u/Johnnyhoplock

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"Evasive maneuvers!" Nyla yells.

I yank the control stick to the right, my interceptor rolling away from a stream of violet fire. The G-forces press me into my seat, but I keep my focus, my eyes locked on the HUD. My heart is throwing itself against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my teeth.

"My shields are dropping — They are eating me alive!" Yan yells.

"Sparrow Five, bank. All sparrows,bank left — we need cover from that weapons platform!"Nyla snaps.

"Copy that — going left—"

I snap back to the controls, wrenching the stick. I'm the only one able to hold formation propperly as we bank toward the platform, its guns firing in every direction as the Invulcari scream down on top of us.

"I can't hold these Gs — I need to level! I'm gonna pass out."

I see Vasquez's interceptor break from our group entirely.

"Sparrow Eight, get back on me!" Nyla screams.

"I can't — I need —"

A frigate-sized, crablike monstrosity fires a stream of pulsing green plasma shots, slicing through the training vessel. The stream continues as the ship brings its aim up level with the platform. Its shields flare blue against the plasma.

"Engage all fire on that ship!"

My teeth are clenched so hard my jaw aches as I fire a volley of lasers, the red beams lancing out toward the frigate's hull. The other cadets follow my lead. The frigate's shields flare, then shatter.

"It's working!" Jet yells.

But the frigate is not alone. Another one of its kind joins the fray — it puts two shots across Nyla's bow instantly, dropping her shields.

Nyla accelerates into a steep evasive dive, thundering commands as she cheats death. "We can't take them both! Pull back and provide covering fire. Interpose the platform between us and them."

I follow her. We all follow her, clumsily weaving as we make our way behind the tenuous safety of the platform's superior shields and guns.

We shelter behind the platform and for about thirty seconds the battle becomes something I can almost manage. I'm not thinking anymore. My hands know what to do even if my brain is still somewhere back on the surface. Nyla calls vectors and I fly them. Someone yells out a report.

"I'm measuring wake distortions — we have incoming!"

"More? Are you kidding?" Yan yells in disbelief.

A ship appears just outside of Rigel's orbit. And it's not alone. A fleet of Alliance ships is emerging from the void, their engines burning bright against the black of space.

"Reinforcements! It's reinforcements! They made it!" Jet yells over the comms.

At that same moment, we see another friendly signal separate itself from Rigel Station — large and already sporting a damage indicator.

"It's the Rally's Cry!" someone yells.

The gargantuan, nearly station-sized battleship has been sitting in high dock for weeks undergoing major repairs and refit. It's moving slowly, still missing its left-side batteries and huge chunks of armor, but even so it's imposing and powerful. An elephant missing a leg is still an elephant.

"And if that name isn't on the nose enough, that's exactly what we need," Nyla says.

A grim smile touches my lips. The first one in a while. It doesn't last.

The platforms and ships around the station engage the enemy fleet. The tide of fire does everything it can to punch a hole through the veritable horde of enemy ships so that the Cry can get out from underneath this mess and move to a flanking position.

"All 106th Cadets, on me — we need to assist the Rally's Cry with the fighters. Form up."

A new voice comes through local. "106th, this is Cadet Rhys. Looks like you could use some help."

As he speaks, a kinetic lance fires from somewhere and tears through the station's shields without slowing. It hits the primary column causing the lights to flicker. The wave keeps coming. There is always another wave.

"They've hit the bridge! Orbital control is experiencing critical system failure!" a new comm signal from the station announces.

"Rhys, this is Nyla, lead instructor for the 106th. You need to get the Rally's Cry out of here — we will push the fighters back."

A new wave of enemy fighters descends upon the station, their weapons fire a sickly violet energy that splashes against the station's failing shields. The station groans, its lights flickering, its hull buckling under the assault.

"All ships, focus your fire on the lead fighter. Let's show them what we're made of!" Nyla commands.

My fingers flash across the controls as my right hand yanks back on the stick. I fire my lasers, the red beams lancing out and striking the lead fighter. The other cadets follow my lead with their own shaky shots. The lead fighter's shields buckle under the combined fire and it tears apart, scattering debris in a wide arc.

"One down!" I yell. A feeling of elation bubbling up as I see target destroyed on my HUD.

But the rest of the fighters are still coming, and the feeling goes away. Their weapons fire a relentless oppressive maelstrom of violet energy.

"We can't hold them!" Jet screams.

"We have to hold them!" Nyla yells back. "Remember your training! Keep steady and hold position on — "

A smear of violet light slams across Sparrow One's bow.

Then she's gone.

Not damaged. Not spinning out. Gone — a flash of white and then empty space where Instructor Nyla used to be, her icon already replaced by a grey X on my HUD.

My hands go still on the controls. The battle keeps happening — comms screaming, the platform guns thundering — but for one terrible second I am nowhere, suspended in the silence of what just happened. She was right there. She was just talking.

"Squad lead is down! Repeat, squad lead is down! Sparrow Two, you're in command!" someone yells through comms.

The words land like a punch. Sparrow Two. That's me. I'm in command.

I just stare at the grey X where she was. Just thirty seconds ago.

Then Yan's voice cuts through, sharp and steady in a way I have never once heard from him. "Kit. Kit. You've got the squad. Talk to us."

Something about hearing my name — not Sparrow Two, just Kit — pulls me back into my body.

"Break off," I hear myself say. "Break off — we need to gain space."

"Copy that. I'm on your wing," Yan says.

We bank away, flying several kilometers past a different weapons platform, which draws the fighters' attention. I reorient myself to face the station again. Eight icons on my HUD, not counting me. Nine cadets, none of them older than twenty, in ships they'd flown in simulators until three hours ago.

"Okay," Yan says quietly, just to me, off the main channel. "You know what to do. Stop watching yourself and just do it."

“Right... Thanks Yan.”

"All 106th Cadets, on me," I say, my voice steadier than it has any right to be. "We are not going to die here. We are not going to let these bastards win. We are the 106th, and we are going to make them bleed."

I slam my hand on the throttle, my interceptor shooting forward. The other cadets follow my lead, their own interceptors forming up behind me.

I share my lock on the rearmost fighter chasing Rhys's squadron as the Rally's Cry finally limps its way toward the enemy flank.

"We aren't doing much, but that ship's big gun might. We need to get those bugs off her tail!"

My HUD is a full-blown seizure hazard of flashing red and blue icons.

As the fighters close on Rhys, yet another new voice comes over the local comms — steady and powerful, not at all matching the adrenaline-filled yelling I've been hearing for the last twenty minutes.

"Cadet Rhys." The voice is calm, almost dispassionate. "This is the General Commander of the Sixth Division. I am aboard the ISV Indomitable, and I am now in command of this theater."

A young, breathless voice comes over the comms, laced with static and adrenaline. "Sir! Yes, sir! Cadet Rhys reporting! We're… we're holding, sir. Trying to!"

"Listen to me, Cadet," the General's tone leaves no room for argument. "You are no longer a trainee. You are a pilot in the Alliance Fleet. You and your wing are going to do exactly as I say. In sixty seconds, a wave of our premier fighters is going to hit the enemy force engaging you. Your job is not to fight. Your job is to survive. When they arrive, you are to break off and form up with them. They will give you your new targets. Do you understand me?"

I gawk at the comm channel for half a second in complete and utter shock.

The Indomitable. Every soldier in Orion has heard of it. The flagship of our sector. The huntress of the void. The battleship of a hundred battles. Truly indomitable.

Rhys's voice comes back, the shock in it almost palpable, but underneath it, a core of steel begins to show. "Understood, sir. We'll be ready."

The fighter's we have been chasing are closing on them fast. They won't even make it sixty seconds.

We catch up to them right as they catch up to Rhys.

"All 106th cadets, engage. Get them off Rhys's guys."

My knuckles turn white on the controls. I open fire. Red beams lance out, forcing them to break formation and turn on us. I maintain tracking and push forward on the stick. The G-forces make my stomach want to eject whatever bile is still left in it. But I don't complain. I am a pilot. And this is my fight.

I stop thinking about what I'm doing and start doing it. A fighter locks onto Jet's six and I roll in before she has to ask, red beams already firing. A gap opens in the enemy line and I call it before I've consciously seen it. Nyla's voice in my head — stop watching yourself — and for the first time I understand what she meant.

The view from my cockpit is dizzying as my ship dances through fire. An enemy fighter, one of the black metal wasps, looms in front of me, its weapons spewing sickly violet energy that splashes against my shields.

I wrench the stick hard left, my interceptor rolling away from the stream of plasma. I push the throttle to the max. I fire my lasers, the red beams lancing out and striking the fighter's hull. The fighter's shields flare, then shatter. The ship splits open, its reactor going in a blinding pulse before the debris cloud swallows it.

"Nice one, Sparrow Two!" Yan's voice — bright, almost like himself again.

But there's no time. Another fighter takes its place. I dodge and weave. Comms are a cacophony of screams and shouts.

I see one of my own — Sparrow Nine — bracketed by two of the wasp-like fighters.

"I can't shake 'em! I can't—" The icon winks out. Just gone, mid-sentence, like someone cutting a wire.

Another voice floods the comms. "Harry, no!"

"Sparrow Eleven, get back in formation!" I yell with an authority I didn't know I possessed.

"Die you bastard!"

A primal scream of fury pours out of the comms channel as Sparrow Eleven charges head-on at the fighter that just took out his friend. His icon blazes across my HUD for two seconds, full throttle — and then it's gone too.

I push my interceptor harder, the engine screaming in protest. I fire my lasers. An enemy fighter goes up in a cascade of shrapnel and indigo light.

Then a new voice cuts through.

"This is Tempest Squadron. You kids did a good job — we've got it from here."

They descend upon the enemy fighters like avenging angels, their weapons a coordinated killing storm. They are everything we are not. Precise, disciplined, deadly. They move with a purpose that is almost painful to watch — the thing we were supposed to become in eight more months.

"All 106th cadets, this is Sparrow Two. Break off and form up behind the Tempests! Now!"

We scatter, some nearly colliding with each other in our haste. We disengage, pulling back toward the Tempests, our job as a sacrificial lure — at least for now — complete.

I take a deep breath. The adrenaline is still roaring through me but underneath it, for the first time since Nyla's icon went grey, something loosens slightly.

We continue pulling through the typhoon of laser fire making our way to safety behind the line of Tempests."Nice work, big shot," Yan says over comms. I can hear the grin in it — the mess hall grin. The grin of confident know it all who definitely doesn't know it all.

A burst of violet fire comes from nowhere.

Sparrow Five's icon goes grey.

A loud ringing sound deafens me. The sound overriding the yelling on the comms channel.

I don't say anything. I can't say anything. I can't move. I just stare at the place he was.

My eyes are wider than the should be. My ship is now being flown by the pilot of physics as I'm no longer the one guiding it. The proximity alarms scream and I mutely pull myself of a collision course with sparrow four. I reorient my ship before realizing Jet is screaming at me.

“Kit! Kit!”

It takes a moment to figure out how to speak again but once I do its like riding a bike.

“I'm good...I'm good what's happening.” I take stock of our situation.

In that moment, a titanic blur barrels past as the Indomitable charges headfirst into the enemy flank and erupts with a storm of missiles, lasers, and torpedoes. The sight of it is incredible and despite everything my chest swells as a fleet of at least one hundred alliance ships follows it headlong into the enemy flank. The Cry add her own voice to the chorus. Her main cannon speaks an a massive bulbous Invulcari cruiser's shield shatters as is silently folds into itself. The friendly and hostile icons begin to merge together into a swirling, chaotic vortex of red and blue.

Its a small turning point but today, I guess, hope is just not on the menu I watch helplessly as an Invulcari cruiser, a beast of a ship with enough firepower to level a city, breaks through the Tempests' defensive line. It's headed straight for the Rally's Cry.

“We have to do something," Jet says, her voice a mix of fear and anxiety.

"We can't," I say, my voice tight. "We're just cadets. We're out of our league."

Just then, a flight of sleek, black Alliance fighters — the Tempests — roars past us, their engines burning bright. But far fewer than before, and desperate.

The Tempests descend upon the cruiser, their torpedoes a coordinated storm of destruction. They hit the cruiser's main gun, and the resulting explosion rips a savage tear deep into its hull. The cruiser lurches, its engines sputtering.But the cruiser isn't dead. Not by half.

Its main gun powers up quickly, a counterpoint to the Cry's long primary charge-up. A sickly green lance of light tears through space and slams into the Cry. The ship shudders, and the glow in the primary cannons flickers and goes out. The cruiser begins charging another shot.

The tempests see the incoming deathblow and go into a frenzy. I watch as the tiny fighters surround the cruiser, their coordinated fire blasting away at the monster, whittling down its shields. They fly in all different directions, but somehow every movement is a beautiful frenzy of coordination. The guns are being led by the nose as they almost perfectly spread the damage between them.

Finally, the shields give — but so do the Tempests.

First one, then another, and another. Their damage spread so perfectly, all their shields seem to fail at about the same time. Their wreckage slamming into the hull as the cruiser's lasers turn them into flashes of light as the turrets continue hunting them.

"We can't just sit here and watch them die," Jet says, her tone a desperate plea. "We have to help."

I'm torn. Jet is right. We can't just sit here and do nothing. But we're just kids in training interceptors. We're no match for a cruiser. We'd just be throwing our lives away.

"Dammit," I mutter, my hands gripping the controls. "All 106th Cadets, on me. We're going in."

I slam my hand on the throttle, my interceptor shooting forward, its engines burning bright. The other cadets follow my lead, their own interceptors forming up behind me.

Rhys's voice comes through local.

"The General told us we had to break off and hang back. The Tempests—"

I cut him off. "The Tempests are dying Rhys! We're the only ones close enough to help."

There is no reply as we zip toward the enemy — the remaining seven of us, a pitifully small force against a monster in every sense of the word.

The cruiser looms ahead, a fortress of black metal, its point-defense turrets already swiveling to face us, spitting a hail of small, lethal projectiles.

"Scatter, pattern delta! Don't give them a clean shot! Focus on those main turrets!" I command, my voice a tight, nervous bark.

We are like gnats attacking a dragon. Spitting what little fire we can against its armor, all but uselessly, as we race along its hull.

A new voice comes over the channel. “This is Tempest Lead you kids need to get the hell out of here. Now.”

“ That cruiser is going after the Cry, that ship is worth one-hundred of our little birds. Its the only thing holding this area of the battle together, if it goes down we all go down.”

“Damn it.” A pause. “Then you need to get inside and try to hurt it from there. We are out of torpedos and its armor is too thick we are barely doing anything to it. We tore a hole in its port side. Aim for that. We'll hold it off as long as we can.”

“Roger that.“

The Tempests are as good as their word. They throw themselves at the cruiser's gun clusters in a howling, rolling attack — buying us seconds with every pass. But the few lights they have left on the display begin going out. First one, then two, then three — their shields gone long before we arrived — folding under the return fire in silent bursts. Tempest Lead goes last, his fighter coming apart in a slow, tumbling arc across the port section they'd torn open for us.

Then the guns find us.

Sparrow Four first — caught too wide, point-defense fire punching straight through him before he could correct. Five left.

I weave my interceptor through the incoming fire, the ship groaning in protest as I push it to its limits. My hands are a blur on the controls, my mind racing, every ounce of my simulator training screaming at me.

"I'm going for the hole!"

"Sparrow Two, they've got another salvo of fighters heading in our direction!"

I see them — a fresh wave of enemy fighters, reapers, coming to claim their dead.

Purple fire lashes out from a fighter.

And Sparrow Six comes apart, pieces of hull spinning silently away into the black.

Sparrow Twelve's comm indicator lights up. "We won't make it…I'm gonna buy you guys a little more time."

His ship arches up and away from the cruiser at almost a 90-degree angle.

"Kay, get back in formation — we're gonna make it!" I howl.

Kay's voice hitches. "Remember me, guys."

"Kay, come back right now! Goddammit, we need you!"

Like hounds smelling blood, three fighters arch up after him at the same time as the automatic turrets of the battle cruiser prioritize lock onto the sudden vector change of his ship— giving us precious seconds as we race over the hull. Fire flashes somewhere above me, both purple and red. I don't let myself look anywhere besides the breach in the hull. The fighters still tracking us land another lock — this time on Jet.

"Sparrow Seven, they have a lock. Punch it!"

I tip my nose up and hold down the trigger as plasma fire streams out from underneath my cockpit, to little effect. The Invulcari fighters evade almost lazily, and a horde of tiny missiles erupts from their backs.

"Jet, look out!" I scream.

The missiles scream after her — the belly of her fighter scrapes the jagged hole as the missiles carpet-bomb the surface of their own cruiser. She disappears into the gaping wound just before she is turned into shrapnel. Sparrow Three is right behind her.

I yank back on the throttle and turn up, then corkscrew back down into the hull. I find myself coming out into a cavernous space inside what must be a third of the ship — easily large enough to fly our ships around.

The interior is unlike anything I've ever seen. The walls are black and segmented, a chitinous lattice of overlapping plates that catch the light like the shell of a beetle. Glowing tendrils run between them, pulsing faintly with amber energy — something between veins and cables, grown as much as manufactured. And throughout the chamber, arranged in a rough ring around its perimeter, are enormous dome-like structures, the size of buildings, each encircled with layers of the glowing energy cables. They expand and contract in slow, rhythmic waves. Almost like breathing, but more mechanical.

"What is this?" Jet asks quietly.

"I was expecting…" I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this.

The walls shudder as another shot goes out from the main gun. It immediately brings me back to myself.

"Screw it — just light this place up. Aim for anything that looks important."

I point my guns at one of the weird mechanical lung things and open fire. My lasers flash across the vast space and impact its surface, erupting in a shower of sparks and shrapnel — but the damage is trivial. We keep firing, our small weapons eating into the bizarre chitinous metal, but we're barely scratching it.

Sparrow Three is firing on the lung directly across from mine.

"It's not working — we aren't punching deep enough," she says, her voice reedy.

"Just keep firing — we are getting through!"

"Guys, look at the center!" Jet yells.

My HUD auto-zooms into what she's pointing at. The massive pillar at the dead center of the chamber — which is obviously far more than just a pillar — lights up just before the ship fires. Glowing lines of energy spiral up into it from dozens of conduits running from the walls.

"The guns must be drawing power from that!" The realization cuts through the hopelessness like a blade. It's Sparrow Three's voice, but we all arrived at the same conclusion.

We all turn converging our fire onto the central pillar. Our lasers splash against its surface, the black metal glowing cherry-red under the sustained assault.

The pillar begins to vibrate, a low, guttural hum I can feel through the hull of my interceptor.

"It's working!" Jet yells. "Keep firing!"

But the cruiser's internal defenses are not idle. Spider like mechs compact and skittering — drop from recessed panels in the ceiling and begin making their way toward us across the walls. Their gun arms swivel on their torso's as they move, spitting a hail of projectiles that splash against my shields.

"We've got company!" Sparrow Three screams.

"I see them!" I yell back, my hands flying across the controls. I push hard on the stick, my interceptor corkscrewing away from a burst of fire. "Just keep firing on the pillar! Don't let up!"

We dance through the chamber, our interceptors weaving through the the hail of kinetic projectiles, our lasers a constant, focused stream on the central pillar.

The pillar glows brighter, its vibrations growing more violent. The very air in the chamber seems to crackle with raw energy. The dome structures around us start to spasm, their rhythmic pulsing becoming erratic. A high-pitched whine fills the comms — a sound that makes my teeth ache.

"It's going to blow!" Sparrow Three yells.

"We need to get out of here!" Jet screams.

"Yep, time to go," I say, my fingers flying across the controls as I slam the throttle to max. "Everyone out! Now!"

I pull back hard, my interceptor climbing steeply. The other two follow close behind, their ships racing for the jagged hole in the hull. We are three tiny silver darts, fleeing a dying god.

We burst out of the cruiser just as the explosion tears it apart. The ship shudders, its hull buckling, then it erupts — a brilliant, silent detonation that throws light across half the battlefield. The shockwave washes over us, a tidal wave of raw energy that sends our interceptors tumbling end over end. I fight the controls, my hands flying across the console as I try to stabilize my ship. The G-forces are a crushing weight, a pressure that makes my vision swim.

Finally, I manage to regain control, my interceptor shuddering but stable. I look back at the spot where the cruiser used to be. Rigel hangs behind the debris field — impossible blue warmth spilling across the expanding ugly cloud of wreckage.

Our ships drift towards eachother, and we almost collide, but I tap the throttle and match my vector to hers. We are so close we can actually see each other inside our cockpits.

"We did it," Jet says, her voice hushed in disbelief.

"We did it," I repeat.

She's crying. So am I. I hadn't noticed until just now.

Neither of us moves. The battle is still going on somewhere behind us — icons merging and winking out on the edge of my HUD — but for this one moment it feels very far away. I look at her. She looks at me. There's nothing to say that isn't already being said just by still being here, by both of us still being here, which is something neither of us expected twenty minutes ago. The display glows, light catching the wet on her cheeks. I make myself look away from her face and back at the HUD.

"Look — the Cry is still standing," Jet says finally.

I look. The maimed battle cruiser is limping and barely holding together, but it is still there.

"My shield is at ten percent," I say.

"Mine is gone, and I've taken some hull damage," Jet replies.

"Sparrow Three?" I say, suddenly looking around, realizing the icon is gone. "…Sipha?" I try again. Nothing but static.

The realization hits me. Another friend. Another name the dark has swallowed.

"She got caught on a metal beam inside the ship on the way out of the hull." Jet's voice quavers momentarily but steadies. "She's gone."

I force the grief down, a cold, heavy lump in my throat. There's no time for it. Not now. Not really.

The battle rages around us. A typhoon of deadly lights.

The weapons platforms around Rigel Prime are on their last legs. The planet is exposed, vulnerable.

And then suddenly — it halts.

The Invulcari, almost as one, begin turning and streaking toward the moon Cisternae.

Confused, I consult the holographic map — and what I see there almost breaks me with joy. Scores of ships, even more than came with the general on his attack run, are demolishing the remainder of an Invulcari attack group.

But the numbers…

I watch the horde move again. It's a horrifying swarm of incomprehensible black shapes, screaming right toward them.

"There are still too many of them!" My eyes are locked on the map.

"The Rally's Cry — it's turning!" Jet yells over the mic.

The Cry, which was limping before, is suddenly barreling along at breakneck speed, a bright glow emanating from its half-covered side.

"They are overloading the engine. That's how they are moving so fast," I say.

"If they keep doing that, they are going to blow up," Jet replies, her voice aghast.

The onboard computer system chimes.

"Spacetime distortion detected," it says mechanically.

"Oh my god — they are charging the dark drives!"

"All ships," the General Commander's voice rings across the fleet, "prepare for a high-yield energy blast. Brace for impact. And when the light fades, we give them everything we've got left. For Rigel!"

"Brace, brace!" I yell.

"Kit… Kit, I don't have a shield." She looks directly at me across the small gap between our ships, horror spread across her face so visibly I can see it beneath the HUD lights on her helmet. "Kit, I don't think —"

The blast is blinding.

The world becomes a silent, brilliant white.

A wave of pure, raw energy washes over my interceptor — a force that slams into me with the power of a collapsing star. My ship screams, its systems overloading, its alarms a cacophony of panicked shrieks.

My vision swims — a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and scrambled data. The G-forces are crushing, squeezing the air from my lungs and pressing me deep into my seat.

There is a sharp, searing pain in my left arm, and I look down to see a piece of shrapnel from the console embedded in my flight suit, blood welling up around the metal.

Jet screams — a short, sharp sound that cuts off into static.

"Jet!" I scream, my voice hoarse. My ship tumbles — a helpless, crippled leaf in a storm of cosmic fury. "Jet, are you there? Jet!"

Nothing but static.

The controls are fighting me, my hands slick with my own blood. The perpetual motion still throwing me side to side as the ship rolls.

Finally, my ship stabilizes.

Alarms blare about the half-dozen system failures plaguing my wrecked interceptor.

I'm stiff and rigid, my voice suddenly clinical as I work the controls.

"Sparrow Seven, this is Sparrow Two. Do you read?"

Its blurry.

"I say again, this is Sparrow Two to Sparrow Seven. How copy? Over."

I blink hard, keeping my back straight. I sniff but I can't seam to stop my nose from running.

"Jet…" My voice cracks. "It's Kit. Are you out there?"

My face wet and the flood rolling down my cheeks is not slowing down.

"We made it…" I shudder. "We saved the Cry…"

And then the dam breaks.

My head becomes one with the console as a deep, guttural sob churns up from my stomach and wracks my entire body. My mind floods with memories — faces, moments, flashes of everything.

Yan.

Nyla.

Sipha.

Kay.

…

Jet.

My bloody, tear-soaked face grinds into the console. Screaming, I slam my fist into it over and over, willing the reinforced glass to crack.

I keep hitting it. Again. And again. Rage mounting through a pain so deep it numbs everything else.

I feel my wrist snap — but it feels like it happened to someone else. A blunt numb crack that I'm only vaguely aware is attached to my own body by virtue of the vibration traveling up my arm.

