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Space Station: Trebuchet Etherian Moonlet #1
Eighteen years before the Spire Accords
In the silence, a space station floated, tethered to a gravity well that orbited a common yellow star. The mass at the center of the well should have been a planet. The sensors registered a pull, an unmistakable presence.
They called the planet that had once existed there—and still did, just beyond sight—"Etheria." Even now, its absence had both weight and mass. A shadow that still bent space around it—unseen but undeniable.
The homeworld’s physicists would have been fascinated.
If any still lived.
The space station's corridors were haunted—not by ghosts, but by echoes of those who should have lived here. It had been built to be a spaceport. A forward base for their great war. Once, it had hummed with activity, bristled with weapons. Even after the catastrophe severed Etheria from the rest of the galaxy, the base remained hidden, camouflaged within a moon’s excavated shell—now indistinguishable from a drifting asteroid.
For the longest time, the space station had at most three inhabitants.
Adoras, all of them. Each born to the same name. The same face. The same purpose: to end the War.
And every one of them had failed.
Sometimes, as she walked the empty halls, the current caretaker wondered if she had ever been meant to succeed.
At intervals as steady as a pulsar, the ritual began again. The computer detected vacillations in the shadow dimension’s magnetic field, the bending of space, and the faint shifts in reality that hinted at an opening. The cosmos had resisted them, cycle after cycle, as if rejecting their purpose.
Most of the time, she was alone. Light Hope’s communications were infrequent and strained;and her mother died years ago. To keep herself sane and her mind sharp, Adora had every diversion one could have, including various holographic companions based on people who once inhabited the station. Unfortunately, due to the sensitivity of the Etheria project, none of the holograms had been given an AI, and they were all beginning to degrade. Adora’s mother said that they had been failing for several lifetimes.
As a child, Adora liked to explore the station on her own.
When the great clockwork of the cosmos created the right conditions, the current Adora dutifully retrieved a newborn from stasis and began the launch sequence, fingers tracing the faded controls. The countdown, spoken aloud reverently. Each Adora cradled the infants, each identical to herself and as soft and unknowing as she had once been. Every single Adora always told herself that this would be the one. This would be the child who would succeed.
None did.
The current, living Adora sat at the console near the airlock, feeling the pull of the shadow planet below. It was all in her mind, of course. She could no more feel the planet’s pull than she could breathe in the vacuum. Three times in her life, the opportunity came. The last had been five standard years ago, before her own mother's death.
The last failure, followed by the death of her mother in an accident, had left Now-Adora unhinged- Or at least that is what Light Hope said when she found out what she had done.
The moonlet's gravity came from the magical generators deep beneath her feet. They could never have made it work as a long-term settlement without magic.
Her spacesuit was light and airy. The magic in the fabric separated her from the punishing reality of space so that a spacewalk only required a normal flight suit and helmet. Their power came from Etheria’s natural magical field as well as the solar energy from Etheria’s sun.
So many good things came from their magical experiments.
Etheria called to her, teasingly just out of phase with this dimension, though she could only glimpse it through the haze of failing instruments and dim echoes of a memory she could never quite reach. Sometimes, she would put on a spacesuit and walk upon the surface of the little moon to stare into the void where the planet should be.
She wondered how the inhabitants felt when the stars disappeared.
The almost two-year-old child sat on her lap, and together, they traced the letters of their people’s alphabet.
“A-D-O-R-A” Adora pointed to each letter in turn. “Adora,” she said the name and then poked the little girl playfully in the tummy. “That’s you.”
“Adora! Adora! Adora!” the infant giggled.
The giggle was infectious, making her laugh even though her chest ached with a mixture of pride and dread. For a moment, Adora let herself luxuriate in the sound and soak in the feel of the child against her heart. Adora loved to read from the children’s books that were kept so that she might raise her successor-- teach them to read and count.
Her ancestors had sent newborns to Etheria, but that seemed madness. Even if the conveyance did not burn up in the jump, the fragile baby would not even be old enough to eat solid food. If the child were not found by Light Hope (or some kind soul willing to rear a strange child)immediately, she would die.
Adora did not think that even her mother and grandmother had ever considered how far down the technological scale Etheria had fallen. It was likely that the child they sent would die of starvation, even if the locals did pick her up. Who knew if the local mammals had milk a human child could digest? Did Light Hope know how to synthesize formula from goats or cows?
It made far more sense to send an older infant. A toddler, even. Still too young to remember this ancient space station but old enough to be taught some fundamental reading skills. They were bred to be advanced for their years. They could easily learn to read before eighteen months old if they were taught.
An Adora of long ago had left written notes about this- -hidden in an old utility closet that the Adora of now had found when she was a child.
Adora had read it in secret, hidden away in the maintenance closet where no cameras could see. The notes were written in longhand rather than typed into the computer. The words were sharp, raw, and defiant—a record of truths erased from the official logs. Not just one Adora, but several had contributed.
