Red, orange, a deep dark blue and hints of sharp green. Chaotic molecular clouds, faintly illuminated by the ionizing gases, emitting a hellish deep red aura that engulfs all astronomical objects within the nebula. True to its name, the shape of Jellyfish nebula vaguely matches that of its earthly counterpart. A vast dome of luminous gas, 70 lightyears wide, and tendrils of red and blue that stretch equally far downwards. Like giant venomous stingers, ready to strike anything and everyone unfortunate enough to come within range. At its core sits a neutron star. A relic of the supernova that created the surrounding structure many years ago. What remains of the star is no bigger than a couple of kilometers in diameter. A microscopic size in astronomical terms, and only a fraction of the star's former glory as a supergiant. The scanners indicate that the star is roughly 600 million years of age, but even now the heat that is radiating from the tiny spec of light in the distance is enough to melt and disintegrate anything that dares to approach it within several lightseconds.

This is the view that dominates the vista from the cockpit of my Lakon-spaceways Asp explorer. A welcome change from the never ending blackness and monotony of deep space. Still, only a few centimeters of reinforced glass and lightweight complex metallic alloys are what stand between me and the deadly radiation of the beautiful scenery in front of me. I curse my own mind for coming up with such pessimistic thoughts at moments like this, but I can't help it. After well over 5 years of flying exploration vessels, the vast emptiness and perils of space still make me nervous at times. I quickly disperse the thought and continue logging the data from the surface scan of the neutron star.

'Jen, log temperature data and black-body radiation levels of stellar object CXOU J061705.3+222127'

'Data logged, commander' the synthetic voice of the ship's computer replies.

The original designation of the voice computer interface was ASTRA. I never bothered looking up what the abbreviation stood for. After all, the voice command function is inefficient and cumbersome at best. That was my initial opinion. Most functions of the spaceship, like logging data from surface scans, is automated by default and require no human interaction at all. Only after a couple of weeks in space does the true purpose of ASTRA reveal itself.

Exploration is a lonely venture, and often leaves pilots without human interaction for months, sometimes years. Being several lightyears away from inhabited space, traditional communication methods become impossible. Alternatives such as quantum entanglement communication are expensive, power demanding and still experimental. While my ship does have the means to use this technology, there is no way I can do so on a regular basis. Casual chatter is out of the question. Being devoid of human interaction for so long, even the synthetic sound of an artificial intelligence can become comforting. Of course, ASTRA is by no means an actual artificial intelligence. The only places where one would be able to find a genuine AI would be on board of military installations, capital class frigates or larger research stations. No, an AI would be wasted on a simple exploration vessel such as my humble Asp. ASTRA is nothing but a way to communicate with the ship's functions. An interface, a glorified keyboard, nothing more.

I was never much of a people person. Back on my homeworld, Eravate 5, you could count the amount of people I had ever considered a friend on both hands, and I would spend most of my free time in solitude. But only after I left Eravate 5 I discovered what true loneliness felt like. Choosing to spend your time alone is one thing, but being separated from the nearest human being by over a thousand lightyears is a whole other experience. So, to satisfy my basic human instincts to some degree, I enabled ASTRA shortly after, renamed her Jen after an old high school sweetheart, and spent more and more time interacting with 'her'. At first I would simply have her perform tasks that would normally be automated, but after a while I would have her repeat entries from the onboard database, simply to hear a somewhat humanlike voice.

'Jen, what is the biggest star in the known universe?' I ask.

'The largest known star is VY Canis Majoris in the Canis Majoris constellation with an approximate size of 2600 solar radii' she replies with her monotonous computer generated voice.

'Jen, where can the nearest black hole be found?'

'The nearest black hole can be found in the PHEIA AIN BA-A G1 system, 248.70 lightyears from our current position.' Was that a hint of annoyance? I wouldn't be surprised considering It had become a habit to ask the same question thrice a day.

'Jen, when did the bi- ' as I try to suppress a yawn, without success.

'Please rephrase the question' Jen drones, as if to mock me and my pathetic humanoid flaws.

I pause for a moment to rub my eyes and take a sip of my coffee in an attempt to shake off the fatigue that had been creeping up on me.

'Jen, what is the meaning of life?' I ask jokingly.

'My database contains no such information, please rephrase the question' Jen states.

A stupid question. Jen's database contains vast knowledge on biological, geological and astronomical matters, but is as ignorant as a newborn about almost everything else, let alone philosophical topics. 'My database contains no such information.. ' I murmur to myself while staring at the malevolent red haze of the nebula through the canopy.

'How long has it been since we left Ackerman Market?' Ackerman Market is the name of a civilian space station orbiting my homeworld, Eravate 5. It serves as a trading hub, as well as a popular departure point for fellow explorers since it trades in high tech scanning equipment.

'It has been 1 year, 13 weeks, 12 hours and 54 minutes in Earth time since egress' she replies, as emotionless as ever. 'You are currently 5074.48 lightyears from your point of departure'

This current expedition is by far the longest I have endured during my time as a pilot. Far longer than the standard zero-g exploratory missions by Federation standards. Long time exposure to low or zero gravity environments can do nasty things to the human body. Decreased production of red blood cells, degeneration of muscles and skeleton, excess flatulence, to name a few. The medicines and supplements that I have to swallow in order to suppress those symptoms almost replace my daily meals entirely. Drinking hot coffee from a plastic bag sure isn't helping morale either, I think to myself as I take another sip.

For long term exploration missions they usually send large, multi crewed ships with rotating sections to simulate gravity. My Asp has no such luxury. What it does have is speed. Unlike the larger vessels that, due to their fragile airframe and high mass, can only jump up to 5 lightyears at a time, the Asp can manage jumps up to 30 lightyears. With a state of the art Faster-Than-Light drive, sturdy airframe and low mass it makes a formidable exploration vessel. This feature is exactly why I am sitting here right now, over 5000 lightyears away from home without having seen a living soul for well over a year. Speed is of the utmost importance.

'Jen, what is our current objective?' I ask.

'To map and gather surface data on uncharted proto-stars and rare astronomical formations in the PHEIA and Jellyfish sectors' She replies matter-of-factly.

Of course, nothing could be further from the truth.