I cry like my soul has been ripped from me, as the scenes from the last hour replay themselves over and over. Kay's voice rings in my ears. The only one who had more than ten seconds to contemplate his doom. His voice had been so easy, so unhurried, even then.

Remember me, guys.

I scream until my voice tears itself apart and sound ceases, not for lack of trying.

My energy finally fades. The physical pain rushes in to join the real pain — but it barely makes a difference.

My vision dims.

I slump over the console.

And everything goes dark.

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{Author's note to returning readers at the bottom. Please read that first. New readers enjoy the standalone}

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[Pilot Officer Cadet (POC):Kit Westley— Cafeteria, 106^(th) Training base, Rigel Prime]

I sit down in the primary mess hall. My tray clatters with a metallic thump as I slide into my seat. Yan looks up at me.
“The prodigal son returns. So how was your private lesson with Instructor Nyla?” He wiggles his eyebrows at me, entirely too suggestive. I make a face that tells him simultaneously how little I appreciate his insinuation and how fundamentally gross that would be.

Kay leans over. “Come on, Kit, don't hold out on us. You're just about the only one of us here that's been alone with a real woman in months.”

Jet speaks up. “Hey. Then what the hell am I?”

Kay waves a hand dismissively. Still entirely too intent on teasing me. “You're one of the guys at this point. And by the way I said ah-lone.”

“You know exactly how it went,” I say, annoyance plain on my face. “I got extra time in the sim because I have the highest scores and they are trying to get me ready for my young leaders flight.”

“Oh, big shot alert, we got a young leader over here.”

“Can it Yan.”

He holds up his hands still smiling. “Touchy, touchy... Is that what you and Instructor Nyla were doing? Touchy touchy?”

Jet's face turns red.

“Yan, I've had just about enough of you today,” I say, glaring.

Kay puts a placating hand on my shoulder. “Hey but can you blame the guy for being curious?”

“Kay, that's gross and you know it.”

“Come on now, that's a bit harsh, isn't it? Instructor Nyla's not so bad underneath the dead serious attitude, the rough voice, the sourpuss expression, the angry way she corrects everyone, ya know all the unimportant stuff.”

“Oh yeah? Then what is the important stuff?”

Kay shrugs. “She's pretty fit.”

Jet turns away. “Why do I even sit with you guys?”

"Because we're delightful," Yan says, completely serious.
"Because nobody else will take you," Kay says, at exactly the same time.

Jet looks between them. "How is it that both of those responses are worse than I expected."

I eat something off my tray that is theoretically chicken. "How did the formation block go? I missed the debrief."

"Disaster," Yan says cheerfully. "Orel made Vasquez redo his approach four times and by the third one Vasquez was basically crying."

"He wasn't crying," Jet says.

"He had wet eyes."

"That's not the same thing."

"It's the same thing." Yan stabs at his food. "I nailed mine by the way. Since nobody asked."

"You clipped the marker on the second pass," Jet says.

Yan points his fork at her. "Grazed. There's a difference."

"It's the same thing."

Yan looks up at my snide remark, squinting.

“No it isn't.”

I look at Jet. She looks at me. We've had this particular conversation about Yan approximately forty times in four months and have developed a whole vocabulary of looks for it. This one means not worth it and she agrees with a slight tilt of her head.

Kay, who has been eating with the calm of a man entirely unbothered by the world, says without looking up: "Kit, how'd you actually do? In the lesson."

The table goes quiet for a beat as we re-adjust.

"Fine," I say.

"Fine good or fine-you-don't-want-to-talk-about-it?"

I push something around my tray. "She said my instincts are good."

"Yeah they are," Yan says, like this is obvious.

"She said I need to trust them more."

A beat.

"What does that mean," Jet says.

"I don't know exactly." I put my fork down. "She said I fly like I'm watching myself fly. Like I'm checking my own work instead of just doing it."

Nobody says anything for a moment. Outside the window Rigel hangs in the sky, blue-white and enormous, the same as it always is.

"That sounds like you just need to do better," Yan says finally, but not unkindly.

"Thanks, Yan." I say exasperated.

"I mean it, though. You think too much. In the sim when you're on a clean run you look — " he waves his fork vaguely, "— loose. Natural. And then something goes slightly wrong and you get this look on your face like you're doing math."

"I am doing math."

"Yeah, and that's the problem." He points the fork at me again. He does a lot of his communicating with the fork. "You already know what to do. You just don't trust that you know."

I look at him. Yan is not, generally speaking, the person I go to for insight. He is the person I go to if I need someone to argue with to take my mind off things or get a piece of equipment to cooperate. But occasionally, maybe once every few weeks, he says something so accurate it's almost annoying.

"When did you get smart," I say.

"I've always been smart. I'm also handsome. People get distracted by the handsome and miss the smart."

Kay absently flicks his eyes up to look at Yan before returning his attention to his food.

Jet is smiling at something on her tray, not quite looking up. I notice and then make a point of not noticing. She has this way of smiling at nothing that I can't seem to stop myself from staring at. I've mostly stopped trying to figure out why.

"Young leaders flight is in three weeks," Kay says. "What does that actually involve."

"Some basic tactical assessment. Orel runs it and Nyla evaluates. And at the end we get to run formations in actual Mark V interceptors with the other class leaders." I pick up my fork again. "It's not a big deal. I even heard some of the other class leaders got a jump start on actual flight practice."

"It's a big deal," Jet says, still looking at her tray.

"It's really not."

"Kit." She looks up. "It is a big deal. You can just say that. Being too modest comes off as timid."

I open my mouth. Close it.

"It's a moderate deal," I say.

Kay puts his hand over his eyes.

"Fine," I say. "It's a big deal."

Jet nods, satisfied, and goes back to eating. Yan is grinning.

Kay looks out the window.

“It's calm today.”

“It is.” Yan agrees.

[Pilot Officer Cadet (POC):Kit Westley— Flight Simulator, 106^(th) Training base, Rigel Prime]

"Jet, course-correct left five degrees. You're drifting into my path."

"I'm trying. The simulated gravity keeps yanking the stick."

"Yan, tighten up."

"What does it even matter?" Yan complains. "It's not like we're ever going to fly these dumb V formations in an actual battle."

"It matters because it teaches us precision and control so we can learn how to be the best pilots we can.”

"You say that every day Kit. See this is why Nyla won't let you start practicing in a Mark V yet, Mister Young Leader, you are too uptight about being perfect in everything."

“Yeah? Well if you don't tighten up and get it right, the instructor won't let any of us fly real ships. Now hurry up so we can run it again.”

Kay's voice comes in, dry and unhurried, the voice of a man who has achieved some kind of inner peace with the tedium of formation drills. "Easy for you to say when you actually like this stuff."

"Simulation has its uses."

"Sure. Remind me of that when I'm still here at forty."

The simulator lurches.

"What the—"

It lurches again, harder, and the image on the screen cuts to black. We are left staring at blank screens inside our fake cockpits.

A calm synthetic female voice speaks, through my headset."Simulators are down. Please proceed to the nearest exit."

I open the hatch and the P.A. blares. "All cadets, report to your company briefing rooms immediately. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill."

I pull off my headset.

The thing is, you run drills your whole life and you develop a feel for them. The particular quality of the silence after, the way the instructors hold themselves when they listen to the announcement. I have never once felt what I feel right now.

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

Nyla doesn't pace. She stands at the front of the briefing room with her hands clasped behind her back and she looks at us the way she always looks at us, stiff, determined, unwavering.

"Rigel is under attack," she says. "Full-scale Invulcari invasion force. Rigel command just handed down orders. All available forces have been ordered to deploy. That includes you."

Nobody speaks.

"We are arming your training interceptors with live ordnance. You will form a defensive screen around the orbital station and engage any Invulcari fighters that break through. You buy us time until reinforcements arrive."

Someone — a kid named Doss who always sat in the back — speaks. "Ma'am, we haven't even flown a real ship yet."

"You will now.” She says flatly. No comfort in her tone. She turns to me. "I'm squad lead. Our designation is Sparrow. Kit, you are second in command. So that makes you Sparrow Two. You have the best scores and the most simulation hours. If I go down, you're in charge"

I feel the knot pull tight. "Ma'am, I—"

"No excuses." She doesn't raise her voice. She never raises her voice. "You wanted to fly. Get to your ships."

The hangar is chaos with a thin layer of purpose spread over it. Technicians I have never seen before are moving fast between the interceptors, clipping things on, pulling things off, talking into headsets. The interceptors we walk by everyday look different with live ordnance on the pylons. Heavier. Less like training equipment. Like the real thing. Nearly.

Yan falls into step beside me. He hasn't said anything since the briefing room, which for Yan is practically a planetary event.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey," he replies.

We split off toward our assigned ships.

I climb into the cockpit and the smell hits me first — recycled air and hot plastic, and something underneath it that is new, that I'm not quite familiar with yet. I run my hands over the controls.

"It really does look just like the sim cockpit," I say over comms. I don't know why. Maybe just because I need to hear a voice. My own or anyone else's.

"It's bigger," Yan says curtly.

"Pre-flight checks," Nyla cuts in. "Green lights across the board. Move."

I go through the checklist. Thrusters. Weapons. Shields. Comms. My hands are doing the right things but some part of my brain is still in the briefing room staring at Instructor Nyla in shock.

"Thrusters green," I say mechanically.

"Weapons green," Yan says.

"Shields green." I hear Vasquez chime in.

"Good," Nyla says. A pause that is not quite long enough to mean anything. "Launch on my mark.” She says, and begins counting down.

Three.

Two.

One.

Mark.

I hit the button.

My ship shoots out of the hangar mouth at a speed that doesn't feel fully aligned with what physics should allow. The G-forces are not like the simulator. In the simulator there is a sensation of pressure, carefully calibrated, designed to give you the idea of launch using horizontal motion. This is vertical. It pins me to my seat like a giant's hand is reaching inside my cockpit and trying to crush me into the plastic. It doesn't let up for a full four minutes as I rocket upwards through the atmosphere. I feel — actually feel — my kidneys squeezing adrenaline into my blood as the turbulence shakes me violently in my seat. The sky gets thinner and darker as the atmosphere thins and the pressure wanes. Then it stops, all of it. No sound, no resistance, just the black opening up in every direction. Rigel hangs before me, blue-white and enormous, millions of miles away and still encompassing most of my field of view. A star so large that scale is difficult to describe even when using numbers.

I have looked at Rigel through radiation shielded windows on the planet's surface my entire life.

I have never looked at it from out here.

For about three seconds I forget everything else.

Then the auto-launch disengages and I am fully in control of my ship. My HUD auto-zooms on the activity around New Rigel and I see the plasma shots — real ones, not the clean lines of a simulator engagement but something messier and brighter — and I watch a weapons platform five times the size of my ship buckle and come apart under concentrated fire in absolute silence. Its primary housing scatters into a thousand pieces that catch the light as they go. My stomach turns over so hard and so fast that I barely get my mask off before I start retching. I vomit all over my lap, my heart slamming against my ribs while the acid burns up my throat.

"Kit." Yan's voice. Careful, for once. "You're quiet."

"I'm fine," I say. My voice comes out thin and reedy. I barely recognize it.

"Sure," he says, he doesn't push it.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my glove and look at the swarm.

The bulk of the fleet is still arriving through the asteroid belt, joining up with the forward elements already tearing apart New Rigel's defenses. Even at this distance there are so many of them I can see them without the HUD highlights. A darkness against the blue. A shape that moves.

"There's thousands of them," I whisper, and my voice comes out even though I didn't intend it to.

“They are getting reinforcements from the moons. They are sending all their weapons platforms to hold them off at New Rigel as long as they can.”

I look down at the system map. I see icons streaking across the system. Weapons platforms moving at full burn. As well as other contacts leaving the moons on a path here to Rigel Prime. Shuttles. They are just wholesale abandoning the moons.

"Cadets." Nyla. Sharp, immediate. "Hold formation. Focus on my vector. We have incoming."

A small detachment peels away from the swarm and angles toward Rigel Prime. Toward us.

"Two frigate-class destroyers and seventeen fighters," Yan says.

"Steady, Sparrow Five," Nyla says. "And keep comms clear."

The main channel crackles, and tries to form words. It fails.

"Comms are down," Nyla says. "Local only, ten kilometer range. Station and planetside can still reach us with effort but not anything without a dedicated comm center. We are essentially flying blind."

"Comms are down?" I say, and I hear how that sounds, so I stop talking.

"Affirmative, Sparrow Two."

I flinch at the use of my call-sign, the reality of it way sharper than simulator practice ever was.

The channel crackles again.

"Hold position," Nyla says. "Something's happening."

The holographic system map lights up orange as the system begins tracking targets across Rigel Prime and then the sky below us opens up.

"Surface-to-space missiles engaging enemy. Evasive maneuvers!"

Hundreds of missiles, all at once, streak out of the atmosphere, churning the clouds. They paint the black with trails of white fire, and they are beautiful the way terrible things often are. The Invulcari point-defense systems go to work immediately — projectile fire creating clusters of light where missiles missiles used to be.

But they are legion, and the probing Invulcari force is small. The flight group comes apart in what I can only describe as spectacular overkill. The ships, already torn to pieces by the initial wave of explosions, keep getting pummeled. The larger, ripped-up chunks of hull targeted by the remaining missiles that continue to arrive. By the time the barrage ends they are practically powder.

"Got 'em!" Yan yells.

"Steady," Nyla says."That wasn't even a drop in the bucket, and we burned a lot of ordnance for that little firework display. I don't know how many times our boys on the ground can do that. And there is a planet-sized horde of them over there."

My HUD zooms on the nearest activity, the chaos unfolding over New Rigel. The planet's massively bolstered network of combat platforms from moons Rotuna and Cidal, with Cisternae's still arriving, are creating a dazzling display of lights as they engage the swarming mass.

The comms stutter and a priority signal forces its way through the static.

"…attention…all Alliance vessels…this is the Administrator of Rigel Prime…we are under attack…full-scale Invulcari invasion…the garrison…gone…all available forces…ordered to engage…"

The channel cuts to static.

None of us say anything.

“The garrison.” Jet whispers horrified.

"Shit," Yan says.

"It's true," Nyla says. "The 12th Fleet is gone. That's why we're up here."

I look at the friendly icons clustered around Prime on my display, military signals all of them, out of comms range. "Then who—"

"Every pilot training regiment in this cycle has been activated," Nyla says. "The 106th, the 112th, the 119th. The instructors are leading them."

Kay speaks up, his usually unbothered tone is not there.“They're all trainees? We don't have any backup?”

I tap an unusual signal marked as green on the map and an image of a cargo hauler appears in the bottom right.

“There's civilians up here.” I say in disbelief. “It can't be that bad, can it?

No response.

"We're not ready," Yan says.

"No," Nyla says. "But you have to be." A pause. "The 112th and 119th are covering the evacuation ships from the lunar colonies. We hold position and wait for orders. Reinforcements are coming."

"From where?" Yan says. "Is anyone even close enough?"

Silence.

"What about New Rigel?" Jet asks. Her voice is trying to hold steady and mostly managing it. "Shouldn't we—"

"We can't," Nyla says, and there is something under the curtness of it that I don't think she wants us to hear. "New Rigel has been designated a loss. Our orders are Prime. That's what we can do."

"A loss," I say. "We stripped our moons of their platforms for New Rigel. We left them defenseless for New Rigel. And now—"

"Kit." Just my name. Just that.

I stop talking.

I watch in horror but am unable to make myself look away as the brilliant light show provided by the bolstered fleet of weapons platforms around New Rigel begins to dim — faster and faster. The friendly icons begin to wink out one by one.

"Look," Sparrow Twelve, Kay, says quietly.

The first barrages hit the cities.

"No," I say, out loud, to no one.

The swarm begins turning with the casual efficiency of something that has done this before and will do it again. A chunk of the right flank breaks away and accelerates away from the planet as if it knows the world is finished. Its remaining weapons platforms are simply a nuisance to them at this point, and the battle is already decided.

The horror coursing through my system gets a fresh shot of adrenaline, now accompanied by terror as the tide of ships aims itself right at us.

"They've finished," Nyla says. "Form up. One target at a time. Don't break formation."

My hands are shaking on the controls. We arrange ourselves in a loose parade V since we don't know how to do literally anything else. The V-formation wobbles. Steadies. We are a handful of kids in ships we have never actually flown, and the thing coming for us does not know or care about the distinction between us and a real fighter wing.

The fleet bears down on us. The mass of horror opening its jaws, as it prepares to consume yet another world.

Our planet answers first. Rigel Prime's surface erupts in a thousand simultaneous launches — streaks of white fire clawing upward through the atmosphere in great churning waves, filling the black with light. For a moment it looks like the planet itself is fighting back, like the ground is alive with fury. The Invulcari fleet absorbs it the way an ocean absorbs rain. Point-defense systems across hundreds of ships flare and pulse, swatting missiles from the void in silent clusters of light. Some get through — a cruiser at the edge of the formation loses its bow in a chain of secondary explosions, another lists and goes dark, a handful of fighters simply cease to exist — but the swarm doesn't flinch. It doesn't even slow. The barrage that would have annihilated any fleet we'd ever faced in our history peels away maybe a dozen ships from a force that numbers in the thousands, and then it is spent, and the horde keeps coming, vast and patient and utterly unmoved.

The enemy fighters — black metal wasps — close with terrifying speed. Their weapons fire is a sickly purple-violet that I have only ever seen in simulations before now and it turns out the color is exactly right, which is somehow worse than if it had been different.

"Evasive maneuvers!" Nyla yells.

First | Previous | Next

---

Hey guys. I finally finished rewriting these two chapters. I added quite a bit to the front end to deepen Kit’s connection with his squad and strengthen the emotional setup before the battle. The overall events are mostly the same, but a lot of the language, pacing, and characterization have been thoroughly reworked.

I deleted the old versions because were poorly written and no longer reflected the quality or direction I wanted for the story. I’ll be attaching this revision to both Chapter 5 and Chapter 18 for newer readers and for anyone who read the earlier version. I feel confident enough that this belongs closer to the main story now and there is some stuff in here that adds to the world building. Feel free to take a break somewhere halfway during 2.2 because it is one of my longest chapters. if I split it up it loses a lot of its punch and I can't find a way around that. Though 2.1 is a nice solid pause point now. I just couldn't split up 2.2 into 2.3 without it being odd. Please any feedback is appreciated. Especially in 2.2. It may be dragging around the middle and If I can I identify were it does maybe I can fix it. Let me know if you guys like it or not.

First | Previous | [Next]

[General Commander — Bridge, ISV Indomitable]

Cygnus X-1 is not a place you visit for the scenery. Well, maybe it is, it's actually gorgeous, if you don't mind that the scenery could kill you horribly, simultaneously in the blink of an eye and also over billions — perhaps trillions of years. Gravity is weird that way.

The black hole itself is invisible, of course — what you see is the absence of everything else. A dark circle cut from the star field, perfectly round, perfectly still, surrounded by the magnificence of the accretion disk — a vast, spiraling sheet of superheated gas that glows in bands of orange, white, and violent ultraviolet. Matter being stripped from the companion star, and a multitude of other orbital bodies as it's dragged inward across millions of kilometers in a slow, inevitable death spiral. The light bends around the event horizon in a perfect ring. The math of it is beautiful. The reality of it is terrifying.

We are anchored in a Lagrange point. One of the only safe locations in this entire system. The gravitational balance point between the black hole and its companion star — a narrow corridor of stability in a system designed by physics to kill everything in it. I know exactly where it is because I've been entrusted with its coordinates. We mapped it ourselves, three years ago, before anyone decided to build a research station out here. That mapping took several weeks and two destroyed drones before we found the corridor. The Invulcari don't have that map.

That is currently our only advantage.

Cygnus Station hangs ahead of us, lit by the accretion disk's angry glow. It is enormous — a multi-ring structure, each ring connected to the next by pressurized transit tubes and utility conduits, the central hub bristling with antenna arrays and research equipment. It is also, for the moment, almost entirely empty. The evacuation transports departed forty minutes ago, a convoy of twenty-three vessels carrying approximately four thousand personnel, researchers, support staff, and a handful of survivors who had been brought here after the Rigel operation by the S'kith. Apparently our jump gate weakened the structure of spacetime around Rigel Prime, whatever that means, and the gravity distortion of the Rally's Cry detonation blasted some of the nearby ships, lifepods and Invulcari into 'the space between spaces'. The S'kith saw them there I guess and brought them to Cygnus as part of their peace offering. They are already through the S'kith gate, safely in Rigel space, and I am trying not to think about the fact that some of them came from Rigel originally, which means some of them have now been evacuated twice in the space of two weeks.

The bridge crew remains. Skeleton staff. Enough to keep the lights on and the systems monitored. They know what's coming. They volunteered to stay — all of them did, which is why I had to order the rest of them off before they would listen. Just me coming out here in a busted ship is reckless enough. I could have run this operation from the other side of the gate. It would have been the sensible choice. It also would have been entirely wrong.

I am choosing not to think too hard about that right now.

"Towing teams report ready," Cora says from the engineering console. Her voice has the particular quality it gets when she is managing seventeen things simultaneously and pretending she is managing four. "Attachment teams are at all fourteen primary hardpoints on the outer ring. Eight on the central hub. We've got problems at junction seven — the connector housing took micrometeorite damage at some point in the last month and the structural rating is compromised. I've flagged it. The towing ship at that hardpoint will need to reduce thrust by approximately twelve percent to compensate."

"Understood. Make the adjustment."

"Already done."

Fifty-one ships. That's what we have. Fifty-one vessels ranging from the Indomitable herself — still battered, still sparking plasma from the nacelle breach, shields at sixty-eight percent and holding — down to a handful of frigates and corvettes that probably shouldn't be doing heavy towing operations but don't have a choice. Eighteen of them are attached to the station's hardpoints. The remaining thirty-three are arranged in a defensive perimeter around the Lagrange point, watching the approaches.

"The S'kith are holding position," navigation reports. "Speaker confirms ready to open on your mark."

"Put me through to him." A light on the communications console flashes as the channel opens.

"Greetings, Commander. We are ready when you are."

"Hold for now. We aren't quite done attaching." I pause. "How close can you position the gate to the station?"

The Speaker considers. The melody shifts into something more deliberate. "We can bring the aperture to within approximately twenty of your meters of the lead towing ships. Any closer and we risk physical contact with the aperture as it forms."

"What happens if something makes contact with it?"

A full silence in the song. Not hesitation — something closer to the Speaker actually considering the answer themselves, as if the question touches something they have not had to articulate before.

"The gate is a folding of space. A bridge between two points where nature intends none to exist. To create it we must briefly invert the natural order at the aperture's edge. Gravity itself. If something were to make physical contact at that moment, the inversion would act upon it. It would be ejected. Very rapidly. In the opposite direction."

A beat.

"How rapidly?" I ask.

"We have not tested this," the Speaker says. "We have been careful not to."

Interesting. Extremely interesting. But academic at this point and I have a job to do.

“Well please get it as close as you can safely. I would prefer none of my ships get a first hand view of the other side of Cygnus's event horizon.”

“Of course Commander.”

I look at the chronometer. Thirty-one minutes. That's how long we've been here. The Invulcari were about two hours out when we left Epsilon Eridani and started organizing the evacuation. That was ninety minutes ago. Which means —

"Contact," the tactical officer says. "Multiple contacts. Edge of sensor range."

There it is.

On the tactical display the red icons appear. First a handful, then dozens, then the display simply stops trying to count individuals and renders them as a mass — a vast, spreading red stain across the far edge of the system. The scale of it takes a moment to process. I have seen large fleets. Planet killing fleets. I commanded against fifteen hundred ships at both Rigel and Xylos. This is not the same.

"How many?" I ask.

A pause. "Sir, the sensor array is having difficulty with the count. The interference from the accretion disk is—" Another pause. "Best estimate is between four and six thousand vessels."

The bridge is very quiet.

"They're moving," tactical reports. "Main body holding at system edge. Scouts separating. Looks like they're running approach vectors."

I watch the display. The scout elements — maybe two hundred ships, fast movers, separated from the main formation — begin spreading out across the system in a fan pattern. Probing. Looking for the safe approach vector that will let them reach the station without the black hole carrying them off to the end of time.

"Let them look," I say. "They won't find it fast."

They find something else first.

"Commander." Tactical's voice has a strange quality. "The forward scout elements — the ones that went directly for the station—"

"I see them."

On the display, a cluster of perhaps fifty Invulcari vessels had taken the most direct route. The obvious route. Straight toward the station, ignoring the black hole's influence because at this distance the gravitational gradient is subtle enough to feel navigable.

It is not navigable.

The Invulcari ships are heading straight for us at first. But then they start to slide away — faster and faster into the inescapable well. Then less fast. Then, on the display, their velocity readings begin doing something that doesn't make intuitive sense — the ships are still moving, still burning their drives at full power, but their progress is slowing. Decelerating. Not because their engines are failing but because time itself is doing something complicated near the event horizon.

