Arthur Neegan shifted in the acceleration couch, the webbing rasping against his coverall. In front of him a thumb‑sized display, bolted to the bulkhead with four utilitarian screws, scrolled through diagnostics in lurid green letters:
ATTITUDE 000.03°
REACTION MASS
78 % CABIN pO₂
20.8 kPa
CREW: 3 + 1 GUEST
Guest, Arthur thought sourly. More like conscript.
Across the narrow aisle two Antares “diplomatic aides” sat erect, matte‑black carbines clipped to their pressure suits. Their orange pauldrons bore the stylised double star of the Antares Diplomatic Corps—an organisation legendary for having negotiated eighty‑seven treaties and fired the opening salvo in at least thirty of them.
“Comfortable, Mister Neegan?” the senior aide asked. The tone was courteous; the eyes behind the visor impassive.
“I’d be more comfortable in my own habitat with a mug of recycled coffee,” Arthur answered. “Where exactly are we going?” “Orbital platform T‑Seven. A representative is eager to speak with you.” “You people always eager,” he muttered, but the aide merely inclined his helmeted head.
The thrusters fluttered to life. Mars fell away—a rust‑red disk veined with lights of the growing mining towns. Arthur’s personal claim lay somewhere down there, the lonely Quade Crater dig site where he’d planted a geologist’s flag two years ago. Beneath it—under a mere thirty metres of basalt—rested a filamentous seam of Azra ore that glowed eerily violet in ultraviolet lanterns and accelerated uranium decay by a factor of ten thousand. He had kept the find quiet; obviously not quiet enough.
The shuttle clanged into docking clamps. Hatches irised. Synthetic air with a hint of ozone swept in.
“After you,” the aide said, all politesse.
Arthur floated through a short transfer tube into a cylindrical lounge. Plexi viewports revealed a pearly line-of-sight to Phobos, its surface freckled with military tracking dishes. Someone had gone to expense: brushed‑aluminium panels, a ring of mag‑boots for those who disliked free‑fall, a tea service clipped to a rail.
Waiting in the centre, one boot magnetised to the deck, was a tall woman in a charcoal tunic. No weapons visible, which only meant they were hidden better. Her pale hair was drawn into a geometric bun, and a small pin on her collar showed the same Antares double‑star, rendered in platinum.
“Arthur Neegan.” Her voice was low, precise. “I am Envoy Linnea Vor. Thank you for accepting our invitation.” Arthur caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth—amusement at calling a compulsory escort an invitation.
“I’m a reasonable man, Envoy Vor,” he said. “And reason tells me your men could have dragged me here tied to a cargo pallet. This way I still have my dignity.”
“Precisely.” She gestured to a tethered chair opposite her own. “Shall we dispense with the customary refreshments and proceed to business?”
Business. As if they were haggling over spare drill bits. Arthur strapped himself in. “I suppose you know about the vein.”
“We know many things,” Vor replied. “What matters is what other people are guessing. At last count, five corporate consortia, two naval intelligence services, and the Martian Syndics Council suspect you sit on the largest Azra deposit ever recorded.”
“Suspect isn’t confirm.”
The Envoy’s fingers tapped a neat rhythm on a slate. “Mister Neegan, one of our probes lifted a sample from your refuse slag last week. The spectroscopic signature left no doubt. Congratulations.”
Arthur’s stomach went hollow. He had been careful—he thought.
Vor went on. “The moment word spreads, a dozen entities will try persuasion, then coercion. We intend to spare you that inconvenience.”
“How altruistic.”
“Altruism,” she said lightly, “is a luxury for stable epochs. This is not one. Azra is rewriting the strategic balance of the Spur. A gram can poison a fission warhead into early detonation, or halve an interstellar transit time. Whoever controls supply dictates the pace of colonisation—and of war.”
We’re starting to get awfully close to a “system capable of writing things that we deem worth reading.” Recent models quietly got really good at independent creative writing, especially if you have a slightly fleshed-out initial idea.