She wondered if her own words might one day sit alongside these, hidden for another Adora to find.
The notebook had been… enlightening.
This Adora was not yet of the age where she would have to begin training her successor. However, when her mother died prematurely, Adora decanted an embryo into one of the incubators, allowing it to grow into a baby and then a child. Light Hope allowed it because she knew that Adora needed a companion, but she had cautioned that this child could never be a caretaker. This child would need to be sent at the appointed time.
"Do not become attached."
Recklessly, defiantly, Adora loved the child from the moment she spilled from the vitrine, telling herself she would find a way. Only now, the stars had aligned, and instead of decanting a newborn, she looked down at the child in her lap.
Light Hope would not let this child live. The notebook recorded several instances of disobedience and its consequences. Her mother had warned her. This was a terrible idea. How could she send this child who had taken residence in her heart? How could she send her to face the odds?
This seemed so wrong. But, was it morally better somehow to send other people’s faceless children to fight a war? At least this way, Adora would understand the struggle other mothers might have when they sent their children to fight.
“Life is a risk,” The long-ago Adora had said to a room full of stakeholders and decision-makers. “ These children have just as much chance of surviving and thriving as any of our children do now..”
In the video or the meeting, cold silence met that statement. Each of these career military or political leaders looked away from each other as they nodded in agreement.
That first Adora was in charge of the project, and she had donated her own genetic material to create the clones. Millions of embryos were frozen. Of those millions, thousands had been sent on their desperate mission.
One only needed to view the vids from the invasion of their outer colonies to understand what was at stake. And every day, the Horde nibbled away at their territory, getting closer and closer to the Homeworld. They needed access to the Heart of Etheria Project.
Every week, the Adora-of-now sent a report back to the Homeworld. Of course, Adora had never had any communication from there. Neither did her mother or her grandmother. Light Hope said that was to be expected.
The child reached for her. “Mama?” She wrapped her tiny hand around Adora’s finger. “Mama cry?”
“Shhh.” Adora’s face was wet with tears. She had to do this. She had to! The message beacon from the planet had flared. Instead of a newborn, Adora led a two-year-old to the accelerator. “I’m okay.”
“Come on. Drink your juice.” Adora handed the little girl the sedative-laced sugar water. When the girl put the empty sippy cup down, Adora hoisted her onto her hip. "It's time for bed.”
“Time for bed.” Adora had been taking the toddler to sleep in the capsule for months so she would not be frightened of it. Now, it was just her “Big Girl Bed.”
“Look at the stars. Aren't they pretty?"
Now-Adora had to take this chance. Light Hope had made that clear enough that she had no choice. “Deviation from the program will be punished.” The hologram had informed them when she brought the idea up.
“But why not send an older child? Or even a grown woman?” Adora had asked after her mother died. “At least someone who can consent !?”
“It has been found that raising a child from infancy is the best way to ensure that the Chosen One has adequate skills to bond with the sword. It has also been found that caregivers who have become attached lack the objectivity to allow the child to take on her mission.”
Because it had proven to be a suicide mission for so many years.
“It was not approved that you should raise your successor yet. This Adora has not received the necessary upgrades.” The hologram had told her in their last communication.
Now-Adora did not mention that her own mother, the prior Adora, had not modified Now-Adora’s genes. Her mother had suspected that small tweaks in their genetic code had been made to make them more agreeable and easier to manipulate. That was likely why Now-Adora never bothered to ask permission for anything she did.
“Deviation from the program will not be tolerated,” Light Hope intoned, her holographic face flickering in and out. “Your attachment compromises the mission. Do you understand the consequences?”
Adora’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”
“Good.” The hologram glitched, its expression unchanging. “Then you will proceed with the launch. The subject will depart within the hour, or I will correct your failure myself.”
Adora had expected this. She thought she was prepared for it. But when the words finally came, she still flinched. A chill ran down her spine, a terrible, sinking certainty curling in her gut. She had no time to react before her ears popped violently as the pressure dropped. Adora staggered, instinctively clawing at her throat, her vision blurring at the edges.
The hiss of decompression was deafening as the air was ripped from her lungs.
Light Hope’s voice remained calm. Unbothered. As if she were simply adjusting a thermostat. "You are not indispensable to this project. It will proceed with or without your cooperation."
Adora collapsed to her knees. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision.
"And the child will need to be studied." That single, clinical word—"studied." As if the child was nothing. As if she was a specimen, a thing, a problem to dissect and solve.
No!
The air rushed back into the room and into Adora's lungs. She gasped and coughed, choking on relief, trembling as Light Hope’s hologram flickered.
“You will comply,” the AI intoned. The station hummed around her, making it very clear who controlled life support.