We watch in silence as the Invulcari forward scouts approach the point of no return. Their drive signatures are enormous — they are burning hard, trying to pull back, but the math doesn't care about their engines. The ships slow and slow and slow on the display, approaching stillness in a way that isn't stillness, their light redshifting as the gravitational field stretches the wavelengths coming back at us.

They are not destroyed. They are not dead. They are simply — stopped. Frozen at the edge of the event horizon, suspended in a moment that will last, from our perspective, approximately forever. From their perspective, if they are still experiencing perspective, they crossed that threshold in an instant.

"Fifty-three ships," tactical says quietly. "Gone."

Not gone. Just — elsewhere. Elsewhen.

"The main body has stopped," tactical continues. "They're holding at system edge. Watching."

Good. Let them watch. Let them recalculate.

"Junction seven attachment confirmed," Cora reports. "All twenty-two hardpoints secured. Towing configuration is set. We are ready to begin the pull."

I look at the display. At the vast red mass sitting at the edge of the system. At the scout elements still spreading out, methodically, searching for the vector. They are patient. They are thorough. And they have more ships than I have crew members.

"How long until they find the Lagrange corridor?" I ask.

"At their current search pattern?" Navigation runs the numbers. "Forty minutes. Maybe thirty-five."

I know how this goes. We definitely don't have forty minutes.

"Begin pre-pull alignment," I say. "I want all towing ships synced and thrust vectors locked before we open the gate. Cora, I need those vectors parallel to within one degree."

"One is ambitious given the junction seven compensation."

"One."

A pause. "One degree. Give me eight minutes."

"You have six."

I open the contingency channel. A narrow, encrypted frequency that connects me to the Indomitable's weapons officer and to the three vessels currently positioned with direct firing solutions on Cygnus Station's reactor core. I established this channel before we left Epsilon Eridani. Nobody else on the bridge knows about it. Nobody else needs to.

"Contingency teams," I say quietly. "Status."

"Ready, sir," three voices confirm in sequence.

"You know your parameters. If I give the order, you fire immediately. No hesitation, no confirmation request. The station cannot fall into Invulcari hands. The research, the gate technology, all of it — none of it can be captured intact. Is that understood?"

"Understood, sir."

"Maintain silence on this channel unless I contact you."

I close the channel. I do not enjoy this part of command. The part where you pre-plan the destruction of things you are simultaneously trying to save. But the math is the math. If the heist fails, the station burns. We lose tons of tech, years of work, that we really don't have the time or the resources to replace. But the gate technology does not get captured. Neither does the research. Those are the only variables that matter.

The rest I will add to the list I am already keeping.

"Scouts are narrowing their search," tactical reports. "They've eliminated the direct approach vectors. They're concentrating on the corridor regions between the black hole's gravitational field and the companion star."

They're getting warmer.

"Thrust vectors locked," Cora says. "All eighteen towing ships synchronized. Heavy ships double loaded on the primary column. Junction seven compensation confirmed. We are at one-point-one degrees of variance on the outer ring alignment."

"One-point-one?"

"Junction seven is what it is, sir."

I run the numbers in my head. One-point-one degrees. The stress differential at the junction connector will be elevated but within — barely within — the tolerance range. It has to be within tolerance. We don't have a choice.

"It'll hold," I say, more for myself than for Cora.

"I know," she says, which means she ran the same numbers and came to the same conclusion and is also choosing to believe it.

"Open a channel to the station bridge."

A crackle of static, then a voice. Young. Steady. Whoever they left in charge up there is holding it together. "Station bridge."

"This is the General Commander. We're beginning the pull in approximately four minutes. Your job is to keep the station's internal systems stable during transit. Any pressure fluctuations, any hull stress readings above eighty percent, I need to know immediately. You will feel the tow. It will not be comfortable. Brace your people and keep the readings coming."

"Understood, Commander." A pause. "We'll hold."

"I know you will." I hesitate. “Be ready to abandon station if necessary. You will have minutes to get to your life pods and eject. We'll grab you as we bug out...if it comes down to it.”

A pause on their end. Then a sharp intake of breath.

"U-understood, sir." The vowel is drawn out as I hear the shiver run through the speaker.

"Good."

I close the channel and look at the tactical display.

The scouts have found something. On the display, a cluster of Invulcari vessels has stopped its random search pattern and begun moving with purpose — not toward us directly, but angling, adjusting, finding the edge of the safe corridor the way water finds the edge of a drain. They don't have our maps. But they have the time, the numbers, and the patience to find their way by process of elimination.

Twenty minutes. Maybe less.

"Contacts inbound," tactical confirms. "Looks like forty, fifty scout vessels. They've found an approach vector. It's not optimal — they're coming in at the shallow end of the corridor, which limits their speed. But they're coming."

"Defense perimeter, intercept. I don't want them within five thousand kilometers of this station."

"Aye, sir."

Sixteen of our thirty-three perimeter ships peel off and move to intercept. Fast movers — ten destroyers and six frigates, the best we have for this kind of work. On the display their blue icons move to meet the incoming scouts.

The exchange is brief and entirely one-sided. Our ships know this corridor. The Invulcari scouts are navigating it for the first time, at reduced speed, in unfamiliar gravity. It's a turkey shoot. The destroyers hit them from range while they're still threading the approach, and the frigates close to finish the work. Twenty-nine of the fifty scouts are destroyed in under four minutes. The remaining twenty-one reverse course and retreat back toward the main formation.

A cheer goes up somewhere on the bridge. I don't suppress it. They've earned it.

But on the display the main Invulcari formation is moving. Not the whole mass — but a significant fraction of it. Hundreds of ships, then more, peeling away from the main body and moving toward the approach vector the scouts just demonstrated. They are forming up in a column, a line of battle designed to thread the gravitational corridor in sequence. It will take time. The corridor is narrow. They can't pour through it all at once.

But they are coming.

"Cora," I say. "Talk to me."

"Ready when you are, sir."

I open the S'kith channel. "Speaker. Open the gate."

The gate opens.

There is no drama to it from the outside — the aperture simply exists where it didn't a moment ago, a perfectly constructed threshold hanging in space off the station's port side, its edges folding light in that way that the eye slides off rather than processes. Through it, visible on the external cameras, the brilliant blue of the supergiant Rigel. Another star. Another system. One we know well. One that is ready for us.

We chose Rigel deliberately. If the Invulcari can still detect the station's energy signature after transit, they already know where Rigel is — we fought them there. We gave them nothing new. And Rigel is not the system it was when they last saw it. The reinforcements we called in after the battle have been arriving steadily. Whatever comes through that gate looking for trouble will find considerably more of it than they're expecting.

"Towing ships, engage," I say. "Slow and steady. Match acceleration. Keep those vectors parallel."

Seventeen ships fire their engines simultaneously. The thrust is low — below point-three gravities, carefully distributed across twenty-two hardpoints — but the station is enormous and enormous things have enormous inertia and for a long moment nothing seems to happen at all.

Then, slowly, Cygnus Station begins to move.

"Stress readings?" I ask.

"Within tolerance," the station bridge reports. "Junction seven is elevated. At seventy-one percent."

"Hold the acceleration steady. Don't compensate yet."

"Aye."

On the tactical display the Invulcari column is threading the approach corridor. Fast. Faster than I'd like. The lead elements are closing. The rest of our perimeter ships are repositioning to meet them at the narrowest point of the corridor where our advantage is greatest.

The station is moving. Slowly, impossibly slowly, but moving — a vast structure of steel and research and years of work, being dragged through space by a collection of battered ships toward a hole in the very fabric of reality.

"Lead elements of Invulcari column entering weapons range of perimeter," tactical reports. "Perimeter ships engaging."

The shooting starts. On the display it's abstract — icons exchanging fire, blue and red, loss notifications appearing in the margins. In reality it's ships dying. Mostly theirs. I watch the display and keep my voice level.

"Keep the pull going," I say. "The perimeter handles the perimeter. We focus on the station."

"Junction seven at seventy-eight percent," the station bridge reports. "Still within tolerance."

"Good. Hold."

"Commander," Cora says. "At current rate of acceleration, we're looking at nine minutes to full transit. The lead section of the outer ring will reach the gate threshold in approximately one minute."

Nine minutes. The Invulcari column is threading through at speed. Our perimeter ships firing into the corridor is slowing them but not stopping them — there are too many and they are willing to take losses.

I'm not.

"Perimeter ships, fall back to secondary positions," I say. "Don't let them pin you. Your job is to slow them down, not stop them."

"Aye, Commander."

The lead section of the outer ring reaches the gate threshold and begins to pass through. On the cameras it is extraordinary — the vast curved structure sliding through the aperture, disappearing into Rigel space section by section, the gate swallowing it with the same unhurried precision the S'kith bring to everything.

Then everything goes wrong at once.

"Junction seven at ninety-four percent!" The station bridge voice is tight. "We have a stress fracture developing at the connector housing—"

At the same moment: "Towing ship seven, ISV Meridian, is through the gate — Commander, she went through early, she's on the other side—"

The problem registers before the words finish. Towing ship seven is through the gate. Just a hair ahead of the other ships. Which means her tow cables are still attached to the station's hardpoint on this side, running through the gate aperture to a ship that is now in a different star system. The tension on those cables is now wrong — the angle is wrong, the force vector is wrong, and the effect is immediate.

The station lurches.

"Junction seven at one hundred and two percent!" A pause. "One hundred and seven—"

"All towing ships, compensate for Meridian's vector deviation!"

The cable snaps— and the station shakes in a violent waving motion as momentum transfers unevenly across the sections. I stop breathing completely, so does everyone else. We stare waiting for the station to rip itself apart and start venting atmosphere. But that doesn't happen. The vibrations slow and eventually come to a stop. I gasp for air, suddenly realizing how long I have been without it.

Cora is already moving, already calculating. "Ships three, nine, and fourteen, increase thrust by eighteen percent. Ship eleven, reduce by ten. Now!"

A moment of chaos on the display. Towing ships adjusting, recalculating, their thrust vectors shifting to compensate for the hole in the formation where Meridian's contribution has gone sideways.

The station stabilizes. Barely.

"Structural integrity at junction seven is seventy-two percent," the station bridge reports, the relief audible. "Holding."

It shook like a leaf in the breeze after the cable snapped but it held on to the branch.

"Meridian, break off from our heading. Your job here is done." I say.

"Aye, Commander." The Meridian's captain sounds shaken.

"Invulcari forward elements are breaking through the perimeter," tactical reports. "We have approximately thirty vessels incoming. ETA four minutes."

Four minutes. The station is halfway through the gate. The outer ring is in Rigel space. The central hub is at the threshold. The second outer ring is still on this side.

Four minutes.

"Fighter wing, engage the forward elements," I say. "Buy us time."

Twelve fighters drop out of a carrier I have on contingency duty and go for the incoming Invulcari. It's not a battle — it's a delay. They hit hard and fast and scatter, drawing pursuit, making the Invulcari forward elements spend attention on them instead of on the station. Three fighters are lost in the first pass. The Invulcari slow slightly.

Slightly is enough.

"Central hub at the gate threshold," Cora reports. "Three minutes to full transit." Her voice has a quality I have never heard from her before. Something close to wonder.

On the external cameras the gate is an extraordinary sight — the station threading through it section by section, the accretion disk of Cygnus X-1 casting its orange light on one side, the harsh Azure of Rigel visible through the aperture on the other. Two star systems connected by a hole in space, and through that hole, a space station being pulled to safety by a fleet of damaged ships running on nerve and stubbornness.

"Invulcari forward elements at one thousand kilometers," tactical says. "Defense ships engaging."

The ships that have been laying down fire in the corridor are retreating toward us on reverse thrusters, their forward guns are an incessant rain of light and projectiles.

"Second outer ring section at the threshold," Cora says. "Two minutes."

The Invulcari forward elements hit our defense ships and it is brutal and fast and close. One of our ships takes a hit that removes her engine section. She drifts, still firing. Another takes two hits in sequence and her icon goes dark on the display. The Invulcari lose six ships to our four, which is not a trade I would normally accept.

"Final section approaching threshold," Cora calls out. "One minute."

On the tactical display the Invulcari main column is still threading through the approach corridor, still coming, hundreds of ships following the scouts. The forward elements that broke through are engaged by everything we have left. Behind them, visible on long-range sensors, the vast mass of the main Invulcari force — six thousand ships, a number that still doesn't fully process — hanging at the edge of the system.

The final section of Cygnus Station crosses the gate threshold.

"Transit complete," Cora says. "The station is through."

“All ships get out now!”

My haggard fleet continues backing through the gate firing all the while.

"Speaker. Close the gate."

The last of the ships make it through and the gate closes.

One moment it exists. The next moment it doesn't. The aperture folds back into nothing with the same quiet precision it opened with, and where there was a hole in space to a black hole there is now just empty starfield.

The bridge is silent.

The communications officer speaks up. "Defense ships report two Invulcari fighters came through the gate before it closed. Both destroyed. No further contacts."

Two fighters. Out of six thousand ships.

I lean back in my chair.

"Someone get me a damage report," I say. "And get me the station bridge. I want to know that junction seven's integrity isn't getting any worse."

"Junction seven is intact," the station bridge reports. "We have some structural stress in the connector housing but nothing that can't be repaired. The station is intact, Commander."

I close my eyes for exactly one second.

Then I open them.

"Good," I say. "Let's go home."

I wonder what the Invulcari are doing on the other side of the gate where we left them.

They will come back. They always come back.

But not today. I hope.

I remember the contingency channel. The three ships with firing solutions on a reactor that no longer needs to be destroyed. I send a message and release them without ceremony.

I think about the station bridge crew who volunteered to stay. Who are, right now, in Rigel space, intact.

I think about my crew who volunteered to stay on the Indomitable but were forcibly left behind on Eridani station.

I think about Petrova's research, copied and replicated and safe on a station that now newly resides thousands of light-years from its original home.

I think about Anya.

I think about the entirely new list I have just generated, and how many names I added to it.

The S'kith gate opens back to Epsilon Eridani without my even asking.

"Helm," I say. "Take us through."

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---

Hey guys I thought this turned out pretty well but I'm the writer and its pretty hard to determine if it did or not. Please let me know. If it drags too much I can try sprucing it up maybe, but to me it seemed like a lot was going on already. As always critiques encouraged.

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[General Commander — Bridge, ISV Indomitable]

I didn't sleep.

Not really. That's not unusual. I've learned to do without it. During Rigel I was already up for two days, by the time the math was done I was pushing four. Which is not a record I am proud of exactly, but is one I am at least aware of. Last night I sat in my chair and I read the casualty list. Somewhere around the four-hundred-and-eleventh name I closed my eyes for what I told myself was a minute and opened them to find two hours had passed. My neck ached and the night shift had quietly been replaced by the day shift without disturbing me, which I choose to interpret as a professional courtesy rather than pity.

The Indomitable is not fully repaired. Hell, she is barely operational.

The port engine is still at fifty-eight percent and the nacelle breach is sprayed over with a mountain of instant seal — a temporary fix that is holding, but it's not what I would call a solution. Port cannon is still dark. Sensors are on backup, though the engineering teams managed to restore basic long-range. Her shields, newly online, are holding at sixty-eight percent. Cora informs me that's better than expected given that the emitter array took three direct hits and should, by any reasonable engineering assessment, not be working at all. I tell her to pass my compliments to the port side emitter array. She gives me a look that suggests she has been awake as long as I have and finds me significantly less charming than usual.

I look over at the diagnostic display and — yeesh. The little holographic image of the ship is ugly to look at. The hull is a patchwork of emergency seals and structural reinforcement beams. Integrity is almost non-existent at thirty-two percent overall. We are rattling. We are sparking plasma from the thrusters. But we're running, and we will make it home. We just won't be pretty when we get there.

The S'kith vessels are holding position off our port bow. Twelve of them. Incandescent black and purple ships whose color seems to morph and twist regardless of the light. They are long and silent, their geometry still slightly wrong to human eyes in a way that never quite resolves into comfort — like a word you've read so many times it stops looking like a word. The Speaker's vessel is at their center. Larger than the others. Not in the way our flagships are larger — not a statement of military power — but the way the oldest tree in a forest is larger. Silent. Beautiful. And wildly disconcerting. Waiting patiently for us to determine when we are ready to travel. Pristine.

The fleet is a different story. The survivors are a broken flotilla, a collection of ships that look like they've been through a meat grinder. The Herald is gone. The Demeter is dark. The Pegasus is limping along on a single engine, held together with prayer and titanium paste. The rest are in similar states. Several ships are towing the carcasses of their dead brethren. Those ships still with the capacity to be salvaged or revived, given enough TLC, are not something we can simply leave behind. The Demeter is there. The superstructure, where its missing forward section should be, is attached by long cables to its shepherd.

Commander Rostova's voice comes over the comm network. Her overly enthusiastic, frenetic demeanor significantly more muted than usual.

"Sir, the fleet is ready to depart. We've made repairs to the most critically damaged systems and all ships are capable of sub-light propulsion. Though, multiple ships have damaged dark drives and won't be capable of FTL travel without the S'kith's assistance."

"Understood, Commander," I say, my mind already calculating the moving pieces. "I'll take the reins from here. Have the fleet follow the Indomitable's lead and await my instructions for our jump via the S'kith gate. You and your crew have done enough."

"Aye, sir," she says. I can hear the exhaustion in her voice. "Rostova out."

I open the S'kith channel. The melody answers immediately. The same melodic, humming quality as before. The Speaker.

"You have repaired enough to move, I see." It is not a question. "We have been monitoring your progress. You are... industrious."

"We've had a lot of practice," I say. "We're ready to go."

"We are ready as well."

I had already briefed Admiral Vance on the basics and he advised there be a closed door council session that he would attend in person at Epsilon Eridani. I find myself wondering how Chancellor Tarsus will react to being face to face with the S'kith Speaker.

I exhale. "Time to make an entrance," I say, speaking to no one in particular.

I open a channel to Epsilon Eridani Orbital Control.

"Orbital Control, this is General Commander aboard the ISV Indomitable. We are approximately four minutes from transition. I need you to do something for me." I pause. "Don't shoot at anything."

A beat of silence from the other end.

"Sir?"

"We are arriving through an unconventional approach vector. There will be vessels with us that are not in your registry and will not match any recognition profile in your system. They are friendly. I want you to inform your defensive batteries of this before we arrive rather than after, as the after tends to be more complicated for everyone involved."

Another beat. I can hear the particular quality of silence that is a junior officer trying to formulate a question they're not sure they're authorized to ask.

"...How unconventional is the approach vector, sir?"

"Quite," I say. "Indomitable out."

I close the channel. Cora is looking at me. Half the bridge is looking at me.

"Four minutes. Let's look professional." I say. I spend several minutes confirming the fleet's positioning. I switch channels. "Speaker, on your mark."

The S'kith gate opens.

There is no sound. But there is light — light that doesn't behave quite like it should — folding in on itself at the edges of the aperture in a way that the eye slides off the edges of it rather than actually processing the borders. The gate is large. Large enough that the Indomitable passes through it with the S'kith vessels, and the rest of the fleet, in loose formation with room to spare. Room enough that the enormity of it only lands when I look at the sensor display and see the numbers — numbers that don't match what comfortable human intuition expects from a doorway. I wonder idly at what the upper end of its scale could be, should the S'kith so choose to stretch it further.

Then we are through.

It feels like nothing. It also feels like everything stops, just for a moment, just long enough to notice the stopping without being able to point to it. Like the universe skipped a frame. The stars on the forward cameras are different stars — Epsilon Eridani's stars. Epsilon Eridani's space. The transition between them was instantaneous and also somehow present in the body as a wrongness that has no location and no duration and will fade in approximately thirty seconds.

The Speaker says it gets easier. I'm not sure I believe that.

Outside, the S'kith vessels emerge beside us, unhurried, their formation unchanged. For them this is Tuesday. Completely unremarkable. This is breathing.

Epsilon Eridani opens ahead of us. The stations — the orbital platform, the repair docks, the research installation that is Petrova's domain — all of it catching the light of a different sun. Then the planet itself, Eridani Majoris, blue-brown and cloud-streaked, and around it the shapes of the defensive platforms and the traffic of a system that doesn't yet know what just appeared within its borders.

They're about to find out.

Orbital Control opens a channel. The voice on the other end is different from the junior officer I spoke to four minutes and a thousand light years ago. This one is senior. This one has been briefed, or attempted to be briefed, or has simply looked at their sensor display and decided that rank was required for this situation.

"Indomitable, this is Epsilon Eridani Orbital Control, Commander Vash speaking. We are reading—" A pause. I can almost hear their head turning as they do a double take. "We see your fleet is back from your mission, somewhat worse for wear. We are also reading twelve vessels on approach from your vector that are not — sir, these readings don't correspond to any—"

"I know," I say.

"The profile on twelve of these vessels does not match any Alliance registry, any known foreign registry, or any—"

"I know," I say again. "They're with me."

A longer pause. "Sir. What are they?"

I look at the forward display. At the uncanny shapes of the S'kith vessels holding formation off my port bow, unhurried, ancient, entirely unconcerned with the consternation they are causing.

"Allies." I check my console. "Request clearance for approach from the following vector. We have a dignitary aboard the lead vessel who has a meeting with the Council and I'd rather not be late." I transmit the long string of numbers that determines our position in space as well as our security clearance.

The silence that follows has a different quality than before.

"...Clearance granted, Indomitable. Welcome home. I think."

"Thank you, Commander Vash." I allow myself something that is almost a smile. "It's good to be back."

I close the channel. I look at the forward display. At Epsilon Eridani Station growing slowly larger as we close the distance. At Petrova's research installation off the station's starboard quarter, lights on, active, exactly where I left it.

I remember the heated conversation before the Rigel jump. I wince. Petrova and I are not close, exactly — but we are friends in a way that long service and mutual respect builds, without either party quite it deciding to. I should probably apologize. I make a note of it for later.

Right now I have a dignitary to escort and a Council to brief and a room full of politicians to introduce to the fact that humanity is not, and has not been for some time, alone in this war.

I straighten in my chair. I put the casualty list somewhere it will keep.

"Helm," I say. "Take us in."

The Indomitable groans as we settle into our designated mooring point in the repair docks. The magnetic clamps engage with a sound that is more of a tortured shriek than a confident click, a metallic protest from a frame that has been pushed past every limit it was ever designed for. Outside the forward viewports, Epsilon Eridani Station is a cathedral of steel and light, its clean lines and bright windows a stark, almost painful contrast to the scorched and battered hull of our ship. Drones and repair tugs are already swarming over the Indomitable's exterior like steel ants, their welding torches flaring in the darkness. The rest of the fleet is finding its own berths, a procession of wounded giants limping into harbor. An image of the unblemished Tenth fleet makes an unwanted appearance behind my eyes, as the memory briefly pops to the forefront of my thoughts.

The S'kith vessels, however, do not dock. They hold their position off the station's starboard bow, a silent, geometrically impossible constellation against the void. They are waiting.

I stand and straighten my fresh uniform. I catch my reflection in a darkened screen — a face etched with exhaustion, lines around my eyes that weren't there a week ago, or maybe they were but now they seem carved in permanence.

"Commander Solace," I say over the bridge comms, "you have the fleet. Coordinate with Station Command for triage and repairs. Prioritize life support and structural integrity. I want every survivor accounted for."

"Aye, sir," her voice comes back, still rough, filled with quiet iron. "We'll hold it together."

"I know you will."

I turn to the communications officer. "Open a channel to the Speaker."

The melody answers before I can speak. The hesitation in the robotic translator's voice nearly completely gone.

"You are disembarking, Commander."

"The station authorities need to prepare for your arrival. A delegation will be sent to escort you and your attendants to the Council chambers."

"We have no need of an escort," the melody says, a gentle, unwavering note of calm. "But we will accommodate the custom. We are aware of the significance of this meeting. For you."

"I'll send a shuttle. We'll be ready in ten minutes."

"We will be here."

I cut the channel and look around the bridge. Cora is already at her console, her face illuminated by the glow of the diagnostic readouts. She looks up.

"Go," she says. "We'll be fine."

"No." I sigh tiredly. "I need back up. Someone to confirm my story. I can't even begin to imagine the ways this could spectacularly explode in my face."

"That is an issue you will have to navigate alone. My duty is to the ship, not the politicians. I am not leaving until the port emitter array is speaking to me in complete, grammatically correct sentences." She says it with a small, tired smile. "And I do not need to be a telepath to sense your desire to have me there as a buffer. You will manage."

I nod, conceding the point. She's right, but that doesn't make me feel any better about it. "Keep me informed."

"Always, sir."

As I walk toward the bridge exit, Maximov steps out of a side alcove. He's back in his uniform, the freshly ironed fabric crisp, hiding the new synthetic skin graft on his arm. He's moving with a slight stiffness, but the stone-faced resolve is back in full force.

"Sir," he says, falling into step beside me.

"Maximov. You should be resting."

"My rest is less important than your security, sir," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Me and my squad will be accompanying you to the station."