Reading LLM writing captures the broader feeling of “maybe close to TAI” better than SWE-bench et. al alone.
o3 writing sample (representative)
Arthur Neegan shifted in the acceleration couch, the webbing rasping against his coverall. In front of him a thumb‑sized display, bolted to the bulkhead with four utilitarian screws, scrolled through diagnostics in lurid green letters:
ATTITUDE 000.03°
REACTION MASS
78 % CABIN pO₂
20.8 kPa
CREW: 3 + 1 GUEST
Guest, Arthur thought sourly. More like conscript.
Across the narrow aisle two Antares “diplomatic aides” sat erect, matte‑black carbines clipped to their pressure suits. Their orange pauldrons bore the stylised double star of the Antares Diplomatic Corps—an organisation legendary for having negotiated eighty‑seven treaties and fired the opening salvo in at least thirty of them.
“Comfortable, Mister Neegan?” the senior aide asked. The tone was courteous; the eyes behind the visor impassive.
“I’d be more comfortable in my own habitat with a mug of recycled coffee,” Arthur answered. “Where exactly are we going?”
“Orbital platform T‑Seven. A representative is eager to speak with you.”
“You people always eager,” he muttered, but the aide merely inclined his helmeted head.
The thrusters fluttered to life. Mars fell away—a rust‑red disk veined with lights of the growing mining towns. Arthur’s personal claim lay somewhere down there, the lonely Quade Crater dig site where he’d planted a geologist’s flag two years ago. Beneath it—under a mere thirty metres of basalt—rested a filamentous seam of Azra ore that glowed eerily violet in ultraviolet lanterns and accelerated uranium decay by a factor of ten thousand. He had kept the find quiet; obviously not quiet enough.
The shuttle clanged into docking clamps. Hatches irised. Synthetic air with a hint of ozone swept in.
“After you,” the aide said, all politesse.
Arthur floated through a short transfer tube into a cylindrical lounge. Plexi viewports revealed a pearly line-of-sight to Phobos, its surface freckled with military tracking dishes. Someone had gone to expense: brushed‑aluminium panels, a ring of mag‑boots for those who disliked free‑fall, a tea service clipped to a rail.
Waiting in the centre, one boot magnetised to the deck, was a tall woman in a charcoal tunic. No weapons visible, which only meant they were hidden better. Her pale hair was drawn into a geometric bun, and a small pin on her collar showed the same Antares double‑star, rendered in platinum.
“Arthur Neegan.” Her voice was low, precise. “I am Envoy Linnea Vor. Thank you for accepting our invitation.” Arthur caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth—amusement at calling a compulsory escort an invitation.
“I’m a reasonable man, Envoy Vor,” he said. “And reason tells me your men could have dragged me here tied to a cargo pallet. This way I still have my dignity.”
“Precisely.” She gestured to a tethered chair opposite her own. “Shall we dispense with the customary refreshments and proceed to business?”
Business. As if they were haggling over spare drill bits. Arthur strapped himself in. “I suppose you know about the vein.”
“We know many things,” Vor replied. “What matters is what other people are guessing. At last count, five corporate consortia, two naval intelligence services, and the Martian Syndics Council suspect you sit on the largest Azra deposit ever recorded.”
“Suspect isn’t confirm.”
The Envoy’s fingers tapped a neat rhythm on a slate. “Mister Neegan, one of our probes lifted a sample from your refuse slag last week. The spectroscopic signature left no doubt. Congratulations.”
Arthur’s stomach went hollow. He had been careful—he thought.
Vor went on. “The moment word spreads, a dozen entities will try persuasion, then coercion. We intend to spare you that inconvenience.”
“How altruistic.”
“Altruism,” she said lightly, “is a luxury for stable epochs. This is not one. Azra is rewriting the strategic balance of the Spur. A gram can poison a fission warhead into early detonation, or halve an interstellar transit time. Whoever controls supply dictates the pace of colonisation—and of war.”