Adora knew she had no choice. If she fought, if she refused—she would die. And the child—her child—would be worse than dead.
"Studied," Light Hope had said. But Adora understood the atrocities that lay behind the word.
Her hands shook as she reached for the capsule controls. There was no other way. If she kept the child, she would be dooming her. But if she sent her down—if she took the risk… There was still a flicker of a chance—an infinitesimal, fragile hope.
She lowered the child into the capsule, sleepy from the sedatives, fighting the sob that rose in her throat. The little girl blinked up at her sleepily, curling her tiny fingers in Adora’s sleeve.
She didn’t understand. She trusted Adora completely. And Adora was about to let her go.
Her fingers brushed against the soft strands of the child’s pale hair, tracing one last memory into her skin—the weight of her, the warmth. And then she lay the girl, already half asleep, into the conveyance. She would feel nothing if this failed. Before she closed the hatch, Adora stared, etching every detail into her heart—the tiny rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers curled slightly, the softness of her features. "I love you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please remember that. Always."
"She-Ra, if you can hear me… protect her." Adora pressed both hands against the glass, feeling the cold barrier between them, imagining she could feel the small warmth on the other side. "She is mine. My heart and soul." Her voice trembled. "Please. Please keep her safe." The words felt like a prayer. She-Ra was a slumbering goddess, after all.
Each step toward the bridge was agony.
Her fingers hovered over the launch lever. She had thought this moment through a thousand times, imagined how it would feel, how it would break her. But nothing had prepared her for this. Her body screamed at her to stop, to hold on, to not let go.
But there was no choice. Not really. Not if she wanted the child to have even the slightest chance.
She pushed the lever home.
The capsule hummed to life, its systems casting cold light over the sleeping child’s face.
The clamps disengaged. The power spun up, ready to fling the missile at the planet.
Adora had always thought the ignition of the device should sound like an explosion. The station should shake beneath her feet, and the universe should feel the weight of what they had done. That something should acknowledge their terrible crime. But there was no explosion. No protest from the stars. Only a low, electric whir.
"Capsule away."
Light Hope’s voice was flat. Unfeeling. It was just another launch, just another function.
The world shattered. Adora choked back a sob, her body shaking—then it broke free, a raw, agonized howl ripped from her chest, a sound too big for her body to contain. The weight of generations of failure, loss, and exile crashed over her all at once.
And then—something happened.
Golden light erupted from the planet below, rippling in waves and flooding the station with warmth and radiance. Adora staggered, shielding her eyes, her breath catching. It wasn’t the cold, blue glow of the station’s systems. It was alive.
For the first time in a thousand years, the void did not take. The stars did not turn away.
Something reached back.
The light wrapped around the capsule, a golden barrier, a pair of unseen hands cradling something fragile. It touched her face, her chest, her hands. And she felt it—something vast, something ancient and beautiful, something that had been waiting.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and for the first time, she understood.
The magic was never what they thought. She-Ra spirit did not respond to duty. It did not answer to sacrifice. It did not awaken for obedience.
As the capsule vanished into Etheria’s dark pull, the golden light lingered in the air, soft as dust motes, warm as a promise.
On the monitor, the sign the mother had prayed for appeared. Etheria shivered into view, and her heart leaped in gratitude. The portal revealed not a void, not a grave, but a living world—blues and greens spinning serenely beneath her.
The golden light spilled through its atmosphere, cradling the capsule—as if the planet itself had been waiting.
Adora stood alone, feeling its warmth sink into her bones. As the golden light faded, her head sank to the floor. She trembled as reality changed shape. For her whole life, she believed that She-Ra was a weapon, a force of power meant to end the war. That was what she had been told, what they had thought for a thousand years. But now, the magic showed her the truth.
She-Ra was older than war, deeper than duty. Perhaps as old as the planet itself. As old as the voices of the stars.
Retrieving the old notebook from its hiding place, Adora-the-Elder crouched on the floor of that hidden room. Her hands shook as she opened it, the pages filled with the words of other Adoras who had come before her. Each one had tried. Each one had failed. Only one thing was different. Because of that, for the first time in a thousand years, She-Ra had found a heart that could hold Her.
Adora-the-Elder picked up the pen, pausing before she began to write:
She-Ra does not serve.
She does not obey.
She is not a weapon.
As she wrote, Adora-the-Child fell toward the planet’s shadow dimension, cradled in golden light.
Etheria had always been a shadow, a thing unseen. But now—white light rippled through dimensions, refracting into a billion rainbows, shaking the station, stirring the silence of space itself before the wave retreated.
As if it had been waiting for her.
Adora pressed the pen to the page.
Ink and gravity. Word and motion.
Her words pressed into history, etching themselves into the fabric of the cosmos.
A declaration. A defiance.
A truth greater than duty.
A truth the stars had always known.
She-Ra is love.