"Your shoulder."

"Is functional. My duty is not neglected."

"How did you end up on this detail anyway?"

"After the events of the battle our combat ready personnel are somewhat short staffed."

My expression is flat. "Right."

We head down to the main docking connection port.

Kit, Cortez, and Dmitri are waiting there, standing at ease. They've also cleaned up. Clean uniforms with holstered pistols at their sides. Cortez is trying to look bored, Dmitri is placidly inspecting the ceiling tiles as if they are ancient artifacts, and Kit is standing with a rigid stillness that looks like it's taking all of his energy to maintain. They straighten as I approach. Except Kit. He looks about the same.

"Sergeant," I say to Maximov.

"Sir."

He turns to his squad. "Alright. Look sharp. This isn't shore leave. You are on high alert. Anything, and I mean anything seems off, you neutralize the threat. The priority is the General."

"Yes, Sergeant," they respond in unison. Cortez looks like he's about to make a comment, but one look from Maximov silences him.

We make our way into the station proper. We are immediately greeted by the station commander, Joric, my right hand in most things involving military coordination, but I haven't seen him since the whole Rigel fiasco pulled me away. He's been running sector defense in my absence and sending me regular reports. The lines on his face look even more pronounced than mine. He is wearing a tightly kept uniform, with a freshly polished pair of medals I do not recognize on his chest.

"General," he says, offering a crisp salute. I return it. "It's good to see you back. We've had a rough time without you. Sirius has come under attack and has been requesting extra support. Though I suspect with the enormity of their defense network, the attack will be short lived."

Sirius is our primary hub for military operations. You could almost say it's the heart. Ships, soldiers, weapons, defensive constructs, and logistics. All of it is based around or comes out of Sirius. It is densely populated, centrally located, and so heavily defended that in some ways it would be a harder target than Earth itself.

"Hmm. Keep me posted. I expect it'll be over relatively quickly. If Rigel had a quarter of the defenses Sirius has, the invasion would've been squashed almost instantly. We'll need to reorganize the front once our ships are back."

"Of course, General." He hesitates. "Sir. About your return. We've been monitoring your approach. The reports we've gotten are... concerning."

"They're accurate, Joric," I say. "The situation has changed. Dramatically. The Council is being briefed as we speak. Where's the delegation for the S'kith?"

"They're assembling in conference room one. The Chancellor insisted. Admiral Vance is with them."

"Of course he is," I mutter. "Let's not keep them waiting."

We walk through the station. The corridors are bustling with activity. Techs, officers, and civilians move with a sense of purpose. The station is alive. It's a stark contrast to the muted, damaged corridors of the Indomitable. People stop and stare as we pass. They see my face, they see the uniform, they see the squad behind me, and they know. They know something big has happened. I can see the questions in their eyes. The fear. The hope. I nod to a few, but I don't stop. I don't have the answers they're looking for. Not yet.

The conference room is a fairly large space with sparse decorations, and imitation-wood wall panels that look real enough until you spend the time to inspect them. In the center of the room, there is a long table made of actual polished dark wood. The head of the table supports a large hologram emitter currently showing the station's statistics, in lieu of any preset meeting display. The delegation is already there. Chancellor Tarsus, a handful of councillors I recognize from the holo-chamber, and Admiral Vance, who looks surprisingly relaxed. Councillor Valderian, leader of the Sirius Coalition and head of the war council, is conspicuously absent.

"General," Vance says, a warm smile on his face. "Glad you could make it."

"Admiral," I reply, my tone neutral. "Chancellor."

"Commander," Tarsus says, his voice rumbling. "I trust you have a good reason for this... entourage you've brought to our doorstep."

"I do, Chancellor," I say. "I believe the term you're looking for — that you may not be familiar with — is 'to make friends'."

Before he can respond, a chime sounds from the door. It slides open, and the S'kith delegation steps inside. A squad of heavily armed marines follows them in and lines up against the wall, their faces locked into expressions of stony professionalism — though I can see sweat beading on their brows.

There are three of them. They are tall and slender, clad in flowing robes of a material that seems to absorb the light — a deep, shimmering black that shifts with hints of indigo and violet. They have no discernible faces, only smooth, featureless ovals of what looks like polished obsidian, their skin shining purple in places as the light plays across them, except for their large, smooth, discerning eyes. I can feel their attention sweep across the room, a silent, inquisitive pressure that seems to probe at the edges of my perception. Maximov and his squad shift, their hands moving instinctively closer to their sidearms. Except Kit. He stands perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the S'kith, his expression unreadable.

The central S'kith — the Speaker — glides forward, its movements fluid and unnervingly silent. It stops a few feet from the table, the other two taking up positions slightly behind and to either side. The Speaker's head tilts, a gesture that is both alien and oddly expressive. The melodic humming fills the room, and the translator unit, a small, unobtrusive device on the conference table, begins its work.

"We are pleased to be here," the synthesized voice says, calm and even. "We thank you for your hospitality."

"The pleasure is ours," Tarsus says, his tone dripping with insincere formality. "The Alliance is always open to... new relationships."

The S'kith melody shifts, a questioning, almost sardonic lilt to it. "We sense skepticism. Fear. And a great deal of political maneuvering. This is to be expected. You are a young species. Your ways are still... primal."

A few of the councilors bristle at that, but Tarsus raises a hand, silencing them before they can speak. "We are a species that has survived, Speaker. We have faced threats you cannot imagine and prevailed. We are not primal. We are practical."

"Pragmatism is a useful tool," the Speaker replies, its melody a thoughtful, contemplative hum. "But it is a poor foundation for an alliance. An alliance requires trust born of predictability. We understand that your word means something to you but we have also found upon review of your histories that it has been broken time and time again — namely among yourselves. It is difficult to trust a species that remains so contradictory and expect that we will somehow be the exception."

"We demonstrated it at Xylos," I say, stepping forward. "We kept our promise. We saved your people. We lost a lot of our own doing it. That's a lot more than just words."

The S'kith melody shifts again, softer, more complex. "Yes. You did. And we are grateful. But a single act of sacrifice does not erase a history of self-interest. Your entire civilization is built upon it. You compete, you conquer, you consume. You are, in many ways, not so different from the Hunters."

That lands like a bomb. The room goes tense. I can feel Maximov's anger, a hot, sharp spike. The S'kith remain impassive, their large, unblinking eyes fixed on Tarsus. His hands clasp tighter together but otherwise there is no response.

"We are nothing like them," I say, my voice low. "We fight to survive. They hunt for sport. We build. They destroy. We mourn our dead. They do not."

"An interesting distinction," the Speaker says, its melody a curious, inquisitive trill. "But is it a meaningful one? The end result is often the same. Death. Destruction. The suffering of the many for the benefit of the few. You may call it survival. We call it a pattern."

The room is silent. The council members are looking at each other, their expressions a mixture of uncertainty, anger, and a dawning realization that their usual methods of political posturing are useless here.

Tarsus straightens, his face a mask of cold fury. "We will not be lectured on morality by—"

He trails off, unable to find a word that isn't an insult. The S'kith melody shifts, a quiet, almost sad note.

"We are not here to lecture, Chancellor," the synthesized voice says. "We are here to understand. And to be understood. Your word, your honor, is a powerful concept. We are still learning its nuances. We see that you can be selfless. We see that you can be cruel. We see that you can be both at the same time. We are trying to reconcile these contradictions. To find the pattern. The core of what it means to be human."

"And what have you found?" Vance asks, his voice calm and steady. He's the only one in the room who doesn't seem rattled.

The S'kith melody is a long, complex, deeply thoughtful hum. "We have found potential. And danger. You are a species on the brink. You could ascend to something greater, or descend into a chaos of your own making. The path you choose will determine not only your own fate, but the fate of this entire region of space. Perhaps even the entire galaxy."

The Speaker turns its featureless face toward me. The pressure of its attention intensifies. "You, Commander. You are the embodiment of this contradiction. You are a killer, but you are also a savior. You are a pragmatist, but you are also an idealist. Commander, from what we can tell you are the most human of all."

The anger building between my eyebrows vanishes. I am completely caught off guard. My words stumble. It's not often that I don't know what to say next. "I'm just a soldier...Doing my job."

"Are you?" the S'kith asks, its melody a gentle, probing question. "Is that all you are?"

Before I can answer, not that I had an answer, a chime sounds from the console on the table. A red light begins to flash.

Joric, who has been standing by the door, steps forward and touches a control panel. A small holographic figure of a junior comms officer appears in the center of the table.

"Chancellor, Admiral, General," the officer says, her voice tight with urgency. "We have a priority one alert. From the Cygnus X-1 system."

A collective intake of breath fills the room. The Cygnus Shipyards. The black projects station had only just come back online yesterday after the crew's brief stint in what the S'kith call the space between spaces.

"What is it?" Tarsus demands.

"The station reports its long range probes in nearby systems are being tripped. It's the Invulcari. They are coming. From everywhere."

The room is dead silent for a heartbeat.

"How many?" Vance asks, his voice cutting through the tension like a razor.

The officer hesitates. "Sir... it's a consolidated armada. The largest we've ever seen. They're coming from all directions. A full scale invasionary force. The main body of the fleet is on a direct course for Cygnus X-1."

The blood drains from my face. Cygnus X-1. The shipyards. The gate technology. The S'kith detachment that revived our crew, along with their ships and technology. On top of who knows what else, being secretly developed. All in one place.

"Sir," the officer continues, her voice trembling. "Their arrival is imminent. They'll be in system in less than two standard hours."

The room explodes. The councillors are shouting, their voices a cacophony of panic and accusation. Tarsus is on his feet, his face a mask of fury and disbelief. "How is this possible? How could they find our base? How could they know?"

The S'kith melody shifts, a quiet, almost mournful note. "The Hunters are drawn to power. To the disruption of the natural order. Your experiments with spacetime are a beacon. A scream in the silence. We have been attempting to shield you from their perception since we first made contact, but the energy signature from the Cygnus facility is significant. It was only a matter of time."

I look at the S'kith. At their featureless, inscrutable faces. "You knew this could happen," I say, my voice low. "You didn't think to mention it?"

"We did mention it. We told you they were drawn by your shout. But we did not know the Hunters were so close," the Speaker replies, its melody placid, even. "Or that they would respond with such overwhelming force. They have never before shown such coordinated strategy. Typically they attack in hordes and waves, content to let whatever factions govern them do as they wish at their leisure. This is a change. An evolution. And it is directed at you. At the source of the disruption."

"They're responding to our victories," I say. The words land as a cold, hard realization.

"They are adapting," the S'kith agrees. "To your technology. To your tactics."

Tarsus slams his fist on the table, the sound echoing in the now-silent room. "This is your fault, Commander! You and your reckless experiments! You've led them right to our doorstep!"

"I never gave you leave to copy my research department's designs and send them wherever you like! Besides they were already at the doorstep, Chancellor!" I snap back. "They've been at the doorstep since they showed up at Proxima and burned it to the ground! I'm just the only one who's been trying to find a new way to fight them! You've been content to let them pick us off one world at a time while you sit in your chambers and debate the cost of fighting!"

"The cost is everything!" Tarsus roars. "And you've just handed them the biggest weapon they could ask for!"

"We need to get a fleet there. Now," Vance says, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos. "Whatever we have. The Tenth Division is still being assembled. They're not ready. The Sixth is battered. We need—"

"The Seventh and Eighth are on the opposite side of Alliance space," I cut in. "They'll take days to get there. Even with the S'kith gates, it will take hours to assemble them. They are spread out across dozens of systems. By the time they arrive, Cygnus will be a memory."

"The Fifth is at Sol," another councillor adds, his voice a panicked squeak. "They're our last line of defense. We can't move them!"

"Then what do we do?" Tarsus demands, his voice ragged. "How do we deal with this Commander? How do you propose to get us out of this mess?"

I look at the S'kith. At their silent, unmoving forms. I remember the gate at Xylos. The impossible doorway. The scale of it. The feeling of the universe skipping a frame.

I take a deep breath and steady my gaze as the room looks at me.

"I have a plan."

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Sorry I'm late guys this one was a lot of editing.

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[General Commander — Bridge, ISV Indomitable]

The bridge is a skeleton crew. The night shift. The ones who weren't on duty during the battle. They are quiet, efficient, their movements sure even in the dim red light. They are cleaning up. Replacing consoles. Rerouting power. The Indomitable is alive, and she is healing.

I am back in my chair. It feels harder, colder than usual in my off-duty jumpsuit. I'm supposed to be resting. But how can I?

I am looking at a list. A long list. Names. Ranks. Service numbers. It is the official casualty list. I am reading every entry. It is a penance. A duty. My responsibility.

I am not thinking about the Invulcari. I am not thinking about the S'kith. I am not thinking about the cloaking technology, or the gates. I am thinking about the names on this list. I am thinking about the faces behind the names. The ones I knew. The ones I didn't. The ones who were following my orders.

The comms channel chimes. The officer working the comms station turns, then looks at me hesitantly as she notices my jumpsuit. I look up and nod.

"Sir, the S'kith evacuation seems to be going smoothly as far as we can tell. The Speaker is on the line and wishes to speak to you."

I sit up straighter. "Put him through."

The same melodic, humming quality fills the bridge. A single, clear note of inquiry.

"You are not sleeping, Commander."

"A lot of people aren't sleeping," I say. "The ship is a mess. The fleet is a mess. There's a lot to do."

"Yes. There is. We have been observing your repairs. You are resourceful."

"We've had a lot of practice."

The melody shifts. More complex. More questioning.

"We have reviewed the engagement data. Your tactics were unconventional, to say the least. The boarding action. The venting. The antimatter. The final charge. It was more than a military action. It was a statement."

"It was a battle. We won. That's all that matters."

"Is it?" A pause, something hanging in the melody. "We have been fighting them for centuries. We have never won. Not like this. We have survived. We have hidden. We have bled. But we have never made them... reconsider."

"They're reconsidering now because they miscalculated. We have made an alliance with one of their oldest and most concerning prey — one that has tech they have been coveting for hundreds of years. We are also one of the few species they have faced in a while, with both the will and the resources to oppose them — and that makes us a very different kind of threat. They thought we were just another species to be consumed. They were wrong."

"Yes. They were." The melody settles for a moment. "And that is what we do not understand about you. You are like them in some ways. You are violent. You are territorial. You are driven by things we cannot comprehend. But you are also unlike them. You are capable of sacrifice. You are capable of mercy. You are capable of... love."

"We're capable of all of it," I say. "The good and the bad. That's what makes us human."

"We have watched you for a time. We have seen your art, your music, your literature. We have seen your capacity for cruelty and your capacity for kindness. We have seen you build and we have seen you destroy. We have never understood what drives you. What makes you choose one over the other."

"Survival," I say. "In the end, it's always about survival. We do what we have to do to survive. Sometimes that means being kind. Sometimes that means being cruel. The trick is knowing which is which."

"And you believe you know which is which?"

"I have to," I say. "It's my job."

"Perhaps." A long note, low and complex. "But we are not so sure. We have seen the cost of your survival. We have seen the names on your list. We have felt the grief of your crew. We have heard the silence of your halls. And we wonder... if it is worth it."

I don't have an answer to that. Not a good one. I shift uncomfortably and clear my throat.

"So how are you faring getting your people off Xylos?" I say, deflecting. I've always been good at deflecting.

"The evacuation is proceeding as planned. The gate is stable for now. We are moving our non-combatants to a safer location. We have you to thank for that. Without your intervention, the people would have been trapped until the the Hunters had enough time to study the barrier and dismantle it. Then with that knowledge, perhaps our entire species. We would have been another name on your list."

"We had an agreement," I say. "You help us and we help you. I keep my word."

"We know." The melody shifts into something quieter. "That is another thing we do not understand about you. Your word. It is a concept we have no equivalent for. It is a promise, a bond that transcends survival. It is a choice to do something because you said you would — even when it is not in your best interest to do so."

"Without it, we'd be no better than the Invulcari," I say. "We'd be just another pack of predators, tearing each other apart for scraps." I look around the bridge, at the skeleton crew working in the dim red light, at the tactical display showing the battered fleet. "We're not perfect. Far from it. But we're trying. We're trying to be something more than just animals fighting over a carcass. That's what the word is for. It's a reminder. A promise we make to ourselves that we're better than our worst impulses."

"We will meditate on this," the Speaker says. "Your word. Your promise. It is... perhaps the most powerful concept we have encountered."

The channel goes quiet. The melody fades. The bridge is silent again, except for the hum of the generators and the quiet sounds of the crew working.

I lean back in my chair, the list of names still on the screen in front of me. Commander Yeva, ISV Mercy. I didn't know her well. I knew her ship. I watched it go down during the wave sequence of the battle. She got most of her crew out, but her ship took a torpedo before her pod could eject. She didn't have to come. None of them did. I look at the names. The ranks. The service numbers. I see the faces behind them. The ones I knew. The ones I didn't. The ones who were following my orders. The ones who died for an alliance. For a promise.

For my word.

I feel something in my chest. Sometimes it's difficult to breathe around. It will pass. It always does.

I close my eyes for a minute. Just one. I see the face of a girl I knew, a long, long time ago. Her name was Anya. She was a pilot, like Jet, but older. More experienced. She was my wingman for a while. We flew together over a dozen worlds. She was good. She was very good.

She died in a battle over a moon I can't even remember the name of now. Her ship was hit. She ejected. But her pod was damaged. It was leaking. I saw it on my sensors. I saw the life support readings drop. I heard her voice over the comms, calm and steady, telling me she was okay, telling me to go, telling me to complete the mission.

I went.

I completed the mission.

I told myself it was the right thing to do. The logical thing. The strategic thing. I told myself that her sacrifice saved lives, that it was necessary, that it was the cost of war.

But I never forgot her face. I never forgot her voice. I never forgot the promise I made to myself that day — that I would never leave anyone behind again. Not if I could help it.

Memories flash in my mind.

What is the most populous planet in your system?

Get the Rally's Cry on the line.

Space em.

Dozens of others. Hard decisions. Awful choices. I just made that big speech to the S'kith about keeping our word. A nasty taste sits in my mouth.

I open my eyes. I look at the list of names. I close the file. I can't look at it anymore. Not right now.

I stand up and walk over to the comms station.

"Get me Commander Solace," I say. "Secure channel."

"Aye, sir."

A few moments later, Solace's face appears on the screen. She's on the bridge of the Herald. Or what's left of it. She looks as tired as I feel. Her uniform is torn. There's a bandage on her forehead.

"Sir," she says, her voice hoarse.

"Commander," I say. "I'm sorry about the Herald. She was a good ship."

"She was," Solace says. "But we got her crew off. Mostly. We got a lot of people off the other ships too. The ones that couldn't make it on their own. The Pegasus is taking on survivors. The Demeter, before she..."

"I know," I say. "I saw."

"We did what we could, sir," Solace says. "We got as many as we could."

"I know you did," I say. "You and your crew did a hell of a job. You saved us. You saved this fleet."

"We followed your lead, sir," Solace says. "You gave us a window. We just flew through it."

"It was a narrow window," I say.

"They always are," she replies. Solace is quiet. Her eyes go somewhere else for a moment — somewhere that isn't this bridge, or this conversation. "I didn't think we were going to make it." Her vision comes back.

She coughs. "So what's the plan, sir? Where are we headed?"

"Home," I say. "As fast as we can."

"And after that?"

"We prepare," I say. "We mourn. We learn. And hopefully this new tech can help us bloody their nose when they come back for the next round."

"Do you think they'll be back?" Solace asks.

"I know they will," I say. "We hurt them. We embarrassed them. We made them question themselves. Twice now. They won't let that stand. They'll be back. And they'll be smarter. And they'll be more prepared."

"Then we'll have to be smarter too," Solace says. "And more prepared."

"We will," I say. "I have a few ideas."

"I'm listening," Solace says.

"Not now," I say. "Later. When we're home. When we've had a chance to bury our dead and fix our ships and figure out what we're going to do with this alliance."

"You really think we can trust them?" Solace asks. "The S'kith? After all this?"

"I think we have to," I say. "We don't have a choice. Not anymore. We're in this together. Like it or not."

"And the Invulcari?"

"We fight them," I say. "We fight them until they're gone. Or until we are."

"That's a hell of a plan, sir," Solace says.

"It's the only one we've got," I say. "Keep me informed. And Solace?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Get some rest. You've earned it."

"You too, sir."

The screen goes dark. I turn away from the comms station and walk back to my chair. I sit down. I look at the tactical display. The battered fleet is drifting in a loose formation, the Indomitable at its center. We are a flock of wounded birds, preparing to fly home. We are slow. We are vulnerable. We are alive.

On the secondary display, I watch the S'kith evacuation. The gate opens and closes in steady intervals, precise as a heartbeat, each aperture lasting only a few seconds before folding back into nothing. But the aperture itself — I keep forgetting the scale of it. It is not a wound. It is not even a breach. It is a perfectly constructed doorway, a passage in space large enough to swallow a small moon, and through it, entire formations of S'kith vessels pass at once — long and pale and silent, nothing like our ships, built for a geometry that doesn't quite make sense to human eyes. Families, maybe. Civilians. Whatever the S'kith equivalent is. Hundreds of vessels at a time. An entire civilization stepping through a threshold in space, moving to somewhere safer because we bought them the time to do it. I watch it for a while. It is, objectively, one of the most extraordinary things I have ever seen. I am too tired to feel it properly. I file it away for later, for some quieter moment that may or may not come.

I open the casualty list again. I force myself to look at the names. I force myself to read them. One by one. I don't let myself look away.

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Well another short one but I have some errands to run today. This is more of a transition/character chapter anyway. Maaaybe later I can get another one in but it will be late. Thanks for reading.

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[PO3: Kit Westley — Medical Bay, ISV Indomitable]

The medbay is a symphony of quiet agony. The air is thick with the antiseptic tang of sterilant and the metallic tang of blood, both old and new. Every bunk is full, and the corridors leading to it are lined with patients on cots, their faces pale, their uniforms cut away to reveal wounds that are a catalogue of what energy weapons, mandibles, and alien claws can do to the human body. Doctors and corpsmen move with a practiced efficiency that is more disturbing than comforting. They've been through this before. Too many times. Well, maybe with less bite wounds.

I'm sitting on an examination table, my flight suit peeled down to my waist, a medic dabbing at the burn on my back with something that stings like a dozen hornets. It's a minor injury. A glancing blow from a plasma bolt. Something I didn't even notice until Maximov, his own shoulder a deep-fried mess, told me to go get it checked out. The medic, a woman with tired eyes and a name tag that reads "Dr. Aris," works without speaking.

Across the room, Maximov is sitting rigidly upright on another table, his shirt off, revealing a landscape of old scars and one new, vicious-looking burn that runs from his shoulder down his bicep. A different medic is carefully applying a synthetic skin graft. Maximov's face is a stony mask. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't make a sound. He just stares at the wall.

Dmitri and Cortez are standing nearby, looking out of place in the clean white confines of the medbay. They are still in their flight suits, caked with grime and dried Invulcari blood.

"The kid got a scratch," Cortez says, his usual swagger muted. "The rest of us are fine. Send us back out. The ship's still a mess."

The medic tending to Maximov doesn't even look up. "You're all on temporary medical standby until you get examined, Sergeant. That's an order from the General."

Cortez opens his mouth to argue, but Dmitri puts a hand on his arm. "Is not good to argue with doctors," he says, his tone unnervingly quiet in this place. "They have needles."

Cortez looks at Maximov. At the burn. At the way he sits, as still as a statue, refusing to show pain. Then he looks at me, at the raw red patch on my back. He closes his mouth.

"Right," he says. "Standby. Got it."

Dr. Aris finishes with my back and slaps a biopatch over the burn. "You're good, pilot," she says, her voice flat. "Report back to your station and await further orders."

"Thank you, Doctor."

I pull my flight suit back on, the material rough against the new skin. My muscles are screaming in protest. I feel every single one of the last forty-eight hours. I feel the G-forces of the fight outside the hull, the jarring impact of the Hulk, the concussion of the grenade, the lurch of the antimatter blast, the sickening exhalation of the ship as we spaced the boarders. I feel the weight of my plasma rifle. I see the empty suits of the Seventh Battalion. I hear the grinding metal of the blast doors.

And I see the General's face as he stood up on the bridge and told the Invulcari — an actual talking Invulcari — to kick rocks, then spaced them all.

I wait a few minutes for the others to get a quick once-over. Cortez mutters something about cold hands and Dmitri swears up and down that he is up to date on all his vaccinations. As they finish up and we turn to leave, I hear Maximov.

"Kid." He hasn't moved. He still hasn't looked at me.

"Sir?"

"You did good," he says.

It's not a compliment. It's a statement of fact. An official entry in the log of my life. And it means more than any medal.

"Thank you, sir."

"Now get out of here," he says. "Find some food. Get some sleep. If you can."

We leave the medbay, the doors sliding shut behind us, cutting off the sounds of pain and quiet industry. The corridors are still dim, the emergency lights casting everything in a red glow. The ship is quiet, but it's a different quiet than before. It's the quiet of a patient in critical but stable condition. The ship is alive. It's holding on.

