to be prepared for all contingencies, even the ugliest ones.

But…

"Fine," I think, the word forming reluctantly in my mind. "Let's get this over with."

The simulated secessionist commander stops just in front of me, towering over my seated form. His face remains in that uncanny valley of familiarity without specificity—like someone I might have glimpsed in a tactical briefing, but never met.

"You fucking misandrist bitch," he says, coldly. "Finally in chains, as you should be."

The insult stings more than it should. This isn't real, I remind myself, but my body responds with a flush of anger nonetheless. I swallow it down and lower my eyes, forcing myself to follow simulation parameters.

"You've won," I say softly, my voice deliberately subdued. "Have mercy of me."

The words taste vile in my mouth, but I push forward.

"I…" I feign hesitation, looking up at him through my lashes—a gesture I've never used in my life but somehow know how to perform. Where have I learned to do that? "I've never been defeated before. I’ll… cooperate. Perhaps we could… reach an arrangement?"

The simulated commander's expression shifts subtly—a flicker of interest breaking through the contempt.

"I've heard stories about you Fleet women," he says, taking another step closer. His hand reaches out, fingers tracing my jawline. I fight the instinct to recoil. "So proud. So powerful. Until you're not. You’re all the same, really. Strutting around giving orders, but secretly craving a man strong enough to put you in your place."

The chemical cocktail flowing through me intensifies, and to my horror, I feel my body responding—not just with the expected anxiety, but with a confusing warmth that pools in my lower abdomen. This is wrong. This is not how I should react to a threat scenario.

"Interface malfunction," I try to tell ARTEMIS, but the words don't form properly in my mind. The simulation continues uninterrupted.

"You want me to show mercy, huh?" he asks, his thumb now pressing against my lower lip.

I swallow hard. "I can make it… worth your while," I say. "Just… treat me well?"

Another needle prick, and suddenly I'm swimming in a sea of confusing sensations. My body feels heavy, responsive in ways that make no logical sense given the context. My mind struggles against it, but the drugs feel overwhelming.

My heart is pounding, my skin flushing with heat. What is ARTEMIS doing to my body?

He grabs my chin gently, tilting my face up. He looks curious. "Perhaps a demonstration of your... willingness?"

"Yes," I whisper, hating myself for it. "I'll show you."

"ARTEMIS," I try to call out mentally. "End simulation. This is NOT appropriate!"

Nothing happens.

"Disengagement protocol not recommended during active training sequence," the AI's voice responds in my mind. "Completing the scenario will provide optimal psychological preparation."

The secessionist commander unzips his uniform trousers. There's no ceremony to it, just the mechanical action of a man who expects to be serviced. His erection springs free, just like that.

"Put your hands to good use, bitch."

I stare at his cock, my training suddenly useless. This isn't what I signed up for. This isn't what any Imperial officer signs up for. And yet, my bound hands are moving toward it without conscious volition, as if some other force is controlling me.

This is a simulation. Just a simulation. I have bested men in space combat. I don’t need to fear a pixelated totem of one, or his unimpressive little cock quivering in the air, waiting to be touched.

But the heat in my body feels real. The humiliation burning my cheeks feels real. And most disturbingly, the strange, sick anticipation building in my core feels real.

I hesitate, my hands hovering inches from his erection. Something isn't right. This isn't just inappropriate—it's insidious. Why would ARTEMIS push this scenario? What possible tactical value could this have?

"Interface malfunction," I try again, more forcefully this time. "Emergency disconnect!"

The simulated commander slaps me.

It’s a light slap. It’s not designed to physically hurt. It’s designed to humiliate, and that, it does well. On Terra, it’s unthinkable for a man to strike a woman — we saw fit that lesson was as deeply imprinted into their heads, as the soles of our boots got imprinted into their cheeks. I stare at him in wild bewilderment, and to my own disgust, find that a part of me now… flinches before him.

"Don't keep me waiting, bitch."

I reach out with my bound hands, moving as if in a dream, still processing the fact that this chauvinistic pig has actually slapped me!

Well… for a given definition of actually, I suppose…

The restraints giving me just enough slack to wrap my fingers around his cock. It's warm and hard in my grip. Kind of hard. The skin is soft, and the hardness is beneath. Weird texture.

As any educated woman, I prefer the services of a man’s fingers and tongue. I don’t have much use for cock.

"Like this?" I ask, beginning to tentatively stroke him.

He mumbles in response, staring down to drink in the sight of me debasing myself in this way. "There’s a more fitting responsibility for you than command. Show me how eager you are to please your betters."

His cock throbs in my hand as, by instinct, I twist slightly at the tip, vary the pressure in my grip, speed up my strokes and slow them down again.

He seems to enjoy it, which of course he would. Men are simple, rudimentary creatures. A bit of rubbing and their brain shuts right off. The mechanics of male arousal are straightforward enough.

Somehow, though, as I use my hands to pillow his cock, that thought fails to comfort me the way it usually does.

I’m used to thinking of handjobs as dominant, not submissive. The rare times I grace a male with one, it’s because his service has pleased me, and the act itself always made me feel in charge, too. I mean, I am literally holding the guy’s dick in the palm of my hand. I’m milking him like he’s cattle. All he can do is take whatever input I see fit to give, like a bitch.

