"We're approaching the ring," said Chris, his voice steady yet edged with awe as the shuttle drifted through the black expanse.
"Close enough," Halley replied, her tone crisp as she adjusted the ship's position. "Suit up, people. We're stepping into history."
Outside, the Baraka Ring loomed — an impossibly vast monolith adrift in silence. Its structure spanned across the stars like the shattered crown of some forgotten god. Forged from metal so dark it devoured the surrounding starlight, the ring seemed to bleed shadows into the void. Across its scarred surface ran runes of light, faintly pulsing in slow rhythm, as though the ancient metal still remembered the heartbeat of its creators.
The ring stretched for hundreds of kilometers, its once-perfect circle fractured by time and celestial storms. Jagged towers and collapsed spires jutted from its rim, monuments to a civilization that had ruled the stars before memory began. Drifting near its edges were remnants of docking arms and massive cables, held together by faint gravity fields that still hummed weakly — the ghosts of an empire that refused to die.
The shuttle descended through a breach in the structure, metal groaning under the pull of its own gravity. Inside, the crew floated into an enormous corridor lined with ribbed supports the size of skyscrapers. The silence was suffocating.
Bjorn's eyes gleamed behind his visor. "Incredible…" he whispered. "I've read about the Baraka Rings all my life—but to stand inside one..." His voice trembled, half in disbelief, half in reverence.
"Stay sharp," said Halley, her hand on her weapon. "We don't know what's waiting for us in here."
They moved deeper into the structure, guided by faint lights flickering along the walls. The air shimmered with residual energy, ancient and restless. At last, they reached it—the control chamber.
Hidden in the farthest sector of the ring, the room was vast, cathedral-like. Machinery lined every surface—conduits, crystal arrays, and mechanical veins running along the walls. A faint pulse of light rippled through the floor, resonating with a deep hum that seemed to come from the bones of the ring itself.
And at the center stood a colossal terminal. Its surface was smooth, metallic, and scarred by time—but alive. Bjorn approached, eyes wide with wonder.
"There's still power here," he whispered. He reached out and placed his hand on the terminal.
In an instant, the chamber came alive. Lights flared along the walls, holographic screens burst into existence, and a single symbol emerged across every display—a serpent coiled around a radiant core, its golden eyes burning like molten suns.
Bjorn straightened, voice trembling. "The Baraken crest…"
At its center, the serpent twisted endlessly, surrounded by geometric rings and sacred sigils—each a mark of conquest, each a world fallen beneath the Baraken Empire.
Halley stepped closer, scanning the room. On one of the side panels, she noticed a faint light. "What's this?" she murmured, brushing her gloved hand against it.
The panel shimmered—and a holographic figure erupted into existence. A tall woman, her body woven from light and runes, her expression serene yet distant. Her short hair glowed faint green, the color of old glass.
She looked around, as though awakening from a long dream, and spoke in a language none of them recognized—a haunting, melodic tongue that echoed through the room.
Bjorn froze, recognition flashing across his face. "She's speaking Baraken," he said softly. "It's… the ancient tongue."
He stepped forward. "Hello," he said carefully, switching to her language. "We are travelers. We've come seeking passage through the ring."
The hologram turned her gaze on him. Her eyes flickered like stars through mist. "Do you know whose vessel you tread upon?" she asked.
As she spoke, fragments of her words twisted between old dialects and forgotten syntax, languages that had no place in the modern galaxy. It wasn't just her tone—it was the weight behind every syllable, the way meaning seemed to stretch across centuries.
Bjorn's mind, sharp and endlessly curious, pieced it together slowly. Her knowledge was vast, but her references… outdated. Her metaphors belonged to empires that had turned to dust long before the Baraken flag was ever raised.
That's when it struck him.
She had not lived through history.She had slept through it.
Bjorn adjusted his glasses. "I'm sorry to intrude," he replied calmly, "but tell me—what year is it?"
The woman's eyes dimmed, and she tilted her head. "Year 5047 of Imperial Rule."
The words sent a chill through the chamber. The crew exchanged glances—more than ten thousand years had passed since then.
"I appear to have been… offline," the AI said slowly. "Connect me to a nearby device. I must update my data."
Bjorn hesitated, then plugged his tablet into the terminal. Minutes passed in silence. Then, the hologram flickered again, her form stabilizing, her voice now clear—speaking the modern Terran language.
"Thank you for the update," she said softly. "I am Zoma, autonomous intelligence of the Baraken Empire. My creators are gone—erased from history—but my purpose remains."
Bjorn swallowed hard. "Your purpose?"
"To operate this portal."
Bjorn frowned. "Portal? You mean travel? Between systems?"
Zoma stepped down from the terminal, her movements almost human. "Not merely systems," she said. "Worlds. Realities. This is no ring of travel, but a gate—a passage to other universes."
The room fell silent. Only the low hum of the ancient machine filled the void.
And for the first time, the crew understood—what they had found was not a relic. It was a threshold.