We walk in silence for a while. The three of us. A squad.

"They took out the Herald," Cortez says, breaking the silence. "And the Pegasus is a wreck."

"Is very sad," Dmitri rumbles. "Was a good ship. We lose many good ships today. But we did not lose this one."

"Because of him," Cortez says, nodding toward me. "That stunt with the wing. That was some crazy-ass shit."

"Was also very stupid," Dmitri says. "But worked. So... smart stupid."

"Thanks, I think. Not that it made any real difference."

"It made all the difference," Dmitri says, and for the first time, there's a real intensity in his voice. "If we had not cleared the hull, the ship would have been crippled. Maybe destroyed. Defence teams could not have held off Hulk if it got inside the ship. We did our job. You did your job."

"Your job wasn't just to follow orders," Cortez says. "Your job was to survive. And to make sure we survived. And you did that too."

"I thought about her," I say, the words coming out before I can stop them. "Jet. On the sensors. When I was coming in. I thought about her, and I just... I did something. I didn't think. I just acted."

"That is what you say... fire. Courage," Dmitri says. "That is what wins battles."

"Fire burns people," I say.

"Yes," Dmitri agrees. "But sometimes, things need to be burned down."

We reach the mess hall. It's crowded. It's the only place with full power right now, the one designated safe zone for off-duty crew. The air is a soup of conversation, the clatter of trays, and the low hum of the emergency generators. We get our food — nutrient paste, reconstituted protein, and a cup of something that's supposed to be coffee but tastes like burnt electronics. We find a corner table, a small island of quiet in the sea of exhaustion.

"Did you guys see the General?" Cortez asks, scooping a spoonful of paste into his mouth. "Just standing there. Like he was ordering lunch. All those marines. 'Space em.'" He shakes his head, a flicker of something like awe in his eyes. "That's a stone-cold son of a bitch. I'd follow him into a black hole."

"Is not stone-cold," Dmitri says, sipping his coffee and grimacing. "Is calculating. There is difference. He made a choice. The choice that gave us the best chance to survive. Even if it was... a terrible choice."

"It worked," I say.

"Yes," Dmitri says. "It worked. But do not think it was easy. Do not think he does not feel it. He is just better at not showing."

The mess hall doors open and the General walks in. He's not in his uniform. He's wearing a simple ship-issued jumpsuit, the kind everyone wears off duty. He's alone. He gets a tray, gets the same food we got, and starts looking for a place to sit. The room goes quiet. Not all at once — table by table, the conversations dying down, heads turning. Everyone watches him. He looks tired. Not exhausted, or beaten. Just tired. The kind of tired that comes from carrying the weight of too many lives for too long. He sees our table, and for a moment, I think he's going to turn away. But he doesn't. He walks over.

"May I?" he asks, his voice quiet.

Cortez almost chokes on his paste. Dmitri just nods, a slow, deliberate movement.

The General sits down. He sets his tray on the table and picks up his fork.

"You all did good work," he says, not looking at any of us in particular. "You kept the ship in the fight long enough for me to do my job."

"That was... quite a job," Cortez says, finding his voice. "Sir."

"I have a good ship," the General says. He takes a bite of the protein. Chews. Swallows. "And a good crew."

He looks at me. And this time, his eyes are not the eyes of a commander. They are the eyes of a man who has seen too much. "I read the after-action report from your squadron, Westley. Your stunt with the wing was reckless."

"Sir, I—"

"It was also effective," he continues, cutting me off. "There's a fine line between reckless and brave. Today, you walked it. Tomorrow, try to stay on the brave side."

He looks at Cortez and Dmitri. "You two kept him alive. You kept each other alive. That's what a squad does."

"We did what we were told to do, sir," Dmitri says.

"No," the General says. "You did more than that. You adapted. You thought for yourselves. You made hard choices in a situation where there were no good ones." He pauses. "The Indomitable is a mess. The fleet is a mess. We lost a lot of good people today." He looks around the mess hall, at the faces of the survivors, at the empty seats that will remain empty. "But we're still here."

He continues, taking another bite as he talks."The numbers say our victory was decisive. Hell, more than decisive. We were downright lethal. We took down nearly twelve hundred Invulcari with a fleet of two-hundred-and-forty ships. If we can learn to integrate the S'kith tech and use it without their help, this war changes." He pauses. "Still. We lost almost a hundred ships out there. The vast majority went down in that final charge to save us." He stops talking.

I try to picture it. I can't. I was there. I saw the tactical display. I saw the icons disappear. But I can't picture it. I can't feel it. I was on the bridge. I was inside the fortress. I was protected by the fortress. The people who died out there — they died for me. For us. They died for this mess of a ship and this mess of a fleet. They died for a chance to fight another day.

The General finishes his meal in silence. The rest of us do too. The mess hall is quiet again, the only sound the clatter of trays and the hum of the generators. The General stands up.

"Get some rest," he says. "We've got a long way home."

He leaves. The conversations start up again, slowly at first, then louder, filling the silence he left behind. The three of us sit there for a long moment.

"I'm going to turn in," Cortez says, pushing his tray away. "I'm so tired I don't think I could stay awake, even if that pretty nurse asked me to play doctor." He gets up and leaves. Dmitri and I sit in silence for a few more minutes.

"You okay?" Dmitri asks.

"I don't know," I say. "I think so."

"Is good answer," Dmitri says. "Is honest answer." He gets up. "I will see you in the morning. Try to sleep."

I nod. He leaves.

I sit there alone for a while. I think about Jet. I think about the marines in the corridors. I think about the General's face when he said the S'kith thought we were not entirely what we expected. I think about Dmitri's voice when he called the order to space the boarders a terrible choice. I think about Maximov, still and silent on the table, not flinching.

I don't know who I am anymore. I'm not the idealistic kid from Rigel prime who joined the fleet to be a hero. I'm not the scared kid in the cockpit of a training interceptor facing down an Invulcari horde. I'm not the soldier who fought his way through a nightmare ship. I am a survivor. And I am not sure what that means.

I get up and leave the mess hall. The corridors are still dim, the red emergency lights painting everything in the color of dried blood. I go to my bunk. It's small and cramped and I share it with three other pilots, but right now it's the only place in the universe I want to be.

I lie down. I close my eyes. I don't sleep for a long time.

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Hey guys, another Kit chapter is up. Let me know how I’m doing with them. I’m still a little worried after the whole Chapter 2.1–2 situation. I went back, re-edited, and did some major rewrites. It’s definitely better now, but it still doesn’t feel quite where I want it yet.

Anyway, this was originally supposed to be a short blurb before switching back to the General Commander, but it ended up getting longer as I wrote. It’s still a bit short for one of my chapters, though, sitting at around 2,100 words. I’ll have another one up tomorrow.

Also, special thanks to Mobile-Barracuda-290 for pointing out the missing ship numbers in the comments. That got me to go back and add them throughout the last couple chapters, and it made everything much clearer. It also pushed me to make a few other edits that will make the whole sequence read a lot better for future readers. Sorry you didn’t get to see those changes on your first read-through, but thank you for catching it.

Thank you everyone for continuing to read. You have no idea how happy it makes me to know anyone is interested in my story. I read every comment like 5 times. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart, and as always critiques encouraged.

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[General Commander, ISV Indomitable]

The Invulcari representative speaks again. The same horrible approximation of human language, the words assembled the way a child assembles blocks — correctly shaped but without understanding of what makes them fit.

"...You will... surrender... the cloaking technology... your crew... will end themselves... we will not... pursue... the others."

The bridge is very quiet.

Cora is still at the engineering console. Her fingers haven't stopped moving. I can hear the faint percussion of it even now, even with the blast doors shuddering as whatever is on the other side works through its options.

I consider the offer. It takes approximately one second.

"That's your opening?" I say. "No preamble. No pretense of good faith. You lead with die and we'll think about not killing the others."

No response. It seems the Invulcari do not understand the concept of a rhetorical question. I file that away.

"You've never negotiated before," I say. It isn't an accusation. It's an observation. "Or if you have, it was with something that didn't talk back."

"...We do not... negotiate... with prey."

"And yet here we are." I lean back in my command chair. The left armrest is sparking slightly where a console panel blew out twenty minutes ago. I rest my elbow on it anyway. "So either you've changed your policy, or I'm something other than prey. I'd like to think it's the latter, but I'm open to discussion."

Silence from the speakers. The blast doors take another hit. Precise. Some kind of test of its integrity.

"...You are... cornered... your ship is... failing... your crew is... compromised... your fleet... cannot reach you... in time..."

"All true," I say. "Every word. I won't argue any of it."

"...Then you... understand... your position."

"I understand my position perfectly." I glance at Cora. She holds up three fingers without looking away from her console. Three minutes. Maybe less. "What I'm not sure you understand is mine."

The blast doors shudder again. I hear something — underneath the impact, underneath the groaning metal — a sound like many legs moving in coordination, like something being tried that hasn't worked yet but will eventually. They are patient. I will give them that.

I look at Kit. He's standing near the rear of the bridge with Maximov's squad, plasma rifle in hand, watching me the way a chess player watches their opponent make a move when they are trying to determine if they knows something you don't, or they are simply very good at pretending.

I have been told I am very good at pretending.

"You know," I say, to no one in particular, to the room in general, to whatever is on the other side of that speaker, "there is a saying, that a good tactician makes three plans. A good one. A great one. And an ace in the hole."

"...This is... irrelevant."

"Let me finish." I say it the way you speak to someone who has interrupted you at the dinner table. Firmly. Without heat. "The good plan was total annihilation. Full fleet engagement, hit you in waves, bleed you, then hit you with maximum force, take the system in one go. Then fly home in time for supper." I let that sit for a moment. "We ran the numbers, it was definitely possible but I've learned that plans in war rarely go to order perfectly. Your formation was too large, your ships too fast, and we were working with green crews and borrowed time. But you always present the optimistic case first. It's good for morale."

Nothing from the speakers. The blast doors are silent.

"The great plan was simpler. Pull back after we hurt you, and give you room to leave. We call it a victory, and you go home and survive, minus whatever chunk of your fleet we whittled you down to." I look at the display. At the defensive sphere the Invulcari had organized themselves into around the indomitable. "A rational enemy would have taken that offer. The space was there. We weren't pursuing. All you had to do was turn around." Another pause. "You didn't. Which tells me something about what you actually came here for. And exactly how bad you want it."

"...We came... for the technology... that made you... invisible."

"I know," I say. "Which is why the great plan stopped being great the moment you decided to stay. In a straight fight at even numbers, you win. We both know that. So the great plan became impossible."

"...Then you... have... nothing"

I let that breathe.

"Which leaves the ace in the hole."

"...You have... no shields... your weapons... are compromised... you have... lost significant... crew... your drive... is damaged... you cannot... run... you cannot... fight... you have... no remaining... options..."

The Invulcari representative pauses, and I get the impression that what follows is the closest their species comes to magnanimity.

"...We offer you... a clean death... your people... will not suffer... the cloaking technology... will be preserved... this is... generous."

"That is a comprehensive list of my disadvantages," I say. "Thank you. Very thorough." I look at the display again. At the numbers. At the geometry of the Invulcari formation.

"Though, you left one thing out in your calculations."

"...What?"

It is the first time they have actually expressed interest in something I've said beyond just commanding me to do things or telling me I'm cornered. I take that as a sign of something, though I'm not sure what.

"Who you were dealing with." I snarl. "I and my officers made this plan." I stand up from the command chair. Not for dramatic effect — but because the next part needs to be said standing. "We built it from the beginning. Every contingency. Every fallback. Every option." I look around the bridge. At Cora, fingers still moving. At Kit, jaw set, watching. At Dmitri and Cortez, and Maximov who is standing despite his mangled shoulder. "There is no version of this plan in which I put myself and my crew in the center of a hostile formation with no way out. And there is no way in hell I would let you freaks win."

"Speaker," I say, and I'm not talking to the Invulcari anymore. I open the S'kith channel. The familiar, gentle melody answers immediately — they have been listening to all of it, I realize. Of course they have. They have been listening to the Invulcari for centuries. "Open the gate."

A single note of acknowledgment. The song that is not quite a sound moving through the ship.

The gate opens for approximately four seconds.

Four seconds is enough.

A dropship drifts in the space where the gate made its brief appearance. It tumbles, innocuous and unmanned.

With a payload of 100 antimatter warheads collected from across the fleet.

"Special delivery."

The detonation doesn't make a sound. Space doesn't do sound. But on the external cameras it is the largest single event I have ever witnessed, and I have watched a battleship overload its drives and tear itself apart at Rigel. This is larger. Though perhaps not as powerful. A bloom of white-gold fire expanding outward from the center of the Invulcari formation in a perfect sphere, the shockwave visible as a ripple in space itself, the nearest ships caught in it tumbling end over end like leaves in a drainage ditch, the ones further out pushing hard against the force, their formations breaking, their coordination fracturing for the second time in this battle.

The Indomitable doesn't shudder. It lurches — a full-body impact that throws two bridge crew off their feet and sends a cascade of secondary failures across every console on the board. The lights go out for one full second and come back dim.

I am already moving.

"All hands. Seal every compartment. Brace for atmosphere loss." I hit the ship-wide channel. "This is the General Commander. Every crew member not already in a sealed section: you have thirty seconds. Move."

The alarms are screaming. The blast doors to the bridge sealed themselves the moment the boarders breached — we have been in a vacuum-tight compartment for the last twenty minutes.

Twenty seconds.

I look at Cora. She nods. The shield readout, for the first time in the last hour, shows green. An impact hits the blast doors so hard from the other side the frame groans.

Fifteen seconds.

"Cora," I say. "When I give the order, every external airlock, every breached compartment, every ruptured section. Everything that connects to outside. Open it."

Screeching and howling from the blast doors is so loud that I have to shout to be heard inside my own bridge.

Ten seconds.

I think about the marines in the corridors. The Seventh Battalion. The ones Kit and Maximov had to fight through to reach the bridge. I think about the fact that whatever was in those suits when they came through that corridor was not the Seventh Battalion anymore, not in any sense that mattered.

The impacts are incessant and the doors are beginning to groan, shaking in the frame.

Five seconds.

Two.

"Space em!"

Cora opens everything.

The sound is not loud on the bridge — we are sealed, we feel it more than hear it, a vast exhalation, the ship breathing out everything it has all at once. On the internal sensors the readings drop to zero throughout the compromised sections in under four seconds. The Invulcari boarders — whatever they are, whatever their biology, built for pods and cocoons and the interior of their own ships — are not built for sudden and total vacuum. The repurposed marines go with them. Everything that was in those corridors goes with the air.

The ship is quiet.

"Helm," I say. "Get us out of this formation. Everything we have."

"Aye, Commander. She's not going to be fast."

"I don't care, just make us move. Now!"

The engines scream through the frame of the ship as the Indomitable turns and runs.

One cannon dark. Sensors on backup. Port engine at sixty percent and falling. Hull integrity in three sections below forty. Trailing plasma from the nacelle breach like blood in water. Moving at roughly seventy percent of her standard emergency speed which is itself a compromised number at this point.

The Invulcari formation — disrupted, fractured, burning in places from the detonation — is not destroyed. They are many and we were working with improvised delivery and what the blast bought us was time, not annihilation. The time is already running out. The forward elements that were closest to the detonation are still scattered but the ones further back are reorienting and they have decided, apparently, that the negotiation is over.

The first hits come before we've traveled two thousand meters.

"They're closing!" Cora howls.

Energy impacts walk across the Indomitable's port quarter. The shield readout — green for approximately ninety seconds — flickers and drops to twenty-one percent and keeps dropping.

"I see them."

"Gap in twelve hundred meters," navigation reports. "Eleven. Ten."

Another impact. Starboard this time. The ship yaws hard and the helm corrects and we lose forty meters of the gap we'd opened.

"Hull breach in secondary engineering," Cora says. "Section sealed."

"Gap in five hundred meters."

On the tactical display the Invulcari forward elements are closing from the rear. The gap between our stern and their weapons range is narrowing at a rate that is not compatible with reaching the formation perimeter before they're on us. I do the math in under a second. I don't share the result.

"Three hundred meters."

Another hit. The lights go out again and this time they come back wrong — red emergency lighting only, half the consoles dark, the tactical display flickering.

"Two hundred."

The Invulcari forward elements enter weapons range.

"Full power to forward batteries and fire everything!"

The indomitable erupts. Not like before, more of a growl than a roar but its enough to blast apart the two frigates in our way.

The tactical display shows we've cleared the perimeter but we are slow and our pursuers are gaining on us.

The comms crackle.

"General Commander." The voice is Solace. Commander Solace, precise and unhurried, the same voice that greeted me on the first day in the Indomitable's briefing room.

"We saw it didn't go to plan."

The tactical display shifts. Two hundred thousand klicks out, the holding fleet — the battered, scorched, running-on-prayers — is coming about. All of them. Simultaneously. Not a formation, not a tactical sequence, not a carefully planned maneuver. A charge. Every ship at maximum burn, heading directly into the gap between the Indomitable and the Invulcari formation.

"We're coming in," Solace says.

I look at the display. At the numbers. At the geometry changing in real time as the fleet closes.

"Commander Solace," I say.

"Sir."

"Nice timing."

The formations hit like two freight trains running on the same track.

Every ship that survived the wave sequence points itself at the nearest Invulcari contact and opens fire, closing the distance, making itself impossible to ignore. The Invulcari forward elements that were thirty seconds from weapons range on the Indomitable's stern suddenly have seventeen problems of their own and cannot allocate the attention.

The Indomitable slips through the gap.

And then the fleet is around her — not a formation exactly, more like a crowd, every ship finding a position between the Indomitable and whatever is shooting at her, the battered icons of the fleet clustering around the flagship like a pack of young lions around their wounded mother. The Herald is gone. The Pegasus is limping on one engine. Three ships I don't have names for because I haven't had time to read the casualty list are holding positions that should be physically impossible given their damage reports.

They keep firing anyway.

The exchange is brutal and close and neither side is winning cleanly. The Demeter takes a hit that removes her forward section. Two Invulcari cruisers come apart under concentrated fire from the wave elements. Three minutes of pure attrition at ranges that punish everyone equally. The Invulcari are individually superior and they know it and they fight like it. But they are fighting a fleet that has already decided it is willing to die here, and that is a different kind of enemy than the one they came to collect from.

I watch it on the display. The Indomitable, dark in places, trailing in places, at the center of her own fleet.

"Shields at twelve percent," Cora reports. "Holding."

"Good. Keep them holding."

The Invulcari formation slows.

I watch it happen in real time on the display. The red icons, the vast constellation of them, losing momentum. They slow the way you slow when you are reassessing. When the arithmetic of a situation has changed enough that the original calculation needs to be revisited.

They have lost their flagship. They have lost the boarding action. They have lost however many ships the wave sequence and the antimatter cluster account for between them — a number I will add up later when there is time for accounting. The cloaking technology is still aboard an enemy ship now surrounded by a fleet willing to make this a close-range engagement. The prey that was cornered is no longer cornered. The prey that was dying is no longer dying. The prey that had no way out used a door that shouldn't have existed.

Whatever passes for thought in the colony mind takes its time.

Then the Invulcari formation turns.

Not in disorder. Not broken. The way a predator turns when it has decided that the cost of continuing is no longer worth the return. Deliberate and cold and somehow more unsettling than the fight itself. They are not finished. They will recalculate. They will come back with better information and a different approach and whatever they learned from this engagement they will apply to the next one.

But not today.

I watch the red icons recede on the display until they reach the edge of sensor range and then pass it. Distant light flashes on the cameras. Then nothing.

The display shows empty space where there was, forty-five minutes ago, fifteen hundred Invulcari ships.

The bridge is quiet. Not the emptied quiet of the vented corridors — a different quiet. The quiet of people who were fairly certain they were going to die and have revised that assessment and have not yet decided how to feel about the revision.

I open the S'kith channel.

The melody answers. Not words. Just music, low and complex and carrying something in it that I don't have the vocabulary to name. It goes on for a long moment.

Then: ...we have watched them... for three hundred years... they have never... spoken to prey...

A pause. The melody shifts into something that might be the S'kith equivalent of a thing that has no name because it has never needed one before.

...you are... perhaps... not entirely... what we expected.

"No," I say. "We rarely are."

I close the channel. I look at the display one more time. At the empty space. At the battered icons of what's left of my fleet. At the damage readouts of the Indomitable which I will also be adding up later.

Kit is still standing near the rear of the bridge. He is looking at me with that expression again.

"Good work," I say, to the room in general. To Cora at the engineering console. To Maximov still standing with the burned shoulder. To Dmitri and Cortez. To Kit.

Nobody says anything. That is also fine.

"Cora," I say. "What's our status."

She takes a breath. The kind of breath that precedes a list you are not going to enjoy.

"Tell me," I say.

She tells me.

I listen. I don't let my face do anything. There will be time for that later.

There is always, somehow, more time for that later.

First | Previous | [Next]

---

Hey guys I'm sorry but I couldn't sleep until this battle was done. I hate cliff hangers too lol. Alright now for real see you in a week or so.

First | Previous | [Next]

[General Commander, ISV Indomitable]

The Invulcari representative speaks again. The same horrible approximation of human language, the words assembled the way a child assembles blocks — correctly shaped but without understanding of what makes them fit.

"...You will... surrender... the cloaking technology... your crew... will end themselves... we will not... pursue... the others."

The bridge is very quiet.

Cora is still at the engineering console. Her fingers haven't stopped moving. I can hear the faint percussion of it even now, even with the blast doors shuddering as whatever is on the other side works through its options.

I consider the offer. It takes approximately one second.

"That's your opening?" I say. "No preamble. No pretense of good faith. You lead with die and we'll think about not killing the others."

No response. It seems the Invulcari do not understand the concept of a rhetorical question. I file that away.

"You've never negotiated before," I say. It isn't an accusation. It's an observation. "Or if you have, it was with something that didn't talk back."

...We do not... negotiate... with prey.

"And yet here we are." I lean back in my command chair. The left armrest is sparking slightly where a console panel blew out twenty minutes ago. I rest my elbow on it anyway. "So either you've changed your policy, or I'm something other than prey. I'd like to think it's the latter, but I'm open to discussion."

Silence from the speakers. The blast doors take another hit. Precise. Some kind of test of its integrity.

...You are... cornered... your ship is... failing... your crew is... compromised... your fleet... cannot reach you... in time...

"All true," I say. "Every word. I won't argue any of it."

...Then you... understand... your position.

"I understand my position perfectly." I glance at Cora. She holds up three fingers without looking away from her console. Three minutes. Maybe less. "What I'm not sure you understand is mine."

The blast doors shudder again. I hear something — underneath the impact, underneath the groaning metal — a sound like many legs moving in coordination, like something being tried that hasn't worked yet but will eventually. They are patient. I will give them that.

I look at Kit. He's standing near the rear of the bridge with Maximov's squad, plasma rifle in hand, watching me the way a chess player watches their opponent make a move when they are trying to determine if they knows something you don't, or they are simply very good at pretending.

I have been told I am very good at pretending.

"You know," I say, to no one in particular, to the room in general, to whatever is on the other side of that speaker, "there is a saying, that a good tactician makes three plans. A good one. A great one. And an ace in the hole."

...This is... irrelevant.

"Let me finish." I say it the way you speak to someone who has interrupted you at the dinner table. Firmly. Without heat. "The good plan was total annihilation. Full fleet engagement, hit you in waves, bleed you, then hit you with maximum force, take the system in one go. Then fly home in time for supper." I let that sit for a moment. "We ran the numbers, it was definitely possible but I've learned that plans in war rarely go to order perfectly. Your formation was too large, your ships too fast, and we were working with green crews and borrowed time. But you always present the optimistic case first. It's good for morale."

Nothing from the speakers. The blast doors are silent.

"The great plan was simpler. Pull back after we hurt you, and give you room to leave. We call it a victory, and you go home and survive, minus whatever chunk of your fleet we whittled you down to." I look at the display. At the defensive sphere the Invulcari had organized themselves into around the indomitable. "A rational enemy would have taken that offer. The space was there. We weren't pursuing. All you had to do was turn around." Another pause. "You didn't. Which tells me something about what you actually came here for. And exactly how bad you want it."

...We came... for the technology... that made you... invisible.

"I know," I say. "Which is why the great plan stopped being great the moment you decided to stay. In a straight fight at even numbers, you win. We both know that. So the great plan became impossible."

...Then you... have... nothing

I let that breathe.

"Which leaves the ace in the hole."

...You have... no shields... your weapons... are compromised... you have... lost significant... crew... your drive... is damaged... you cannot... run... you cannot... fight... you have... no remaining... options...

The Invulcari representative pauses, and I get the impression that what follows is the closest their species comes to magnanimity.

...We offer you... a clean death... your people... will not suffer... the cloaking technology... will be preserved... this is... generous.

