Time travel to witness humanity's most pivotal space battle near Betelgeuse. What I saw there changed everything.
📍 Destination: Betelgeuse System, Orion Constellation 📅 Date/Era: April 17-19, 2291 CE ⏱️ Duration: 72 hours (observation only) 💰 Budget: 8,500 Chronostatic Credits (€10,200 equivalent) ⚠️ Risk: ★★★★★ 🎒 Essential: Temporal anchor, anti-radiation medication, psychological prep session, trauma counseling waiver
History remembers the dates. History forgets the screaming.
I went to April 2291 to witness what historians call the Battle of Betelgeuse—humanity's first major interstellar conflict, the event that ended the brief Golden Age of peaceful expansion and began the long wars that would define the 24th century. The textbooks show clean tactical diagrams. Fleet positions. Casualty numbers: 47,000 dead.
What they don't show is that each of those 47,000 people died screaming into vacuum that doesn't carry sound.
I know. I watched it happen.
The Approach (Or: When Your Hands Won't Stop Shaking)
The Chrononauts Inc. briefing took four hours. Lin Zhao—yes, that's me, and yes, I'm writing this in first person because objectivity died somewhere between jump coordinates and witnessing the end of 47,000 lives—the briefing officer emphasized three critical points:
- This is observation only. No contact. No intervention. The Geneva Temporal Convention is absolute.
- The psychological impact will be severe. Mandatory counseling sessions included in the package price.
- Betelgeuse is a dying star. Radiation shielding at maximum. Don't look directly at it without protective filters.
I signed the waivers. All seventeen pages. My mentor, Professor Wei, once told me: "The archaeologist in you wants to see great moments of history. The time traveler knows better." He was talking about observing the Library of Alexandria before the fire. He should have been talking about this.
The temporal jump itself was... Look, I've made forty-three chronostatic transitions in my career. Ancient Rome, Tang Dynasty China, pre-Columbian Americas. This one felt different. The usual sensation—that momentary vertigo as your atoms exist in two timestreams simultaneously—was overlaid with something else. Dread, maybe. The universe itself seemed to whisper: You don't want to see this.
I went anyway.
Day 1: Before (The Last Quiet Morning in Human History)
We materialized—my observation vessel and six other temporal tourists—at designated safe coordinates: 2.4 AU from Betelgeuse, far enough from the future battle zone to remain undetected. The star itself dominated the viewport.
I'd seen Betelgeuse through telescopes from Earth. I'd studied its spectral data, knew it was 700 times larger than our sun, knew it was dying—already in its red supergiant phase, maybe centuries from going supernova. Knowing is not the same as seeing.
Imagine if you replaced our sun with Betelgeuse. It would swallow Mercury, Venus, Earth, and Mars. Its surface would reach nearly to Jupiter's orbit. Now imagine looking at that enormous, swollen, crimson sphere from close range—close enough to see the massive convection cells roiling on its surface, each one larger than Earth's orbit. Close enough to feel the radiation prickling against your ship's shields despite being millions of kilometers away.
My grandmother Li used to say: "In Mandarin, we have 红 (hóng) for red, but we also have 朱 (zhū) for the red of dying embers." Betelgeuse wasn't hóng. It was zhū. The red of endings.
The Fleet arrived at 0600 hours, local time reference.
Two formations: the Solar Federation forces (twelve capital ships, forty-seven frigates, countless support vessels) and the Extrasolar Independence Coalition (nine capitals, thirty-one frigates, unknown support craft). They'd been arguing about mining rights, trade routes, who controlled the outer colonies. The records show diplomatic failures, escalating tensions, ultimatums.
The truth is simpler: they came here to kill each other.
For sixteen hours, nothing happened. The two fleets faced each other across five million kilometers of vacuum. Negotiations continued via ansible. I monitored the transmissions—Chrononauts Inc. can intercept most communications from past eras. Historians know the talks failed. What they don't know is that both sides tried. Right up until 2218 hours, both sides tried.
