Auric
Hears the threat and places it on the map. The first thing Starxis can actually ship.
Starxis builds directed energy weapons — defensive systems that engage at the speed of light, for the price of the electricity it takes to fire them.
Before you can stop a drone, you have to hear it coming.
Auric is a ring of solar posts that listen for drones — and never make a sound of their own.
Each post carries a microphone array, a radio-frequency sniffer, and a small camera. It hears the whine of rotor blades, catches the drone's control link, and confirms with a glance. Every post shares what it finds, so several of them together triangulate a contact and drop it onto one live map. Because Auric only listens, it emits nothing and reveals nothing about where it is.
Example A quadcopter crosses the fence line 300 m out. Post 2 hears its 190 Hz rotor tone; Post 4 hears the same tone a beat later. The two bearings cross — contact placed at 290 m, bearing 143°, drawn on the map two seconds after the drone appeared, with nobody having pressed a thing.
Detection is only half an answer. Sometimes you have to reach up and take it.
A word we coined for a thrown dart of light — a weapon you launch, not a beam you hold.
Lyrien is a small, fast interceptor that waits on its pad until Auric hears a threat, then launches straight at it. It flies the intercept on the shared air picture, closes to contact, and stops the target with a net or a direct hit — then, if it survives, comes home to recharge. No explosives, no laser, no magazine: the aircraft itself is the effect, and it is cheap enough to spend.
Example Auric places a quad crossing at 250 m. Lyrien launches in under two seconds, climbs onto an intercept, and closes at 40 m/s. At contact it deploys a tangle-net into the target's rotors — threat down, Lyrien recovered, both back on their pads inside a minute.
Everyone's laser is stuck on the same two problems.
Kaelum is the power plant a laser runs on: it makes the electricity, stores the surge, and carries away the heat.
A laser turns only thirty to fifty percent of its electricity into light — the rest becomes heat that has to go somewhere, every shot. Kaelum packages generation, battery storage, power conditioning, and cooling into one trailer-sized machine. A beam director bolts straight onto it. On its own it is the engine room every laser program needs and few have built.
Example A director demands a 100 kW pulse for six seconds. Kaelum's buffer delivers the surge without straining the generator, feeds the beam clean conditioned power, and dumps ~150 kW of waste heat into its cooling loop — then holds temperature steady, ready to do it again a second later.
A beam that can't hold still is a flashlight.
Oculyn aims the beam and holds it dead still on a moving target — the reticle beside this text is doing exactly that.
Destroying a drone means keeping the beam on one coin-sized spot for several seconds while the target maneuvers and the atmosphere bends the light. Oculyn is a stabilized gimbal, fast fine-steering mirrors, adaptive optics that fight the air, and the fire-control software that ties them together — one instrument that acquires, tracks, and holds a lock.
Example A quad juking at 15 m/s crosses at 400 m. Oculyn slews on, the reticle turns from ACQ to LOCK, and it pins the aimpoint to a 2 cm patch on the drone's motor — holding through every jink until the burn is done. Auric it happen, live, to the right.
A fixed site defends a point. A harrier defends wherever it happens to be standing.
A stronghold that projects outward — except this one rolls, defending wherever it happens to stand.
Voralis is the heavy end of the family: a full Kaelum core and a high-power Oculyn director on a single tracked vehicle, sized to burn through larger, faster threats than a Solen can handle. It moves with a convoy or a front line and defends whatever it is next to — a walking sphere of protection instead of a fixed dome.
Example A convoy is threatened by a fast fixed-wing drone at 2 km. Voralis, rolling mid-column, slews its director, locks, and holds the beam on the airframe's control surface until it fails — threat down at range, convoy never stopped moving.
A laser can only hit what it can see. So stop standing on the ground.
Named for the thing that hangs overhead and never lands.
Luna is a drone that climbs to two hundred metres and simply stays there, held by a tether that also carries its power up from the ground. Because the electricity comes up the wire, it never has to land to recharge — it holds station for days. Up there it lifts Auric's ears and eyes clear of the treeline, and carries a relay mirror that can take a beam from the ground and bend it past the ridge that was blocking the shot.
Example A ridge hides everything to the northeast. Luna climbs to 200 m in ninety seconds; from that height the acoustic mesh roughly doubles its reach and the radio horizon clears the ridge entirely — contacts appear four minutes earlier than the ground posts alone could ever have seen them, and Luna stays up for six days without touching down.
One laser. Every horizon.
Astrael is a flock of high-altitude mirrors that catch a laser and bend it over the horizon — shown drifting to the right.
A laser fires in a straight line, but the Earth is round, so ground systems can only reach what they can see. Astrael parks solar gliders in the stratosphere, each carrying a steerable relay mirror. A ground laser fires up; the flock hands the beam from node to node, folding it over the curve of the planet to somewhere no straight shot could reach.
Example A target sits behind a ridge, invisible from the ground. A Solen fires straight up into the flock; three relay mirrors pass the beam along and angle the last hop down the far slope — energy delivered over the horizon to a spot the ground station never had line of sight to. Concept — several pieces are still unsolved.
Hears the threat and places it on the map. The first thing Starxis can actually ship.
Launches and takes the threat down by hand when you'd rather not wait for a laser.