"That is a comprehensive list of my disadvantages," I say. "Thank you. Very thorough." I look at the display again. At the numbers. At the geometry of the Invulcari formation.

"Though, you left one thing out in your calculations."

...What?

It is the first time they have actually expressed interest in something I've said beyond just commanding me to do things or telling me I'm cornered. I take that as a sign of something, though I'm not sure what.

"Who you were dealing with." I snarl. "I and my officers made this plan." I stand up from the command chair. Not for dramatic effect — but because the next part needs to be said standing. "We built it from the beginning. Every contingency. Every fallback. Every option." I look around the bridge. At Cora, fingers still moving. At Kit, jaw set, watching. At Dmitri and Cortez, and Maximov who is standing despite his mangled shoulder. "There is no version of this plan in which I put myself and my crew in the center of a hostile formation with no way out. And there is no way in hell I would let you freaks win."

"Speaker," I say, and I'm not talking to the Invulcari anymore. I open the S'kith channel. The familiar, gentle melody answers immediately — they have been listening to all of it, I realize. Of course they have. They have been listening to the Invulcari for centuries. "Open the gate."

A single note of acknowledgment. The song that is not quite a sound moving through the ship.

The gate opens for approximately four seconds.

Four seconds is enough.

A dropship drifts in the space where the gate made its brief appearance. It tumbles, innocuous and unmanned.

With a payload of 100 antimatter warheads collected from across the fleet.

"Special delivery."

The detonation doesn't make a sound. Space doesn't do sound. But on the external cameras it is the largest single event I have ever witnessed, and I have watched a battleship overload its drives and tear itself apart at Rigel. This is larger. Though perhaps not as powerful. A bloom of white-gold fire expanding outward from the center of the Invulcari formation in a perfect sphere, the shockwave visible as a ripple in space itself, the nearest ships caught in it tumbling end over end like leaves in a drainage ditch, the ones further out pushing hard against the force, their formations breaking, their coordination fracturing for the second time in this battle.

The Indomitable doesn't shudder. It lurches — a full-body impact that throws two bridge crew off their feet and sends a cascade of secondary failures across every console on the board. The lights go out for one full second and come back dim.

I am already moving.

"All hands. Seal every compartment. Brace for atmosphere loss." I hit the ship-wide channel. "This is the General Commander. Every crew member not already in a sealed section: you have thirty seconds. Move."

The alarms are screaming. The blast doors to the bridge sealed themselves the moment the boarders breached — we have been in a vacuum-tight compartment for the last twenty minutes.

Twenty seconds.

I look at Cora. She nods. The shield readout, for the first time in the last hour, shows green. An impact hits the blast doors so hard from the other side the frame groans.

Fifteen seconds.

"Cora," I say. "When I give the order, every external airlock, every breached compartment, every ruptured section. Everything that connects to outside. Open it."

Screeching and howling from the blast doors is so loud that I have to shout to be heard inside my own bridge.

Ten seconds.

I think about the marines in the corridors. The Seventh Battalion. The ones Kit and Maximov had to fight through to reach the bridge. I think about the fact that whatever was in those suits when they came through that corridor was not the Seventh Battalion anymore, not in any sense that mattered.

The impacts are incessant and the doors are beginning to groan, shaking in the frame.

Five seconds.

Two.

"Space em!"

Cora opens everything.

The sound is not loud on the bridge — we are sealed, we feel it more than hear it, a vast exhalation, the ship breathing out everything it has all at once. On the internal sensors the readings drop to zero throughout the compromised sections in under four seconds. The Invulcari boarders — whatever they are, whatever their biology, built for pods and cocoons and the interior of their own ships — are not built for sudden and total vacuum. The repurposed marines go with them. Everything that was in those corridors goes with the air.

The ship is quiet.

"Helm," I say. "Get us out of this formation. Everything we have."

"Aye, Commander. She's not going to be fast."

"I don't care, just make us move. Now!"

The engines scream through the frame of the ship as the Indomitable turns and runs.

One cannon dark. Sensors on backup. Port engine at sixty percent and falling. Hull integrity in three sections below forty. Trailing plasma from the nacelle breach like blood in water. Moving at roughly seventy percent of her standard emergency speed which is itself a compromised number at this point.

The Invulcari formation — disrupted, fractured, burning in places from the detonation — is not destroyed. They are many and we were working with improvised delivery and what the blast bought us was time, not annihilation. The time is already running out. The forward elements that were closest to the detonation are still scattered but the ones further back are reorienting and they have decided, apparently, that the negotiation is over.

The first hits come before we've traveled two thousand meters.

"They're closing!" Cora howls.

Energy impacts walk across the Indomitable's port quarter. The shield readout — green for approximately ninety seconds — flickers and drops to twenty-one percent and keeps dropping.

"I see them."

"Gap in twelve hundred meters," navigation reports. "Eleven. Ten."

Another impact. Starboard this time. The ship yaws hard and the helm corrects and we lose forty meters of the gap we'd opened.

"Hull breach in secondary engineering," Cora says. "Section sealed."

"Gap in five hundred meters."

On the tactical display the Invulcari forward elements are closing from the rear. The gap between our stern and their weapons range is narrowing at a rate that is not compatible with reaching the formation perimeter before they're on us. I do the math in under a second. I don't share the result.

"Three hundred meters."

Another hit. The lights go out again and this time they come back wrong — red emergency lighting only, half the consoles dark, the tactical display flickering.

"Two hundred."

The Invulcari forward elements enter weapons range.

"Full power to forward batteries and fire everything!"

The indomitable erupts. Not like before, more of a growl than a roar but its enough to blast apart the two frigates in our way.

The tactical display shows we've cleared the perimeter but we are slow and our pursuers are gaining on us.

The comms crackle.

"General Commander." The voice is Solace. Commander Solace, precise and unhurried, the same voice that greeted me on the first day in the Indomitable's briefing room.

"We saw it didn't go to plan."

The tactical display shifts. Two hundred thousand klicks out, the holding fleet — the battered, scorched, running-on-prayers — is coming about. All of them. Simultaneously. Not a formation, not a tactical sequence, not a carefully planned maneuver. A charge. Every ship at maximum burn, heading directly into the gap between the *Indomitable* and the Invulcari formation.

"We're coming in," Solace says.

I look at the display. At the numbers. At the geometry changing in real time as the fleet closes.

"Commander Solace," I say.

"Sir."

"Nice timing."

The formations hit like two freight trains on the same track.

Every ship that survived the wave sequence points itself at the nearest Invulcari contact and opens fire, closing the distance, making itself impossible to ignore. The Invulcari forward elements that were thirty seconds from weapons range on the Indomitable's stern suddenly have seventeen problems of their own and cannot allocate the attention.

The Indomitable slips through the gap.

And then the fleet is around her — not a formation exactly, more like a crowd, every ship finding a position between the Indomitable and whatever is shooting at her, the battered icons of the fleet clustering around the flagship like a pack of young lions around their wounded mother. The Herald is gone. The Pegasus is limping on one engine. Three ships I don't have names for because I haven't had time to read the casualty list are holding positions that should be physically impossible given their damage reports.

They keep firing anyway.

The exchange is brutal and close and neither side is winning cleanly. The Demeter takes a hit that removes her forward section. Two Invulcari cruisers come apart under concentrated fire from the wave elements. Three minutes of pure attrition at ranges that punish everyone equally. The Invulcari are individually superior and they know it and they fight like it. But they are fighting a fleet that has already decided it is willing to die here, and that is a different kind of enemy than the one they came to collect from.

I watch it on the display. The Indomitable, dark in places, trailing in places, at the center of her own fleet.

"Shields at twelve percent," Cora reports. "Holding."

"Good. Keep them holding."

The Invulcari formation slows.

I watch it happen in real time on the display. The red icons, the vast constellation of them, losing momentum. Not stopping. The way you slow when you are reassessing. When the arithmetic of a situation has changed enough that the original calculation needs to be revisited.

They have lost their flagship. They have lost the boarding action. They have lost however many ships the wave sequence and the antimatter cluster account for between them — a number I will add up later when there is time for accounting. The cloaking technology is still aboard an enemy ship now surrounded by a fleet willing to make this a close-range engagement. The prey that was cornered is no longer cornered. The prey that was dying is no longer dying. The prey that had no way out used a door that shouldn't have existed.

Whatever passes for thought in a colony mind takes its time.

Then the Invulcari formation turns.

Not in disorder. Not broken. The way a predator turns when it has decided that the cost of continuing is no longer worth the return. Deliberate and cold and somehow more unsettling than the fight itself. They are not finished. They will recalculate. They will come back with better information and a different approach and whatever they learned from this engagement they will apply to the next one.

But not today.

I watch the red icons recede on the display until they reach the edge of sensor range and then pass it. Distant light flashes on the cameras. Then nothing.

The display shows empty space where there was, forty-five minutes ago, fifteen hundred Invulcari ships.

The bridge is quiet. Not the emptied quiet of the vented corridors — a different quiet. The quiet of people who were fairly certain they were going to die and have revised that assessment and have not yet decided how to feel about the revision.

I open the S'kith channel.

The melody answers. Not words. Just music, low and complex and carrying something in it that I don't have the vocabulary to name. It goes on for a long moment.

Then: ...we have watched them... for three hundred years... they have never... spoken to prey...

A pause. The melody shifts into something that might be the S'kith equivalent of a thing that has no name because it has never needed one before.

...you are... perhaps... not entirely... what we expected.

"No," I say. "We rarely are."

I close the channel. I look at the display one more time. At the empty space. At the battered icons of what's left of my fleet. At the damage readouts of the Indomitable which I will also be adding up later.

Kit is still standing near the rear of the bridge. He is looking at me with that expression again.

"Good work," I say, to the room in general. To Cora at the engineering console. To Maximov still standing with the burned shoulder. To Dmitri and Cortez. To Kit.

Nobody says anything. That is also fine.

"Cora," I say. "What's our status."

She takes a breath. The kind of breath that precedes a list you are not going to enjoy.

"Tell me," I say.

She tells me.

I listen. I don't let my face do anything. There will be time for that later.

There is always, somehow, more time for that later.

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Hey guys I'm sorry but I couldn't sleep until this battle was done. I hate cliff hangers too lol. Alright now for real see you in a week or so.

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[Kit, Hangar Bay 5, ISV Indomitable]

My heart skips about three beats as the systems of my Tempest fighter come online automatically. The hangar bay doors open. My squad comm channel lights up.

"Man, this is bullshit! How the fuck we supposed to go out in that shitstorm in goddamn fighters? This gotta be the baddest ship in the western sectors and it's getting shot to shit!"

A second signal lights up the display. The accent that rolls out is deep—Russian by way of Alnilam, the vowels broad and unhurried, like the words have all the time in the universe even when the ship is on fire. "We stay inside shield perimeter. Let Indomitable do work, yes? We just have to clear hull—not fight whole battle, Cortez."

"Yeah? You make it sound so easy. Flying that close to the hull while shooting at freaking Hulks and also trying not to hit our own ship is a fucking circus trick. I might as well send my resume into Cirque Du Sirius."

"Yes, yes — so amazing. Magic trick for magic pilot Cortez." Dmitri pauses, utterly unimpressed. "Now. You going to stop complaining? Or you coming to shoot Hulks so ship does not explode in giant fireball?"

Cortez's laugh is short and sharp, a bark of disbelief mixed with genuine amusement. "You're a real piece of work, you know that, Dmitri?" A pause. "Fine. I'm going to shoot some Hulks. But if I get spaced, I'm haunting you. And I'm drinking all your vodka."

A new symbol pops up on the comm network, this one indicating squad lead. "Knock off the grab-ass and get the hell out of my hangar. The General gave us an order and that means now. You too, new kid. Out."

Maximov. The name comes up on my HUD alongside the icon. Senior pilot. Twice decorated. The only one of us who looks like he belongs here.

My thumb hovers over the launch thrusters for a second, a beat of absolute stillness. I feel the ship groan beneath me, a living thing in agony, and the fear is a cold knot in my stomach. But under the fear is something else. Something harder. The General's words echo in my mind.

That fire in you... that's what's going to win this... You have it in spades.

I push the button.

The magnetic clamps release, and my Tempest slides out of the hangar into the maelstrom. The scale of the battle is overwhelming even from this close. It's a blizzard of light and metal. The Indomitable is an island of sanity in the chaos, its hull a twisted landscape of scorched plating, sparking conduits, and intermittent explosions. And all over it, the Hulks are crawling.

They are not the sleek, biomechanical horrors of the Invulcari capital ships. They are crude, brutish things—all chitinous legs and metallic grasping claws, scuttling across the hull like giant armored spiders. They are tearing at plating, cutting through conduits with plasma torches that sizzle brightly even in the glare of the battle. A cluster of three is trying to pry open a blast door near the main engine nacelle. Another is planting a charge on the forward torpedo launcher.

And they are not ignoring us.

As Dmitri's Tempest sweeps past the engine cluster, one of the Hulks detaches a claw and swings—actually swings—catching his starboard wing with a screech of metal loud enough to transmit through the hull. His fighter yaws hard.

"Contact!" Dmitri barks, the first time I've heard anything close to alarm in his voice. "One of them grabbed my wing."

"Shake it!" Maximov snaps.

Dmitri rolls the Tempest hard, using the spin to fling the Hulk loose. It pinwheels away into the dark, but two more are already turning toward him, their gun arms swiveling up.

"They're tracking us," I say, my voice tighter than I'd like. "They have weapons."

"Yes," Dmitri says, as if this is obvious. "Very annoying."

A stream of crystalline projectiles—dense, fast, something between a flechette and a spike—punches through the space where Dmitri's cockpit was half a second ago. He'd already moved. Barely.

"Eyes open," Maximov says. "They're slow to aim but the projectiles are fast. Don't fly straight. Ever."

"They're drilling into the port cannon!" I yell into the comm. "I'm on them."

"Negative, Kid," Maximov's voice cuts through, calm and clear despite the chaos raging around the ship. "Engage the ones on the aft sensor array. They'll blind us back there if we don't stop them. Port cannon has internal defense teams." A beat. "We've got the engines. Dmitri, Cortez — on me."

"Oh sure, give us the hardest job. One bad shot and we'll be the ones to cripple the ship. I want to go play by the sensors."

Dmitri rolls over Cortez's whining. "That's what happens when you become first-string pilot because all primaries are dead. Job gets harder."

"New kid, you got eyes on those sensors?"

My stomach does another flip as I angle my fighter toward the aft section. I see it—a cluster of five Hulks, their clawed hands busy with the delicate equipment of the primary sensor array. "Eyes on," I manage to say, my voice tight. "Five hostiles. They're planting something."

"Then they're your problem. Make it quick."

I swallow hard, the metallic taste of adrenaline flooding my mouth. The Indomitable's hull rushes past beneath me, a treacherous, shifting landscape of steel. I have to fly so close I can see the serial numbers on the armor plating. Any mistake, any drift, and I'll be just another scorch mark on the armor.

I line up my approach and one of them sees me coming. It detaches from the array and turns, raising both gun arms. The first volley of crystalline spikes goes wide — I'm already jinking — but the second clips my port engine housing with a sound like a hammer on sheet metal.

"I'm taking fire," I report, keeping my voice level through an act of pure will.

"We all taking fire," Dmitri says. "Welcome to hull work."

I break off, climbing hard, the sensors falling away beneath me. My hands are shaking. I take a breath.

"Kid. Don't be a hero. Just shoot 'em." Cortez's voice is surprisingly close to reassuring.

Dmitri cuts in. "No. Be hero. But be hero who is alive. Not hero who is smear on hull. That is bad hero."

I think about the array behind them. A shot from the side risks the equipment. A head-on approach means flying into their weapons fire.

I bank hard, pulling the Tempest into a steep climb. The hull falls away, replaced by the swirling chaos of the larger battle for a moment, before I push the nose down, diving back toward the aft section. This time I'm not coming in from the side. I'm coming in from above — a straight vertical drop. If the plasma bolt goes through, it hits the hull. It won't hit the sensors.

One of them tracks me on the way down, its gun arms elevating slowly. Too slowly.

I fire.

A single, bright bolt of blue plasma lances out. It strikes the center Hulk square in the back. The creature explodes in a shower of chitin and sparking wires, its body knocked clear of the array. The force of the blast sends the two Hulks next to it tumbling end over end, their claws scrabbling for purchase on the smooth hull.

"Kid," Maximov's voice is a low growl. "You just broke the cardinal rule. Never fly over the target."

"Rule not broken," Dmitri's voice rumbles. "Target gone. See? Hero who is alive."

Before Maximov can respond, I fire again, taking out another Hulk. The remaining two, disoriented and exposed, try to scuttle away — but one of them raises its gun arm and I have to break off hard, the shot passing close enough that my hull proximity alarm screams at me. My heart is in my throat. I come back around, lower this time, and the Hulk tracks me again, leading its shot—

Cortez and Dmitri drop in from my flanks like they'd been waiting for the opening. Two clean bursts. Both Hulks come apart.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"Sensors are stable," a calm female voice reports over the main bridge channel. "Hull integrity in the aft section holding at ninety percent. Engines are clear."

"Good work, squadron," Maximov says, a little less tight than before. "Now let's get to the cannon. Internal teams are reporting they're being overwhelmed."

We reach the port cannon. It's a wreck. The armor is peeled back like a tin can, the interior a maze of sparking conduits and twisted metal. A half-dozen Hulks are swarming over it, their claws tearing at the exposed inner workings, their plasma torches cutting through critical systems. Two of them are actively firing on a pair of internal defense crew members who've managed to get a hatch open — the crew members slam it shut again as a burst of spikes sparks off the frame.

"Okay, kids," Cortez's voice is light, but there's an edge to it. "This is the tricky part. We can't just shoot them. We have to scrape them off."

"Scrape?" I ask, my stomach clenching.

"You heard me," he says. "Get in close. Use your forward thrusters. Push 'em off. Don't hit the cannon. Don't hit the ship. Just... push."

It's insane. Flying a high-performance fighter at near-zero relative velocity, using its delicate maneuvering thrusters to shove an armored killing machine off the side of your own ship, while a fleet battle rages around you.

But we do it.

Maximov goes first, demonstrating — a controlled burst of forward thrusters that catches a Hulk mid-drill and sends it cartwheeling into the void. He makes it look deliberate. It probably is. The Hulk spins lazily past my cockpit, and I notice its gun arms are still moving, still trying to aim even as it tumbles away into nothing.

I line up my Tempest, the cockpit so close to the cannon I can read the warning labels on the conduits. I target a Hulk that's trying to pry open a power coupling. I fire my forward thrusters, a burst of blue flame — and the Hulk stumbles. But it doesn't go. Its claws are too deep in the housing. It turns toward me instead, raising one gun arm, and fires point blank.

The shot hits my nose cone. Every proximity alarm on my board goes red.

"I'm hit," I grunt, wrestling the stick as the Tempest shudders. "It's dug in — it won't push."

"Again," Maximov says. "Harder. Don't give it time to aim."

I come back around, pushing the thrusters to sixty percent — more than I should use this close to the hull — and slam into the Hulk's mass with a jolt that rattles my teeth. This time it tears free, one claw still clamped to a piece of conduit that it rips clean out as it goes. Sparks cascade across my canopy.

One by one, we clear them. It's a delicate, terrifying dance of precision flying. The Indomitable shudders under another impact, the shockwave nearly throwing me into the cannon. I hold my course, my focus absolute.

"Last one," I say, my target a Hulk that's managed to wedge itself into a narrow crevice between the cannon housing and the hull. "It's stuck. And it's been shooting at me every time I get close."

"Then distract it," Maximov says.

Cortez's voice drops into mock-offended. "Oh that's my job now? Distraction?"

"You are natural," Dmitri says.

Cortez makes a sound of pure disgust and swings his Tempest around the far side of the cannon — close, loud, drawing two quick bursts of spike fire from the wedged Hulk. That's all I need.

I have an idea. Stupid, reckless, the kind Yan would've — I stop. Blink hard. Focus.

I turn my ship sideways and angle the left wing down, skimming toward the cannon's housing. I can't afford a mistake. I can't afford to think too hard about this. I just have to be a pilot.

I push the throttle. The cannon drifts toward me. I can see the individual bolts on the armor plating. I can see the Hulk's multifaceted eyes as they swivel back toward me, its gun arm coming up too late.

My wing scrapes against the hull, then firmly wedges itself between the housing and the Hulk's carapace. There's a shower of sparks, a screech of metal on chitin. I hit the throttle hard and the engines flare. The Hulk is ripped from its perch and flung into space.

A beat of silence on the comms.

"Whoa," Cortez whistles. "That was some serious bush-league shit, new kid. I like it."

"Wing damage?" Maximov asks. All business.

I check my board. "Minor. Still flying."

"Good." A pause — the closest thing to approval I've heard from him.

We are all breathing heavily over the comms. The hull is clear. For the moment.

"Status report," I hear Maximov's sharp tone of command.

"Engines are holding, but we've lost primary targeting," I manage going over the readouts. "We're running on backups."

"We've got a fire in the port shuttle bay," Dmitri adds. "Internal teams are on it, but it's spreading."

"And we've still got a big, angry fleet outside," Cortez's cynical tone, drips through the speakers. "And we're right in the middle of it."

The comms crackle. "This is the bridge," Cora's voice is strained but steady. "Main fleet has disengaged to minimum safe distance. They're holding at two hundred thousand klicks, trying to regroup. We've given them some breathing room, but the Invulcari are pulling back too, reorganizing into a defensive sphere. We were hoping they would leave after taking so many losses, but they're not. They're waiting."

"Waiting for what?" I ask.

There's a pause. Then Cora's voice comes back, heavy. "Waiting for us to die."

A new alarm blares on my console. "What now?" Cortez groans.

"Multiple new contacts," Dmitri says, his voice low. "Emerging from behind their flagship wreckage. Small. Fast."

On my tactical display, a swarm of red icons blooms, moving with an unnatural speed, cutting directly toward the Indomitable. They are not ships. They are not fighters. They are something else.

"What are those?" I ask, my heart sinking.

"They're their teeth. I've only ever heard about them in after-action reports." My lead's voice is grim. "The ones they only bring out when they want to take something. Or take a bite out of something."He pauses. "Explains why we aren't dead yet."

"Hulks couldn't get what they wanted so they send in the big guns, huh?" Cortez sneers.

The icons resolve into shapes on the long-range sensors. They are sleek, almost serpentine, with no visible cockpits or engines. They move not like ships, but like projectiles, as if fired from a gun.

"I have a lock," my lead says. "They're boarding torpedoes."

We and the Indomitable's point defense open fire, but it comes in so fast almost none of the shots land.

The Indomitable shudders, and sends a visible vibration across the hull.

"That was one of them," Cora's voice is tight. "It hit the port cargo bay. They're inside."

Three more impacts.

My stomach drops.

We've cleared the hull of Hulks only to be boarded from within.

"General," my lead's voice cuts through the rising tide of panic in my chest. "What are your orders?"

The General's voice cuts through the noise, a scalpel in the chaos. "Cora, get the Indomitable's shields back online. I don't care what you have to reroute. We need that barrier. Maximov, your squadron is recalled. The threat is no longer external."

---

[Inside the ISV Indomitable]

I hear them before I see them. A high-pitched, chittering sound that bounces off the metal corridors. The corridor lights flicker, casting long, twisting shadows. The ship smells of burnt wiring and something else — something coppery, organic. The ship feels... violated.

I'm back in my flight suit, my plasma pistol in my hand. My squad is with me, gathered at a junction. We're not a flight crew anymore. We're soldiers. We are the last line of defense between... whatever they are... and the bridge. We are the last thing they will taste before they die.

"You guys hear that?" Cortez whispers, his pistol held in a two-handed grip, sweeping the corridor ahead.

Dmitri grunts, a sound of grim affirmation. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are hard. "Hear it. Smell it. They are messy eaters."

Maximov holds up a hand for silence. He points down the left-hand corridor. "They came through Cargo Bay 3. Security feed from that section is gone. Internal sensors are patchy at best."

"So we go in blind," I say, my throat dry.

"We don't go in at all," Maximov corrects.

"You ever seen one of these things, Dmitri?" Cortez asks, his light tone forced.

"Almost no one has."

"That's not an answer."

"I have.” Maximov surprises us all. “In reports. They live inside pods mostly — they can get out and get inside other ships and mech suit things like Hulks, but like ninety percent of their life is inside cocoons."

"So if they're like pod people, shouldn't they be super weak or whatever? How the fuck are they getting through our guys so fast?"

"I don't know, Cortez."

The sound of slithering and rapid taps against the metal down the hall snaps us all to attention.

We hold our positions. The corridor ahead is all dancing shadows and flickering light. Then, we see them. They are not warriors, or hulks. They are not pod people, or little green men. But they are somehow far more terrifying. They somewhat mimic the shape of their Hulks but with four legs instead of eight, their torsos rising from a chitinous base. They are pale, almost translucent, with long, multi-jointed limbs that move with a boneless, insectoid grace. Their heads are smooth, featureless ovals, save for a cluster of black, crystalline eyes that glitter in the emergency lighting. They move on all fours, their bodies undulating, their claws clicking on the deck plates. They are a nightmare of alien biology.