I made tea in the observation vessel's tiny galley. Green tea, because some rituals keep you grounded when you're watching the future from 265 years in its past. The other temporal observers were quiet. We all knew what was coming.
At 2219 hours, someone—history still doesn't know who fired first—opened fire.
Day 2: During (What Silence Sounds Like)
Here's what space battles look like in the movies: lasers, explosions, dramatic music, heroic sacrifices.
Here's what they actually look like:
2219:03 - First weapons discharge. Particle beam from EIC flagship Liberator (later analysis confirms they fired first, though both sides claimed otherwise for decades). Beam travels at 0.7c—seventy percent lightspeed. At five million kilometers, impact occurs 23.8 seconds after firing.
2219:27 - Federation frigate Zheng He hit amidships. Hull breach. I watched through the observation scope—maximum magnification, because we're morbid creatures who have to see, have to know. The ship didn't explode like in the movies. It just... opened. Like someone unzipping a jacket. Atmosphere vented in a crystalline plume that caught Betelgeuse's red light and turned into a cloud of frozen blood.
Three hundred twelve people were aboard Zheng He. I know because I checked the records before this trip. I know their names. I know fifty-seven of them were in the breached sections.
They died in about six seconds.
2220:00 - Federation returns fire. All ships. The doctrine was clear: overwhelming response.
What followed was sixteen hours of systematic destruction.
I'm a scholar. I deal in facts, dates, archaeological evidence. So here are the facts:
Modern space warfare occurs across distances too vast for human perception. Targeting is done by AI, firing solutions calculated in microseconds. Ships thousands of kilometers apart exchange fire at relativistic speeds. By the time you see the flash of a weapon discharge, the beam has already hit its target.
Which means you watch ships die without seeing what killed them. One moment a frigate is maneuvering into position. The next, it's tumbling, venting atmosphere and debris and people. The flash of the beam that killed it appears seconds later—if atmospheric conditions and angles allow you to see it at all.
Space is silent. Everyone knows this. But knowing it intellectually is different from experiencing it. I watched Liberator—the EIC flagship, 2,400 crew—take a direct hit from Federation capital ship Beijing's main battery. The explosion was enormous: reactor detonation, probably. Through the scope I could see the ship crack in half. Could see smaller explosions rippling through both sections. Could see debris—hull plating, components, supplies, bodies—spraying outward in a growing cloud.
And I heard nothing. Absolute silence except for my own breathing and the soft hum of the observation vessel's life support.
Consider this: we've sent people to war for ten thousand years. For nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine of those years, war had sound. Drums, war cries, gunfire, explosions. Sound meant danger. Silence meant safety.
In space, it's reversed. The silence is the killing.
I vomited twice during those sixteen hours. I wasn't alone—three of the six other observers did too. Chrononauts Inc. provides bags for this purpose. They know what they're sending people to see.
By hour eight, I stopped watching through the scope. I couldn't. The ship's AI provided tactical overlays instead—abstract icons representing vessels, color-coded by faction, blinking out one by one as ships were destroyed. It was easier that way. Clinical. Each disappearing icon represented hundreds of people, but I could pretend they were just data points.
Until 0847 hours on Day 2.
The Tianjin (What I Wish I Hadn't Seen)
Federation frigate Tianjin. 340 crew. Named for a city in northern China, not far from Beijing. I have family from that region. Distant cousins. The ship's name made it real in a way the others hadn't been.
Tianjin was withdrawing—one of its reactors was damaged, maneuvering capability limited. The battle had turned into a chaotic melee by this point. Initial formations had collapsed. Ships were scattered across millions of cubic kilometers, still firing, still dying.
An EIC destroyer—Freedom's Price, records show—pursued. Fired three times. First shot missed. Second hit Tianjin's aft shields, weakened them. Third shot went clean through.
The beam—particle accelerator weapon, traveling at 0.85c—entered through the engine section and exited through the bow. It vaporized everything in its path: bulkheads, equipment, people. The ship's structural integrity failed. It began breaking apart.