Feeds the shot. No unsolved physics — integration a small team can be excellent at.
Lands the shot. Every piece demonstrated somewhere; nobody has made them one affordable instrument.
Carries the core and the eyes on tracks, defending a moving formation.
Lifts the ears above the terrain and bends the beam past the ridge. Held up — and powered — by a wire.
Carries the shot over the curve of the Earth. Genuinely unsolved. Worth the decade.
One scout, three defenders: the Solen family.
The scout of the flock, and the only aircraft we make. When Auric hears something, Solen-S goes and looks: day and thermal cameras on a quiet airframe, streaming what it sees onto the shared map, confirming what the mesh heard and pointing at it for everything that comes later. Every part of it is off the shelf right now — which is exactly why it flies first.
A vehicle-mounted defensive laser that moves with the formation it protects — a Kaelum core and a Oculyn director on wheels.
A fixed-site array for airfields, depots and forward positions. Ties into existing sensors and stays on station as long as the site has power.
The whole system on a standard pallet — flown in, dropped, powered and defending inside a day. For places that don't have a base yet.
Costs are pre-development design targets, stated so we can be held to them — not quotes.
Cheap threats are beating expensive defenses.
A drone that costs a few hundred dollars can pull a missile worth six figures out of a magazine that took months to fill. Run that trade a thousand times and the math simply stops working — not because the defense failed, but because it ran out.
We're building the opposite trade. Our systems fire light: the magazine is a generator, the ammunition is electricity, and the next shot costs the same as the last one. Defense that gets cheaper the longer the fight goes on — that's the whole idea, and everything on this page serves it.
“The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.”
If you build things that work, write to us.
Seven phases, in order of difficulty. We are patient about the destination and impatient about the next step — each phase must produce something real before the next one gets a dollar.
The company begins now — not after the hardware. Put the name on the door, put the plan where anyone can read it, and start building in public, so that every later phase happens under a name that already stands for something.
Build the passive detection posts from commercial sensors and sell them commercially first — airports, stadiums, utilities. Revenue and a track record before the first watt of laser light.
Design and assemble the power and thermal core from commercial parts. Generation, storage, conditioning and heat rejection as one integrated machine on a trailer. Learn by building; publish what breaks.
The pointing problem: a stabilized gimbal, fine-steering optics and the fire-control brain, proven first on a low-power source against instrumented targets. If Oculyn can hold lock, everything downstream is engineering.
Integration of the two cores into fielded shapes: first the fixed-site array, then the vehicle, then the pallet. Every variant runs the same control software and speaks to the same air picture.
By 2030 we stand at full strength: a working Kaelum, a tracking Oculyn, at least one flying Solen demonstration, and a published record of everything that failed along the way. Credibility is the product.
The relay constellation begins as one stratospheric node and one honest question: can the mirror hold? Several problems on this path are genuinely unsolved. That is why it is Phase 07 and not Phase 01 — and why it is worth the decade.
Everything below answers to what happens up here. Three systems — two of which never leave the ground — that watch the orbits, touch them with light, and go up for a closer look.
Named for the orrery — the little machine that knows where everything is.
Orra is Auric's idea pointed upward: a mesh of small automated telescope stations that photograph the night sky all night, every night, and turn streaks of light into orbits. Each station is commercial hardware — a telescope, a camera, a computer in a weatherproof dome — and the software is the product: fusing thousands of sightings into one living map of everything overhead.
Example A dead rocket stage tumbles through a station's frame at 02:14. Two more stations catch it within the hour; three sightings become an orbit good to a kilometre. Six days later Orra flags it: predicted approach within 800 m of a customer's satellite, four days out — enough warning to plan a move.
A lighthouse that reaches all the way up.
Lumis is a ground station that touches orbit with light. First as a ruler: laser ranging, timing photons to a reflector or a bare hull, pinning an object's orbit down from kilometres to metres. Then — the ambition — as a hand: light carries momentum, and a steady beam held on a piece of debris across many passes changes its orbit by millimetres per second. That sounds like nothing. Across thousands of kilometres of arc, it is the difference between a collision and a miss.
Example Orra predicts two dead objects will pass within 100 m of each other in nine days — a coin flip nobody can influence, because neither has an engine. Lumis ranges the smaller one on every clear night, then holds light on it pass after pass. Nine days of photon pressure buys a few hundred metres of separation — and the coin flip is cancelled. Ranging is proven worldwide — the nudge is the research program, stated honestly.
From the Welsh word for star — the one we actually send up.
Some questions can't be answered from the ground: is that satellite damaged, leaking, tumbling — or is something attached to it that shouldn't be? Seren is a suitcase-sized spacecraft that raises its orbit, slides alongside a friendly satellite at a respectful distance, and looks — cameras and a thermal imager, circling slowly, sending home the first close-up photographs its owner has ever seen of their own spacecraft.
Example A customer's satellite went silent last Tuesday. Orra confirms it's tumbling; nobody knows why. Seren climbs for two weeks, matches orbits, and circles at 200 m: the images show one solar panel folded back at the hinge — struck by something small. The insurance case closes in a week instead of a year, and the failure is understood.
The order is deliberate: watch first, touch with light second, fly up last.