A single Invulcari, unarmed, scuttles into view. It pauses, its head tilting, as if sniffing the air. Then it sees us.

It doesn't roar. It doesn't charge. It just... moves. One moment it's thirty meters away. The next, it's ten. It moves with a speed that defies logic, a blur of pale flesh and clicking claws.

"Fire!" Maximov yells.

We open up. A torrent of plasma bolts fills the corridor. The Invulcari dodges, its body contorting in ways that should not be possible, the bolts sizzling against the walls where it was a heartbeat before. It leaps, its claws scything through the air toward Cortez.

Dmitri steps in. He doesn't fire. He swings. He has a combat knife in his free hand, a heavy, serrated thing he must have pulled from a thigh sheath while I wasn't looking. He meets the Invulcari in mid-air, a blur of motion. The knife finds its mark, sinking deep into the creature's flank. There's a high-pitched shriek, a sound like grinding metal, and the creature thrashes, knocking Dmitri back against the wall.

It scuttles away, disappearing into the darkness of a side passage, leaving a trail of black, viscous blood.

"We need to move. Now," Maximov says, his face grim. He gestures down the corridor. "This choke point isn't good enough. That thing cleared this hallway in about two seconds — if there was more than one of them we would all be dead. We need to fall back to the bridge and then maybe...maybe we can make a stand."

"You're suggesting we lead them to the bridge?" Cortez asks, his voice a little shaky.

"I'm suggesting we use the bridge's blast doors and heavy armor as a fortification," Maximov corrects. "We need to get to the armory first. Re-supply. Then we make our way to the command deck."

We move, our boots echoing in the sudden silence. The corridor is a wreck. Plasma scoring marks the walls, and a maintenance panel is ripped open, sparking wires spilling out like entrails. The air is thick with the smell of ozone and the coppery tang of blood.

"Kid, you're on point," Maximov says. "Eyes open. Dmitri, you're rear guard. Cortez, you're with me."

I take the lead, my pistol held high, my heart hammering against my ribs. Every shadow is a potential threat. Every flicker of light is a potential attack. The silence is worse than the noise. It's a predator's silence. A waiting silence.

We reach the armory. The door is bent, twisted, as if something tried to pry it open from the outside. Maximov inputs the code, and the door grinds open, revealing a small, fortified room. The walls are lined with weapons. Plasma rifles, combat shotguns, grenades.

"This is more like it," Cortez says, a grim smile on his face.

We arm ourselves. I take a plasma rifle, its weight reassuring in my hands. Dmitri grabs a combat shotgun, its wide barrels promising a messy end to anything it hits. Maximov takes a rifle and a bandolier of grenades.

"Okay," Maximov says, checking the charge on his rifle. "Now. We need to get to the bridge. The General needs our support."

We move out, our weapons ready. The corridors of the Indomitable have become a hunting ground. The flickering lights cast long, dancing shadows. The ship groans and shudders, a wounded beast in its death throes. And the chittering sound is closer now. It's all around us. They are in the walls. In the vents. They are inside the ship.

The General's voice crackles over the ship-wide comms, a beacon of defiance in the encroaching darkness. "All hands, this is General Commander. The enemy has breached the hull. They are inside the ship. I want all non-essential personnel to evacuate to the nearest hardened compartment and seal the bulkheads. All security and marine units, fall back to the bridge. We will not let them take this ship."

We round a corner and stop. A half-dozen Invulcari are clustered around a maintenance hatch, their claws tearing at the metal, their bodies undulating with a horrifying purpose. They haven't seen us yet.

"Flank them," Maximov whispers. "Cortez, take the left. Dmitri, take the right. Kid, you're with me. We'll hit them head-on. On my mark."

We spread out, our movements silent, practiced. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, my senses heightened, my focus absolute.

"Mark."

We open fire. The corridor erupts in a storm of plasma. The Invulcari screech, a chorus of grinding metal and high-pitched shrieks. One of them turns, its claws scything through the air, and I see its crystalline eyes, glittering with an alien intelligence and a bottomless hunger.

I fire, my rifle bucking in my hands. The bolt hits it square in the chest, and it explodes in a shower of black blood and pale flesh.

Dmitri's shotgun roars, and another Invulcari is torn in half, its body collapsing in a heap of twitching limbs.

Cortez's dual pistols spit a stream of deadly fire.

We've killed three of them, but the other three are on us. One leaps, its claws aimed at my face. I react on instinct, throwing myself to the side, my rifle still firing. The bolt hits the creature in mid-air, and it crashes to the deck, its claws still twitching.

Maximov throws a grenade, and the last two are consumed in a brilliant flash of light and heat.

"Move!" he yells, and we're running again, our boots pounding on the deck plates, the air thick with the smell of burnt flesh and ozone.

We're close to the bridge now. The corridor is a scene of devastation. The walls are pockmarked with plasma scoring, the deck plates slick with Invulcari blood. And bodies. Human bodies. Some of them are ripped apart, their armor shredded, their faces frozen in masks of terror. Others are... hollowed out. Their torsos are empty, as if something burrowed its way in and removed all the good bits.

"Jesus," Cortez whispers, his face pale.

Dmitri's face is a stony mask. He's seen this before. Maybe not this exact thing, but he's seen the price of war. He's seen what happens when the monsters get inside.

"They don't just kill," Dmitri says, his voice a low rumble. "They are... repurposing. These men… their armor is still powered. Still functional. They make... weapons."

We see one. A marine. Staggering down the corridor, its movements jerky, unnatural.

It sees us. And it charges.

"Hostile!" Cortez yells, and we open fire. The thing is fast, impossibly fast, and it takes the full force of our combined fire to bring it down. It crashes to the deck, its armor sparking, jerking violently like a fish out of water.

"They're turning our own people against us," I say, my voice a choked whisper.

"It gets worse," Maximov says, pointing down the corridor. "Look."

A squad of armored figures is moving toward us. Their movements are coordinated, disciplined. They're holding their weapons in a ready stance, their formation perfect. For a heart-stopping second, I think it's reinforcements.

Then I see their eyes. All of their uniforms roughed up or torn in some way. Their armor damaged. Behind their helmets, their eyes glowing with the same faint, malevolent light as the Invulcari's.

"Fall back to the bridge," Maximov says, his voice grim. "Dmitri, Cortez — warn the General. Kid, with me. We hold here."

"Like hell," Cortez snarls. "We're a squad. We stick together."

"This is not a negotiation," Maximov says, his voice cold. "That's an order."

Cortez opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. He looks at Dmitri, who gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod. They fall back, their weapons covering us as Maximov and I take up positions behind a twisted bulkhead.

"You know what to do," Maximov says, not looking at me. "Make every shot count."

I nod, my throat too tight to speak. I raise my rifle, my finger on the trigger. The marine squad is getting closer. I can see the insignia on their armor now. The Seventh Battalion. I've seen them around the ship. They're good people.

"Fire," Maximov says.

We open fire. The corridor erupts in a storm of plasma. The first marine goes down, its armor melting under the intense heat. The second and third follow suit. But the others keep coming, their fire accurate. A bolt sizzles past my head close enough that I can feel the heat on my cheek.

We're pinned down.

"Kid, on my signal, we move," Maximov says, his voice tight. "Fall back to the bridge. Together."

I nod, my eyes fixed on the approaching horror.

He removes another one of his plasma grenades from his belt and hurls it at the approaching marines.

"Now!"

We break cover, firing as we run. There is a bright flash. The corridor behind us is a blur of plasma and shrapnel. A bolt hits the wall next to me, showering me in sparks. I stumble, but I keep running.

The bridge blast doors are just ahead. Open, spilling light into the darkness.

"Go!" Maximov yells, pushing me ahead of him.

I dive through the doorway, rolling to my feet. Maximov is right behind me. He slams a button on the wall, and the massive blast doors begin to grind shut.

One of the possessed marines throws itself through the narrowing gap, its powerarmor gauntlets scrabbling for purchase. Maximov kicks it, sending it tumbling back into the corridor. A single bolt finds its way through the narrowing gap and catches Maximov in the shoulder, spinning him to the ground. The doors close with a final, deafening clang, sealing us in.

The bridge is a scene of controlled chaos. The air is thick with the smell of burnt wiring and sweat. The lights are flickering, and every console is flashing red. Cora is at her station, her face grim, her fingers tapping the console in a frenzy.

"General!" I yell, my voice raw.

The General is in his command chair, his face a stony mask of defiance. He looks at me, and for a moment, I see something in his eyes. A flicker of recognition. A flash of something else. Relief, maybe.

"Maximov's squad?"

"Here," Maximov groans, rolling onto his back. He's still on the floor, the burn on his shoulder sizzling.

"Dmitri and Cortez, reporting."

"Cora, how are those shields coming?" the General asks, his voice cutting through the din.

"Almost there, Commander," Cora's voice is strained, coming from a nearby engineering console. "The rerouting is… messy. I'm pulling power from life support. We'll have breathable atmosphere for maybe an hour. Maybe."

The General looks at Maximov and walks over, offering his hand toward his unwounded side. Maximov takes it and grimaces as he hauls himself to his feet. "You did good. Now let someone help you with that."

Maximov grunts. "Not leaving my squad, sir."

The General's gaze sweeps the room, taking in the handful of survivors — the bridge crew, my squad, a few technicians, all of them armed, all of them terrified. "None of us are," he says. "We'll make our stand here."

The blast doors shudder. A deep, resonant clang echoes through the bridge, followed by another, and another. They're trying to beat their way in.

"They're persistent," Cortez says, a manic glint in his eye.

"They're hungry," Dmitri rumbles, shouldering his shotgun.

"Cora," the General says, turning to the engineering console. "Forget the hour. Give me shields now. Five minutes. That's all I need."

"Sir, that'll—"

"That's an order, Cora."

Cora takes a deep breath. "Yes sir, I'm—"

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The assault on the door stops. Three sharp, precise clicks against the metal. Like knocking. Exactly like knocking.

Then a horrible chittering facsimile of human words comes through the speakers.

"Greetings... Commander... of the... Human Inter-Faction Grand Alliance. We... wish... to speak."

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---

Hey guys its time for my weekly pause. I will be back next week. I hope I did better this time than my first go at Kit's perspective in chapter 2.1 and 2.2. Please let me know what you thought. All critiques welcome.

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The ramp closes with a final, metallic thud, sealing us back inside our own brutalist reality. The shuttle lifts off, the crude mechanical roar of its engines shattering the quiet the S'kith had built around themselves. No one speaks as we ascend, leaving the glowing garden and its serene, melancholy inhabitants behind. The only sound is the thrum of the engines and Kit's ragged breathing. He doesn't look at me. He stares at the floor of the cockpit, a knot of shame and anger and I don't know what else.

We emerge from the illusory threshold and back into the desolate red glow of the dead star. The rest of the fleet is holding position, a silent, metallic flotilla just inside the alien skyline. On the comms, Commander Rostova is demanding an immediate report, her voice tight with alarm.

"Commander," she begins the second the channel is open, "we lost visual of you when you began walking through that...forest. Your shuttle's bio-signs went erratic. There were energy fluctuations. We had weapons crews scrambling. What in the seven hells happened down there?"

"It was a... disagreement in doctrine, Commander," I reply, my voice flat. "Nothing more. Stand down from alert. I'm calling a council of war in the main briefing room in thirty minutes. All command staff."

I cut the channel before she can respond. "Kit," I say, my tone leaving no room for argument. "You're with me. Cora, get Solace and Rostova on a secure sub-channel. Tell them I want their thoughts on the S'kith proposal when we sit down together, but I don't want anyone posturing for the room."

"But sir, about what I—"

"Don't." My face a tight mask of bridled fury. I point an accusatory finger at him, open my mouth, then close it again. My tongue clicks against my teeth. I inhale sharply and drop my hand, looking away. When I return my eyes to him, the fury is still there, but banked. "We will address your little insurrection later. I have an operation to plan with the rest of the officers. You need to be at this debrief since you were there, but I don't want a word out of you unless directly addressed." I turn and begin walking down the hall.

He stands there for a second, his face ashen. He doesn't say anything, just gives a short, sharp nod that's more a flinch than an affirmation, before meekly following behind me.

The main briefing room is a bare, functional space. A polished metal table dominates the center, surrounded by high-backed chairs. The walls are seamless plasteel, currently displaying a real-time tactical map of the surrounding star system and the shimmering bubble that holds the S'kith garden. There is no comfort here. This is a room for decisions, and the decisions are rarely good.

Rostova arrives first, pacing like a caged animal, her uniform crisp but her movements betraying a deep-seated agitation. "General Commander, with all due respect, this is madness," she begins the moment the door hisses shut behind her.

I stare at her from my position at the head of the table, my gaze silencing whatever unfiltered thought was going to spill out of her mouth. I hold out my hand in a lazy but firm invitation.

"Take a seat, Commander," I reply curtly. "Please wait to voice your concerns until everyone has arrived." We sit in silence. Me, Kit, and Rostova. I lean forward and stare directly down the table at the far wall, my chin resting on my clasped hands. I let the silence build, giving Rostova enough room to strangle herself with it. To a soldier, the silence of a superior officer is a more effective tool for intimidation than any raised voice. Rostova shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

Commander Solace enters, moving with a quiet fluidity that is the polar opposite of Rostova's nervous energy. Her face is an unreadable mask, but her eyes, dark and deep, take in everything—Rostova's tension, Kit's hunched form, my rigid posture. She chooses a seat equidistant from us both, a silent island of neutrality.

Cora enters last, a datapad in hand. She doesn't sit immediately. She walks to the wall display, taps her datapad, and brings up the image of the S'kith's besieged world—the hologram we were shown in the garden, now rendered as a stark two-dimensional tactical projection. The black, chitinous Invulcari swarm it like an ugly cancer against the planet's serenity.

"Thank you, Commander Cora. Now that we're all here, let's get started." I give them the basic rundown of what happened in our meeting. I leave out Kit's temporary bout of mutiny. I describe the S'kith's offer: their technology in exchange for our military might. Their survival, contingent on our becoming their sword and shield.

"They are asking us to become their attack dogs," Rostova says the moment I pause. "They watched us get carved up at Rigel. They have the power to fold spacetime, to resurrect entire stations from temporal limbo, but they couldn't be bothered to send a warning? A simple message? And now, when they're finally in a bind, they suddenly decide humanity might be useful. This isn't a partnership, it's a collar. They are making us out to be their pets."

"A collar, perhaps," Solace counters, her voice calm and measured. "But a collar may be the only thing that keeps our species from being dragged to the slaughterhouse. The S'kith have a song. We have a scream. We can learn their verses, Commander, or we can keep screaming until our throats are ripped out. Their technology is not just a weapon; it's a survival guide."

"A guide written by cowards," Rostova snaps back, her face flushing. "They hide. They run. We don't."

"Don't we?" Solace's tone is mild, but the question is a scalpel. "Our entire strategy for the past year has been about running, hasn't it? Falling back. Ceding worlds. Buying time. We ran from the Triton Veil. We ran from Alnilam. We are running out of places to run. The S'kith offer us a place to run to. A place that is safe."

The room is silent for a moment, the only sound the faint buzzing of the ship's life support. I let the tension build, my gaze sweeping from one officer to the next. Cora stands by the display, her expression unreadable. Kit is hunched in his chair, a knot of repressed anger and grief, saying nothing, as ordered.

"My primary concern is the nature of this partnership," Cora says, finally breaking the silence. She turns from the display, her datapad still in hand. "They teach us, we fight for them. The math is simple, but the variables are not. What happens when an Invulcari fleet threatens one of our core worlds, but the S'kith need us to defend their garden instead? Whose war do we fight? Who chooses the targets?"

"We'll cross those bridges when we crash headlong into them. Right now we need to answer two questions. Do we want them as allies? And can we afford them as enemies?" I let that sit for a moment. "I think the answer is abundantly clear. We do this favor, we garner some goodwill, and then we get someone who actually knows something about politics out here to negotiate proper terms."

"Politics?" Rostova practically scoffs. "Commander, this is a tactical decision, not a diplomatic one."

"It's a tactical decision only because we are the ones dealing with it. The second the Council learns these beings are safe to negotiate with, this becomes a minefield of a power struggle. The admirals, the politicians, the War Council—all of them screaming at the top of their lungs about what comes next. We need to at least give them the option of not starting a new war before they begin tearing each other apart over this."

"A war with a species that can fold spacetime," Cora adds, her tone grim. "Regardless of their less aggressive disposition it doesn't mean they can't fight, and their tools are far superior. I am not fond of this either. But what choice do we truly have?"

The question hangs in the recycled air. Nobody answers it, because nobody can.

"My decision is to proceed with the S'kith's request, with one major modification," I say. "We will not be a surgical strike force. The S'kith will open a hole for our entire fleet. We will go through. We will break the siege—but we will not simply perform our little assassination and run. We will send a message to the Invulcari, and to the S'kith, that humanity is not a tool to be used and discarded. We fight on our terms. We show them what it means to have us as an ally."

The room is dead silent. Rostova's jaw is tight. Solace gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

"Not to mention," I add, "their plan probably won't work anyway."

"What do you mean?" Cora asks.

"We've been fighting the Invulcari for years. They are not a simple hive mind. They adapt. Their fleet will not be confused for long, and once they realize what's happening, they will turn their full attention on us. We'll be trapped on the wrong side of the S'kith shield. One 'chord' isn't enough. We will need more." I turn to the silent pilot. "Kit."

He flinches, looking up like a deer caught in the beams of a searchlight. "Sir?"

"What you did down there—it was reckless, insubordinate, and could have gotten us all killed." I let the words hang in the air, heavy and absolute. "It also reminded me of the truth behind all of this."

His eyes widen in disbelief.

"You saw what the rest of us didn't want to see," I continue, my gaze unwavering. "You saw the cost. You saw the betrayal. You didn't get lost in the grand cosmic symphony. You saw the price at Rigel. And that is the S'kith's true weakness. Their harmony is a beautiful, abstract concept. But war is not abstract. It's blood. And loss. And the rage that comes from it." I look around the table at the faces of my officers. "The S'kith have song. But we have fight. That's the difference between us. They have been running for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, and they saw something in us that they wanted. Because they know, deep down, that running will only ever end one way. And I think it's that very fight that will save us."

I stand. "We aren't letting beings who only know how to run dictate to us how we fight. Kit, with me. Cora, I want you to work with Solace and Rostova on a battle plan. I don't care what the S'kith said. I want a plan for a full-scale assault on that fleet. We'll use their trick to get in, but once we're in, we fight our war. I want it ready to present to the S'kith in one hour. Dismissed."

I turn and walk out of the briefing room, not waiting for a response. Kit scrambles to follow, a question in his eyes that he doesn't dare to ask. The rest of the officers remain at the table, a tableau of shock, resentment, and reluctant understanding.

I lead Kit down the corridor, the metallic clang of our boots the only sound. I don't stop until we reach my quarters. The door hisses shut behind us, sealing us in the quiet, spartan space. I walk to the small viewport, looking out at the impossible shimmer of the S'kith bubble.

"You're not putting me in the brig, sir?" Kit asks, his voice low, uncertain.

I turn to face him. "I should. By all the regulations in the fleet, I should. You pointed a weapon at an alien diplomat. You disobeyed a direct order in the middle of a first-contact scenario. That's a court-martial offense, Kit."

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I know, sir."

"But I'm not going to," I continue, my voice softening slightly. "Because you're not wrong to be angry. You're not wrong to feel betrayed. If you weren't, I'd be more worried. The S'kith let a world burn. They watched billions die. And now they're asking us to bleed for them. Your reaction was understandable. Undisciplined, but understandable."

I walk over to him, stopping just a few feet away. "But that fire in you, that righteous anger — that's what's going to win this. Not the S'kith's song. Not their technology. It's the will to keep fighting when there's nothing left. You have that, Kit. You have it in spades."

I place a hand on his shoulder, the same gesture as before, but this time it's not about control. It's about connection.

“But you are cleaning the entire mess hall with your personal toothbrush.” I pat him twice on the shoulder before walking away.

The hour comes to a close and I'm presented with a plan. A brilliant—reckless—awful plan.

The following hour is spent convincing the S'kith to go along with it, and the hours after that—actually setting it up.

I sit at my chair going over the plan laid out on my console for about the eightieth time before my sensor officer speaks up.

“Sir, we are detecting significant spatial distortion it the system's gravity field.”

I look up to see the telltale light of the spatial gate forming, but unlike the one we used at Rigel this one does not look like a wound or a tear. It looks like a small star, a perfect sphere. A hole in space that spits out light instead of swallowing it.

I glance on final time at the readout before my gaze returns to the mainscreen. Well here we go. I sure hope this works.

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"...nothing... now. We want to talk. To understand. To share. We have prepared... a place for you. A neutral ground. Where we can meet... as equals."

I glance at Cora. Her expression is unreadable — but I know what she's thinking. So am I.

"Send us the coordinates," I say flatly.

The S'kith transmit a set of coordinates. They're not in this system, but fairly nearby — an empty star system outside of Alliance space, uncharted, unused, and entirely void of strategic value. A ghost of a system, for ghosts of a people.

"Your presence... is requested... Commander," the translation says, soft now. "We will show you... how we survived... for so long. In the dark."

I raise my hand, closing the channel. The bridge is silent again.

"So, what's the play, Commander?" Cora asks, her voice low, edged with caution.

"The play is we have a single choice," I say, staring at the coordinates. "We stay out here, in a system held together by a miracle we don't understand, and make an enemy we didn't know we had—or we go to that neutral ground and hear them out. Alone."

"Alone," Cora repeats, letting the word hang.

"With the fleet," I amend, meeting her gaze. "All of them. If this is a trap, I don't want to walk into it empty-handed."

"Understood," she says. "What about the shipyards? The crews?"

"Leave a detachment," I order. "A small team. Medical and engineering. Get a handle on the temporal field, the people, everything. But they go in hazmat suits, armed. Full security protocols."

"Right," she says, already tapping orders into her console. "And if the people wake up?"

"Then we'll ask them how it felt," I say grimly. "But for now, we move."

I tap my console, opening a fleet-wide channel. "All ships, prepare for jump. Destination: uncharted star system, designation 753-Kappa. Formation: tight sphere. Weapons powered down but hot. Shields at thirty percent. I want you ready to fight the second we drop out of warp. Commanders Rostova, Jin, Solace, private channel. Let's talk."

The comms light up in a cascade of acknowledgments. On the main viewscreen, the fleet begins to shift — green ships turning in formation, falling into a tight, defensive wedge around the Indomitable.

Before we leave, I patch into the medical bay. "Kit."

The line crackles. Then, a quiet voice. "Sir."

"You're with me on this one," I say. "Get your gear. I want you on my wing."

There's a long pause. Then, barely audible:

"...yes, sir."

The engines of the Indomitable begin to hum — deep, resonant, alive. Around us, the Tenth Division ships follow suit.

The helmsman turns. "Course laid in, Commander."

I nod.

"Engage."

The lurch into the warp pocket is familiar. The stars stretch, smear, then snap into that shimmering tunnel of light as space warps around the ship, shrinking it in front of us and expanding it behind us, allowing our ships to travel in our crude way, somewhat beyond the universal speed limit.

The jump is short. Efficient. When the Indomitable drops out of warp, the scene is even more desolate than I imagined. 753-Kappa is a grave. A dead star system, ancient and cold. At its center burns a dim red dwarf — more ember than sun, casting long, tired shadows across the void. There are no planets here. No asteroid belts. No comets. Just empty space, dust, and the faint, distant hum of a dying star.

"Report," I say, my voice tight.

"Sensors clear, Commander," the officer replies. "No contacts. No energy signatures. No..." He hesitates. "Nothing."

Then the comms officer speaks. "Commander, I'm picking up a signal. Faint. Low-band. It's... the S'kith."

"On screen," I say.

The viewscreen flickers, and for a moment there is only darkness. Then a shape begins to form.

It's not a ship. Not a station. Not any structure I've ever seen.

It's a bubble.

A vast, shimmering reflective sphere hangs in the void ahead of us, its surface shifting and flowing like liquid mercury. It's transparent, and through its curved walls I can see the distorted stars beyond, stretched and warped as if through a fisheye lens. It is beautiful and deeply unsettling in equal measure.

"Is that... a station?" Cora asks quietly.

"It's not made of matter," the sensor officer says, awestruck. "It's... a pocket of stable spacetime. A self-contained bubble of reality. They've folded a room into the middle of nowhere."

The S'kith transmission returns — softer this time, more intricate.

"...welcome... Commander of the Indomitable. Please... come inside. We have prepared... a place... for you. Where we may speak... without fear... of being heard. Please power down your exterior systems... before entering."

The bridge is still. No one speaks. We're being asked to fly our ships — our weapons, our crews, our entire future — into a pocket dimension created by a species we just met.