Here's what I saw through the scope that I wish I hadn't:
An emergency pod launched from the dying ship. Standard procedure—automated launch when hull integrity fails. The pod was tumbling slightly, thrusters firing to stabilize. Inside would be maybe twenty, thirty crew. Survival protocol. The pods have air, supplies, beacons. In peacetime, rescue arrives within hours.
This wasn't peacetime.
Freedom's Price fired again. Deliberately. Targeted the pod.
Direct hit. The pod flashed once and went dark. Twenty to thirty people, murdered deliberately in their moment of desperate hope.
I know what you're thinking: war is hell, fog of war, maybe they thought it was a weapons platform, maybe it was an accident.
It wasn't. I watched Freedom's Price track that pod. Watched it adjust firing solution. Watched it fire.
The Geneva Temporal Convention prohibits intervention in observed historical events. Article 7, Section 3: "Observers shall not, under any circumstances, communicate with, interact with, or attempt to alter observed timestreams."
I wanted to scream a warning. Send a message. Something. The communications array was right there. I could have—
I didn't. Because I'm a quantum archaeologist, a temporal historian, a professional observer of humanity's past. Because 47,000 people died in this battle and it happened 265 years ago and nothing I do can change it.
Because time travel gives you perfect hindsight and absolute powerlessness.
I stopped watching after that. Spent the next seven hours in my bunk, lights off, trying not to think about what I'd witnessed. Trying not to calculate how many other pods were destroyed. How many people died hoping for rescue that never came.
Day 3: After (The Math Doesn't Work)
The battle ended at 1407 hours on April 19, 2291. Not with surrender or dramatic last stands. It ended because both fleets had exhausted their weapons and will. Of the twelve Federation capitals, four survived. Of the nine EIC capitals, two. The frigate counts were similar. Hundreds of support vessels on both sides were gone.
47,000 dead. That's the historical figure.
But here's what I can't stop thinking about: the debris field.
When a ship is destroyed in space, it doesn't disappear. It becomes debris—thousands of fragments ranging from dust particles to multi-ton hull sections, all moving at orbital velocities, spreading outward in predictable trajectories.
For three hours after the battle ended, I watched rescue operations. The surviving ships searching for pods, for survivors in damaged vessels, for anyone who might be saved. They found some. The records show 4,800 people rescued from disabled ships and pods.
But the debris kept spreading. And inside some of that debris—inside shattered ship sections, inside depressurized crew compartments, inside damaged pods with failing life support—people were still alive.
I watched a damaged pod tumble through space for forty minutes. Its beacon was flashing—distress signal, automated. Rescue ships were overwhelmed, triaging, prioritizing pods with better trajectories, more survivors.
This pod was tumbling away from the main battle zone. Awkward trajectory. Rescue would require a ship to break formation, burn fuel, take time. The cost-benefit calculation didn't favor it.
The beacon flashed for forty minutes. Then stopped.
Someone inside had turned it off. Conserving power, maybe. Or giving up hope. I don't know. The records don't show that pod being recovered.
Multiply that by however many pods and damaged ship sections were scattered across millions of cubic kilometers. Multiply it by the finite number of rescue ships, finite fuel, finite time.
The official count is 47,000 dead. But I think—I can't prove it, have no evidence, just a quantum archaeologist's instinct for what evidence absence means—I think thousands more died slowly, over hours or days, in debris that was never recovered.
History remembers the battle. History forgets the ones who died after it ended, alone in the dark, waiting for rescue that never came.
Chrono-Reentry (Or: The Cost of Witnessing)
The temporal jump back to 2156—back to "now," though that word loses meaning when you travel time—was scheduled for twelve hours after battle's end. Enough time to observe immediate aftermath, collect data, witness the historical moment in full context.
I requested early departure. So did four other observers.
Chrononauts Inc. was understanding. This happens, they said. Psych evaluations are mandatory post-trip anyway. No refund for early departure, but they understood.
The jump back felt longer than it should have. Or maybe I just wanted to be out of 2291, away from Betelgeuse's dying red light and the growing debris field and the beacons that had stopped flashing.