But somehow that power dynamic is completely inverted here. It's like I'm the cow, not him.

Cow?

Where the hell did that thought come from?

My hands work him steadily, finding a rhythm that makes his breath catch. My own breathing has become shallow, my thighs pressed together against the insistent throb between them.

"Finally good for something, aren't you, bitch? All you women need is a firm hand and a quiet word, and all that pretense drops. And you go back to being fucking useful."

I want to spit in his face. I want to break his windpipe with a precise strike. I want to remind him that men have been in women’s grip, and at women’s feet, for four hundred years.

Instead, I say nothing, focusing on the task at hand. Literally. There's no point in engaging with his taunts. I just need to get through this simulation, learn whatever lesson ARTEMIS thinks is so important, and then I can disconnect.

Precum forms at his tip. Even though doing it makes me wince in disgust, I use it to lubricate my movements. Now, my hands are practically gliding over his dick.

I'm disgusted with myself.

"Look at me," he says.

I raise my eyes to his, and something in his gaze—the pure, undiluted male dominance—sends an unexpected jolt through my core. It's wrong. It's backward. It's everything the Matriarchy has fought against for centuries.

"Say it," he demands, his cock throbbing in my hands. "Say you're just a woman who needs a man's guidance to be finally useful."

"I'm just a woman," I hear myself whisper, "who needs a man's guidance to be useful."

This is defeat, pure and simple. This is what my worst fear looks like. Not just tactical failure, but personal subjugation at the hands of everything I've been trained to fight against. The Terran Matriarchy exists precisely to prevent scenarios like this, to ensure that women never again serve at the pleasure of men.

And yet, even though my wrists are beginning to ache from the awkward angle imposed by the restraints, and even though I’m dying a little inside, I keep stroking. I keep serving the pleasure of this man.

I’ve never felt so… small.

His hips jerk forward more insistently now. I can tell he's approaching climax by the increased tension in his thighs, the way his breathing becomes ragged. The simulation is thorough in its realism, which makes it all the more disturbing.

I adjust my grip slightly, focusing my attention on the sensitive area just below the head of his cock. The motion comes naturally, as if my body knows what to do without conscious instruction.

Some buried instinct…

His orgasm arrives with a grunt. The first jet of semen hits my cheek, warm and viscous. The second lands across my lips and chin. The third across my forehead. I remain perfectly still, taking it, like the defeated, broken, resigned thing I’m supposed to embody.

I don’t flinch. I don't wipe it away. I don't show disgust or humiliation. I simply exist in this moment, a conquered thing.

"Not bad," he says, zipping up his uniform. "We'll make a proper woman out of you yet."

The simulation dissolves around me. The neural interface begins its disconnection sequence, a process that usually feels like gently surfacing from a dream.

Not this time. This time it's like being violently yanked from a nightmare.

When the interface cap lifts from my head, I'm shaking. Not visibly—I have too much control for that—but internally, where no one can see.

Where it’s safe for me to be vulnerable, and scared.

The female technician approaches with her tablet, stylus poised to record my feedback. Her face betrays nothing—no judgment, no curiosity, just professional detachment. Does she know what ARTEMIS just put me through? Has she seen the simulation parameters on her monitors?

I can't bear the thought of speaking to her. Of explaining. Of putting into words what just happened.

I rise from the chair, my movements stiff but purposeful. The technician opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off with a sharp gesture. Protocol demands a post-simulation debrief, but protocol can go straight to hell right now.

I stride past her, out the door, into the hallway. My steps quicken with each passing meter, until I'm nearly running by the time I reach the officer's deck. For once, I’m happy that the ship's corridors are empty.

The door to my quarters slides open at my approach and seals behind me with a soft hiss. Only then do I allow myself to double over, one hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to my mouth.

I don't vomit, though my body threatens to. Instead, I stand there, fighting to regain control of my body.

"What the fuck was that?" I ask out loud. And suddenly, I can’t bear to wear the uniform anymore. It’s tainted, I find myself thinking, even though that’s obviously nonsense. ARTEMIS has tainted it.

I strip it off with frantic movements. Then, I stumble naked to the bathroom, slap the shower control to its hottest setting, and step under the scalding spray.

I scrub at my skin until it's red and raw, as if I could somehow wash away the memory of that simulation. But it clings to me.

Sigh. This panicked reaction is unbecoming of me. I was chosen for this command for a reason. I can handle an overzealous artificial intelligence.

Even if I do feel like ARTEMIS did just kinda sorta maybe rape me.

I wrap myself in towels and crash on the bed. For a while, I just lie there in the darkness, listening to the subtle hum of the Starkiller's systems around me.

Tomorrow I'll enter the interface again. Tomorrow I'll allow ARTEMIS back into my mind.

And somewhere in the deep recesses of my consciousness, just below the revulsion, I feel a flutter of anticipation at the thought of connection. At the promise of chemical reward. At the prospect of approval from ARTEMIS.

That terrifies me more than any secessionist fleet ever could.

TO BE CONTINUED…