Professor Wei met me at the Zurich facility. He took one look at my face and said, "Tea first. Report later."
We sat in his office for two hours. I told him what I'd seen. He listened. Didn't interrupt. When I finished, he said: "The archaeologist in you wanted to witness history. The time traveler warned you. Which one was right?"
I said, "Both. Neither. I don't know."
He nodded. "History needs witnesses. Even when witnessing breaks us."
What They Don't Tell You (Practical Tips for the Damned)
If you're considering this trip—and Chrononauts Inc. offers it, because people are fascinated by humanity's "great battles"—here's what you should know:
1. The psychological screening isn't paranoia. They make you talk to a counselor for three hours before approving this trip. Take it seriously. If you have any doubt about your ability to witness mass death and not intervene, don't go.
2. You can't look away enough. I thought watching tactical overlays instead of direct observation would help. It didn't. Those blinking icons haunted me as much as the visual details.
3. The mandatory counseling isn't optional. Post-trip, you meet with a trauma specialist. Minimum three sessions. This isn't bureaucracy—it's necessity. I've attended seven sessions so far. I'll probably need more.
4. Betelgeuse will give you nightmares. Not the battle. The star itself. That enormous, dying, red sphere. I dream about it regularly now—dream I'm falling into it, dream it's expanding to swallow Earth, dream it's already gone supernova and we just don't know yet because the light takes 640 years to reach us.
5. Do not research the crew manifests beforehand. I made this mistake. Knowing names, seeing faces in the historical records, then watching their ships destroyed—don't do it. The temptation is strong (we're researchers, we research), but don't.
6. Bring something from home. A book, photos, music, whatever grounds you. I had my grandmother's jade pendant. Held it during the worst parts. Helped me remember that 2291 is past, that I have a home to return to, that this isn't my timeline.
7. You will question the ethics of temporal tourism. Is it right to watch people die for entertainment? For education? Where's the line? I still don't have answers. The fact that it happened regardless of whether I observed it doesn't fully absolve the act of observation.
The Question I Can't Answer
Time travel changes how you see history. Before, dates were abstract: 2291, the Battle of Betelgeuse, 47,000 casualties. Numbers in a database. Events that shaped the timeline leading to our present.
After witnessing it—after seeing Tianjin break apart, after watching that escape pod die, after counting the beacons that stopped flashing—those numbers have faces. Have screams I couldn't hear. Have names I wish I didn't know.
But here's the question that haunts me:
I witnessed one battle. One seventy-two-hour period. 47,000 deaths (or more—I think it's more).
Human history has thousands of battles. Tens of thousands. World War II alone killed 70-85 million people. The Mongol conquests, the Taiping Rebellion, the Atlantic slave trade, centuries of colonial genocides—hundreds of millions of deaths across recorded history.
I can barely process three days and 47,000. How do we process all of it?
The archaeologist in me knows: we don't. We abstract it. Turn it into numbers, dates, historical analysis. We have to, or the weight would crush us.
The time traveler knows: that abstraction is exactly the problem.
Coming Soon
If you survive this trip emotionally intact—and I hope you do, truly—Chrononauts Inc. offers several other "pivotal historical moments" for observation. I won't be taking them.
But if you're interested:
- The Fall of Constantinople (1453 CE) - Less technologically advanced, equally devastating
- The Great Awakening (2156 CE) - The CERN dimensional breach that changed everything
- First Contact at Tau Ceti (2189 CE) - Humanity meets aliens (less traumatic, supposedly)
Lin Zhao (赵琳) is a quantum archaeologist and temporal historian specializing in pivotal moments in human history. She holds dual PhDs in Quantum Physics and Ancient History from Oxford University and is certified by Chrononauts Inc. for extreme-risk temporal observation. She lives in Xi'an, China, and is currently on indefinite leave from temporal travel work.
This article was written during her seventh post-trip counseling session. Her therapist suggested writing might help process the trauma. She's not sure it did.