"I'm not comfortable with this, Commander," Rostova says over the fleet comms, her voice tight. "We're being asked to deactivate all exterior systems and proceed inside unarmed. That's a deathtrap waiting to happen."

Solace replies, her voice low, steady, cutting through the static. "If they'd wanted to kill us, they could have done it back at Cygnus. Without raising a single weapon. They could've folded the station right back up and the point of stability around the blackhole would've disappeared right along with it." She pauses. "But if you're worried, Commander Rostova, maybe keep your shields hot. Just in case."

Rostova sputters. "They told us to power down shields!"

"I didn't hear anything about shields," Solace replies calmly. "I heard 'exterior systems'."

Cora looks at me, her expression a question. She trusts me, but this — this is a leap of faith even she is struggling with.

"Solace is right," I say, to all of them. "The S'kith could have erased us at Cygnus. They didn't. They chose to talk. Now we'll choose to listen." I tap the comms. "All ships — power down weapons. Maintain minimal shields. Proceed into the S'kith structure in single file. Keep a channel open. If anything feels wrong, you pull back immediately. Understood?"

A chorus of "Yes, sir" comes back — hesitant, but obedient.

"Helm," I say. "Take us in."

The Indomitable moves forward, slow and deliberate. As we approach the shimmering bubble, the surface ripples, parting like a curtain. There is no jolt. No transition. One moment we are in the cold void of space, and the next — we are inside.

And inside is a garden.

The walls of the bubble are not walls at all. They are a panoramic vista of alien skies — twin suns setting over fields of crystalline flora, nebulae coiling in slow, graceful spirals, galaxies wheeling in silent ballet. The light is soft, golden, warm. The air on the bridge, even recycled through the life support, seems fresher. Cleaner. It's utterly bizarre — almost like a slice of some far-off, beautiful, alien world had been dropped amongst the stars, somehow missing the rest of its planet.

The S'kith are waiting.

They are not what I expected. Not in the slightest. They are not hulking warriors or ethereal energy beings. They are slender, graceful figures, taller than a human, with skin that shimmers with the same pearlescent quality as their ships. They have four long, delicate arms and faces that are serene, almost featureless, except for large, luminous eyes that hold a deep, ancient sadness. They are not armed. They are not armored. They simply stand there, arranged in a semicircle, as if awaiting an honored guest.

"Beautiful," Kit whispers over the open comms from his fighter. "It's... quiet here." There is a raw vulnerability in his voice that cuts through the tension on the bridge.

The other ships follow us in, one by one — the Intrepid, the Aegis, the Valiant. They float like silent metallic whales in the sky above the fields. On the main screen I can see the other bridge crews staring out their viewscreens, their faces masks of disbelief. The green officers of the Tenth are seeing something that shatters their understanding of what is possible. Commander Solace's face, however, remains a study in controlled neutrality. She's seen wonders and horrors; this is simply a new flavor of both.

The S'kith melodic language fills the comms, the translation smooth, almost poetic now. "...we are glad you have come. Please... send a small party. To the ground. We have prepared... a place... where we may speak. Without... barriers."

I look at Cora. Her expression is grim, but she gives a single, sharp nod. "You're not going alone."

"I wouldn't dream of it," I reply. I tap my comms again. "Solace, Rostova, you have the fleet. Keep your eyes open. Jin, I want the Aegis to run continuous deep-range sensor sweeps of this pocket. I want to know if the walls are solid or just a pretty curtain. XO, you're with me. And Kit —" I pause. "Meet me in the main shuttle bay. You're flying us down."

"Aye, Commander," the replies come back, crisp and immediate.

Ten minutes later I'm standing in the shuttle bay, pulse rifle held loosely at low ready. It inspires almost no confidence, but I bring it anyway. Cora is beside me, her expression a mask of professional calm. Our shuttle is a standard-issue dropship—all hard angles and functional bulkheads, a piece of brutalist reality parked against the impossible backdrop of the S'kith's garden.

Kit climbs down from the cockpit hatch. He's in a pilot's flightsuit, but it hangs on him, still too loose. He has a sidearm holstered at his hip but doesn't touch it. His face is pale, but his eyes are clear. Focused.

"Ready, sir," he says, his voice steady.

I nod, giving him a long look. "Stick to the landing plan. If this goes sideways, you get us out of there. That's your only priority. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," he says, without a flicker of hesitation.

"Good," I say, then clap him on the shoulder. It's meant to be reassuring, but I can feel the tension in his frame like a coiled spring. "Let's go meet the neighbors."

The shuttle's engines are a harsh, mechanical roar in the tranquil silence as we lift off and descend toward the surface. The ships vanish overhead as we sink below some unknown visual threshold that filters out the bizarre, ethereal transition zone near the mercurial shifting edge of the bubble space. Beneath us, the ground is a carpet of soft, moss-like growth that glows with a gentle blue-green light. Crystalline trees, their branches like spun glass, spiral toward a sky that is a flawless projection of a distant nebula. There are no paths. No structures. Just nature — engineered, perfected, but nature nonetheless.

Kit sets us down in a small clearing with a gentleness that belies the shuttle's mass. The ramp lowers with a hydraulic hiss.

The air that spills into the shuttle is cool and clean, smelling of rain and something else — something like honey and ozone, but sharper. I take point, Cora covering our six, Kit falling in behind, his gaze sweeping the trees. We move in a standard tactical triangle, a small island of military precision in a sea of alien peace.

They are waiting for us.

Three S'kith stand in the center of the clearing, identical to the figures I saw on the viewscreen. Up close, their presence is overwhelming. Their skin catches the nebula-light, shifting through colors I have no names for. Their large, dark eyes regard us without blinking. There is no aggression in their posture.

The one in the center takes a single, gliding step forward and places what looks like a many-appendaged hand on its large, smooth forehead. What I would have described as fingers only moments before begin vibrating like the strings of an instrument. The melodic language begins — not over a speaker this time, but in the air all around us. I hear a voice directly in my mind at the same time as the song. It's a soft, musical presence, distinct from my own thoughts.

We are glad you have come. I am... the Speaker.

The translation is instantaneous. My breath catches. I glance at Cora. She gives a slight, almost imperceptible shake of her head. She doesn't hear it.

I speak to you, Commander of the Indomitable, because your mind is... open. Loud. But also... receptive. Your companions hear only the sound... I do not translate for them... yet.

"Mind to mind," I murmur aloud. "Telepathy."

A crude word. But... sufficient. We share thought. It is... more efficient. Please. Walk with me.

The Speaker turns and glides away from the shuttle. We follow, a silent, wary trio behind the elegant alien. The crystalline trees chime softly as we pass, a gentle, random melody that adds to the impossible serenity of the place. Kit is watching them, his earlier exhaustion replaced by a quiet, focused wonder.

"You said you were being hunted," I say aloud, my rifle still at the ready. "By the Invulcari."

Hunters is a more apt term. The ones you call Invulcari... they do not conquer. They consume. They seek power. Technology. They tear the silence... to find it. Your jump gates are the loudest sound they have heard in... centuries. A scream in a quiet room.

"Then why help us?" Cora asks, her voice sharp. "Why not let them consume us and stay hidden?"

Because... you have discerned something fundamental. You have learned to resonate with the universe on a... special frequency that so far only we have seemed to discover. Though crude and brutish, you have achieved this on your own. Something the Invulcari... as you call them... have yet to manage.

I look up, clouded with confusion. "But then how did the Invulcari gain their technology?" The words leave my mouth before my brain catches up, and the realization washes over me cold and fast.

From us. The melody turns sorrowful. Our people had long ago, in our antiquity, given up the practice of war, learning to reshape our world so that we may all sing in beautiful harmony. That is why we were not ready when they came. Our beautiful garden—our first one, the one we had been born into this universe with—was ravaged and burned. Our horror was so great that we cried out as one and leapt to the stars in flight. But they had learned something from our flight. They hunted us with a fervency we had never seen in any other species. And they caught us several times before we learned to hide with the proficiency we do now. They gained... pieces. Crude and incomplete fragments of our songs, enough to copy some measure of it. As time wore on and we grew better at running... and hiding... they gave up their pursuit as fruitless. We even began to settle new gardens, but their desire for our song never waned. Now here you come along with your rough yet distinct tones. You have surely rekindled their desires. The S'kith pause. They do not come for your worlds, Commander, not anymore at least. They come because of the music you are just beginning to learn.

We arrive at a clearing. In its center, the ground shimmers, and a new image rises from the moss—a perfect, three-dimensional hologram. It is a world, beautiful and blue-green, swaddled in clouds. And around it, a fleet.

Not a fleet like ours. Not a fleet like the S'kith. It is a swarm. A chitinous, black, jagged mass of ships that crawl through the void like insects—ugly and functional, a stark, terrifying contrast to the elegant grace of the S'kith. They are bombarding the planet, but the beams of energy—the searing green and purple light the Invulcari use—don't strike the surface. They bend, warped by an invisible bubble around the world, twisting off into the void.

This is our newest garden. One of our few colonies that we have only recently been rekindling. Xylos. And currently... it is our prison.

The hologram shifts, zooming in on the planet's surface. Cities, beautiful and organic, woven into the landscape. S'kith moving through the streets. Living. Trapped.

"The distortion field," Cora says, her voice a whisper—cluing me in that the Speaker has begun translating for everyone. "It's your shield."

It is our cage. We wove it around our world to protect them from the bombardment. But it is... too strong. We cannot get in to help, and their ships are unable to leave until they clear the separation zone. We are dying. The Hunters are patient. They will wait until our harmony fades. Until our garden withers and the silence that remains is worth claiming.

A cold dread settles in my gut. This is their offer. Not a trade. A plea. They need a distraction. A fist to break the siege while they untangle their own knot.

"Why us?" I ask, my gaze fixed on the holographic world under siege. "You've been watching us. You know we're losing. You must have encountered many other species. Why come to the ones who are already on the verge of extinction?"

Because you fight. The thought arrives as a complex chord of admiration and pity. Others do not stand. Not like you. At their first chance, they run if they can, choosing to prolong the inevitable. But you—you fight the Hunters with brutal, inefficient weapons. You bleed and you die for worlds of rock and ice.

There is break in the melody.

And because you have discovered some part of the great song. We cannot allow the Hunters to learn any more of it, lest they truly gain understanding and wipe the galaxy clean of all but their own. Also, despite your claims of extinction, you are quite numerous. Typically when a civilization learns to wayfare, it is only a few short years before they begin attempting to learn the edges of the great song. This experimentation attracts the Hunters—though ironically they usually snuff out these budding civilizations before any significant progress is made, effectively failing to gain new insights due to the very success with which they eliminate prospective singers. But you—whether through luck or providence—never learned this, and thus had to be found through happenstance. You were able to grow your people in relative quiet, though entirely unintentional. The S'kith melody swirls, filled with a strange mix of sorrow and something like excitement. You are a fledgling species that has been given centuries of growth and are only now beginning your journey. Your presence is not a simple new note in the symphony; it is an entirely new instrument being introduced to the orchestra—discordant and unpracticed, but with the potential for... volume.

All my tactical training, all my experience with the Invulcari, feels suddenly quaint. We've been fighting a territorial war in our backyard. This is cosmic. Something far older and stranger than resources or empire.

"And what happens to us after we break the siege?" Cora asks, her practicality cutting through the metaphysics. "What's in it for us, beyond the privilege of being your new weapon?"

We do not ask you to be a weapon, the Speaker replies, its melody placating. We offer you a... partnership. We cannot fight. But we can teach. We can teach you to refine your song. To quiet your ripples so the Hunters cannot find you. We can show you how to hide. To build your own gardens, your own safe havens. You will have our technology. Our understanding. In exchange, you lend us your strength. Your capacity for... conflict. When the Hunters come for us, you will be there. When they come for you... we will ensure you have a place to run.

I meet the Speaker's luminous eyes. "You're offering us a survival strategy. Hide behind your shields and fight for you when called upon."

It is not hiding. It is... harmony. The S'kith melody turns instructional, as if explaining a simple concept to a child. The universe is a vast and dangerous silence, Commander. To scream is to invite predators. To whisper... is to survive. And to learn the song... is to become one with the silence. We offer to teach you the verses.

"And what if we refuse?" I press. "What if we choose to keep screaming?"

The melody that answers is steeped in a melancholy so profound it feels like a tangible object. Then you will be silenced. Permanently. The Hunters will come—not in thousands, but in hundreds of thousands. They will not stop until your worlds are cinders and your people are a memory. They will find you. And they will consume the last, fleeting note of your song. We will... be sad to lose such a promising instrument. But we will survive. As we always have. Alone.

The unspoken truth settles between us, cold and absolute. They don't need us. Not truly. They are offering us a seat at a table we didn't know existed—a chance to learn the rules of a game we were never taught. The alternative is to keep playing with our incomplete, suicidal strategy until the Invulcari decide to stop playing with their food.

I look at Cora. Her face is a mask, but her eyes are sharp, calculating. She sees the trap. The offer of salvation is also an offer of vassalage. We fight their wars, we learn their secrets, we live in their shadow.

Then I look at Kit. He's staring at the hologram of the besieged world, at the S'kith cities woven into the landscape. I see no calculation in his eyes. No fear of vassalage. Only a reflection of the girl he lost. A world, and the promise of saving it. He is not thinking of fleets and strategy. He is thinking of one pilot who didn't make it back. And for him, in this moment, the choice is simple.

"Commander," Kit says, his voice quiet but firm, cutting through the S'kith's melody. "We should leave them. I don't trust them—they watched as millions died at Rigel."

His words hit the stillness of the clearing like a stone through glass. I cut him a look sharp enough to draw blood, jaw tight, a storm gathering behind my eyes.

I turn back to the Speaker, forcibly smoothing my expression. "Let's say we agree to this partnership. We break your siege. How? What exactly do you need from us?"

The Speaker's melody shifts, the melancholy receding, replaced by a tone of focused instruction. The hologram shifts again, showing the chitinous Invulcari fleet swarming the planet. Their ships are brutish. Direct. They rely on overwhelming force. They project their energy, creating a focal point. A target. Your fleets... they do the same. You aim. You fire. You hope your scream is louder than theirs.

A new icon appears on the hologram — a single Alliance cruiser, the Indomitable. You must stop screaming. You must learn to whisper.

The hologram animates. The Indomitable glides toward the Invulcari fleet. But instead of firing its cannons, it begins to shimmer. Space around it warps, the light from the distant nebula twisting around its hull. It becomes a ghost, a distortion, a hole in reality.

We will give you a fragment of our song, the Speaker explains. A single, simple chord. We cannot teach you the full symphony in a moment. That will take... cycles. But we can teach you this. How to pass unseen. How to be a shadow.

The animated Indomitable slips through the Invulcari fleet, unseen, untouched. It moves to the very center of the swarm, directly above the flagship — a massive, jagged vessel that looks like a black mountain of chitin and guns.

Their command is... singular. Centralized. The flagship directs the swarm. If it falls, they will become confused. Disoriented. They will turn on themselves. A short-lived chaos, but enough. Enough for us to unravel our shield. Enough for you to withdraw.

"You want us to use your whisper to perform an assassination," Cora says, her voice flat. "A surgical strike on their command ship."

A crude, but accurate, term, the S'kith melody replies. We will create an opening in our shield for you. A brief moment. You will pass through. You will strike the mind. Then you will retreat before the swarm recovers its senses.

"And if we can't?" I ask. "If your whisper doesn't work? If we get caught?"

Then your scream will be the last thing this garden hears, the Speaker replies, its tone devoid of judgment. Simply a statement of fact. The risk is yours. The choice... is yours.

The choice. The word echoes in my mind. I glance at Kit, then back to the Speaker.

"We tentatively accept, but I will need to confer with my officers before we make our final decision — we may have some alternate plans on how to deal with the situation." I am bargaining with the devil I don't know, to fight the devil I do, for the sake of a species that watched us bleed.

We understand. The melody is patient. We will await your decision. The S'kith bows, a fluid, graceful gesture. We hope you choose harmony.

I nod once, curtly. "We'll be in touch." I turn on my heel, signaling to Cora and Kit. "We're leaving."

Kit takes two fast steps forward and draws his plasma pistol, leveling it at the Speaker's head. The motion is sudden enough that both Cora and I react on instinct. My rifle snaps up, not fully aimed, but close enough that there’s no ambiguity about where it will be if this goes wrong. Beside me, Cora’s sidearm clears its holster in one smooth, practiced motion, her stance shifting just enough to give her a clean line past me. The air changes—subtly, but unmistakably. The calm of the clearing fractures, replaced by something tight and brittle, like a hull under too much pressure. Kit doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. His pistol is rock steady, locked on the Speaker’s head, his breathing shallow but controlled, the kind of control that comes right before something breaks. For a long second, no one moves. Not us. Not him. Not even the S’kith. Three separate lines drawn in the sand, and all it would take is a twitch—his or ours—to turn this entire place into a kill zone. I can feel the calculation running in the back of my mind, cold and immediate: distance, angle, reaction time. I can drop him before he fires. So can Cora. We both know it. The question isn’t whether we can. It’s whether we will.

His hand is steady. His voice is not. "No. Commander, I don't think so. This whole thing stinks."

"Kit." My voice is a whip crack, sharp and cold, cutting through the alien air. "Stand. Down."

He flinches, but the pistol doesn't waver. His knuckles are white on the grip. "They let Rigel burn, sir. They watched us die. They're using us. Just... let me..."

"This is not a request, Pilot. This is an order," I say, taking a slow step toward him. My rifle isn't quite level with his torso—but only just, my posture is coiled, a predator's readiness. "Lower your weapon. Now."

He looks at me, and for a second I see the wild, grief-stricken boy from the medbay. The one who has nothing left to lose. The one who would rather see the galaxy burn than trust the architects of his pain.

Then, slowly, agonizingly, he lowers the pistol. "Sorry, sir," he mutters, the words hollow. "I just... I can't..."

"I know," I say, my tone softening slightly. I holster my rifle on its magnetic hip mount and walk over, placing a hand on his shoulder. My grip is firm. "I know. But this is not the way. Not now."

The Speaker has not moved. Its luminous eyes have watched the entire exchange with an unnerving stillness. No fear. No anger. Only a deep, ancient sadness—the look of a being that has witnessed such raw, fractured emotion a thousand times before.

The young one's pain is... loud, the melody whispers directly into my mind. It is a dissonant note. But it is strong. Do not... silence it completely. Harness it. Teach it to sing.

I file the thought away and guide Kit back toward the shuttle. Cora is already at the ramp, her face pale, her hand resting near her own re-holstered sidearm. Her eyes meet mine over Kit's head—a single, sharp question. I give a minute shake of my head. Not here.

The ramp closes with a final, metallic thud, sealing us back inside our own brutalist reality. The shuttle lifts off, the roar of its engines a vulgar intrusion into the S'kith's silent symphony. No one speaks as we ascend, leaving the glowing garden and its serene, melancholy inhabitants behind.

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Hi everyone. Here is the latest chapter. I decided to change the name since it felt a little too long and pretentious for an ongoing series. Let me know if you like it. Two other one shots on here have already used it, but no series has yet, so I don't think it will confuse anyone. If everyone hates it, or you prefer the old title, I will switch back to the other one. "No Quarter" has a good ring to me for a longer series which I hope this becomes. As always critiques encouraged.

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"Open a channel," I say. "This is Commander of the Alliance starship Indomitable. I am the leader of this fleet. I am the one you're looking for."

The alien music continues for a moment, then the translation begins. Smoother than before. Like the more they speak the better the translation is adapting."...we are pleased... to meet you... Commander of the Indomitable. We have... much to discuss. We have been watching... your kind... for some time. We have seen your struggle. We have seen... your pain."

The words hang in the air. They have been watching us. They know about the war. They know about our pain. And they did nothing.

"Why?" I ask. "Why have you been watching us? Why did you help us here? What do you want?"

The alien music shifts — a long, complex melody, beautiful and unsettling in equal measure. The translation comes slowly, deliberately.

"Your folded space... what you call a jump... we call a ripple. Your ripples are loud. They tear... the silence. They attract attention... Unwanted... attention. We have been trying to teach you... to be more quiet. To ripple more gently. But you do not listen. You are loud. And the hunters... are drawn to the noise."

The realization hits me like a physical blow.

"The Invulcari," I say. "You're talking about the Invulcari."

The music shifts again — a sad, mournful melody. The translation is a single word.

"...yes."

"So you know about them," I say, my voice dropping. "You know what they are. What they're doing. And you've just been watching? Letting them slaughter us? Letting them burn our worlds?" I can feel the anger rising in my chest, hot and sharp. "What kind of monsters are you?"

The response is a complex, layered harmony — beautiful and terrifying at once. When the translation comes, it is slow and deliberate.

"There are many... hunted. We are... too few. But now you...try to speak. Poorly... but you at least bare a glimpse of understanding... However, the hunters have heard you... Even now... they come. Your noise was loud. More leave the other hunted... and come... to hunt you."

The words land like stones. The final transmission from the Cygnus Shipyards flashes through my mind. "…they're inside the gate — no, that's impossible — field inversion — containment gone—" The station wasn't destroyed by carelessness or a freak accident. Something was trying to come through our breach. And if it wasn't the S'kith, that leaves only one answer.

The Invulcari have some knowledge of this technology. Their sudden appearance at Rigel makes far more sense now. They can already use these tears in space — have been using them. A chill moves through me that has nothing to do with the temperature on the bridge.

And more are coming.

We are not the only species they are attempting to conquer it seems. They have only rarely deployed their strongest technology, and are not even fully invested in fighting us. Nearly a quarter of humanity has been wiped out since this war started, and they haven't been taking us seriously. My mind reels at the implications.

The bridge is silent. My officers are frozen at their stations, the weight of it pressing down on them like something physical. A few stare at the viewscreen, faces pale, eyes wide with a dawning horror. They are children who have just been told the monster under the bed is even scarier than they imagined— and it's coming.

My gaze drifts to the alien shuttle hanging in the void. Silent. Elegant. The S'kith. Not conquerors. Not invaders. Survivors. Refugees, hiding in the dark, waiting for the hunters to pass.

"We did not choose... this path," the S'kith continue, the melody beneath the words mournful now. "Our world was... a garden. A place of peace. And then... the hunters came. They burned our garden. They scattered our people. We are... a ghost... of what we once were. A whisper... in the dark."

I think about what that means — a species advanced enough to fold spacetime like paper, reduced to hiding. It reframes everything. Their technology isn't a weapon. It's a survival mechanism.

"What do you want from us?" I ask quietly. "Why are you here? Why did you contact us?"

The music rises — a hopeful, uplifting phrase, almost startling after everything that came before.

"...alliance."

The word settles over the bridge like a held breath.

"We cannot fight... the hunters," the translation continues. "Our... art... is not a weapon. It is... a shield. A way to hide. To run. You are different. You are loud. You are brutal. You are... warriors... We can teach you to be quiet. We can teach you... to hide. And you... can teach us... to fight."

The comms crackle. Rostova's voice comes through, strained and tight. "Commander. We can't just take this at face value. We don't know their full intent. Why wait until now? Why not reach out before a quarter of our people were dead? What do they actually gain from this?"

"She raises fair points," Cora adds, measured but firm. "An alliance with a species this advanced, at exactly the moment we're most desperate — we need to understand their calculus before we commit to anything."

I nod. They're not wrong. This could be a trap — a sophisticated play to lower our guard, to make us feel rescued when we're really being maneuvered. But if it's not — if this is real — then walking away from it could be the last mistake humanity ever makes.

"I hear you both," I say. "And I'm not dismissing it. But I'm not letting fear be the only voice in the room either."

I turn back to the viewscreen. "We will consider your offer. But we need something more to stand on. Something that tells us we can trust you."

The music that comes back is patient. Almost gentle.

"Proof is... a matter of perspective... Commander of the Indomitable... We cannot give you proof... of our intentions. We can only give you proof... of our art. And we have already done so. The station is whole. The ships are safe. The people are... dreaming... They will awaken when the temporal strain subsides. That is our proof. Our gift... to you." A pause — or what translates as one. "As well as... the ones we recovered... from your other tear. At Rigel."

Rigel.

I sit with that for a moment. They were at Rigel. Then here. Then back to Rigel. Then ahead of us again. I try to build a tactical picture around a species for whom distance is apparently a minor inconvenience and find I can't quite do it. Every strategic assumption we have built this war around is suddenly in question.

"The ones from Rigel," I say carefully. "They're alive?"

"They are safe. They are... dreaming. A peaceful dream. They will awaken soon... with no memory of the fear." A beat. "A gift."

"A gift," I repeat. "And what do you want in return?"

"...nothing... now. We want to talk. To understand. To share. We have prepared... a place for you. A neutral ground. Where we can meet... as equals."

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Hello all. This one is a bit shorter than most of my others because I will unlikely be posting for a few days and this seems like a good stopping point instead of leaving you midway through the talks. Also to my early readers from last chapter I know I used a ton of repetitive language for voice descriptors, and I'm sorry. I'm doing my best to watch that now and I'm going back and fixing it. And with a low steady rumble I will see you next week.

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My next stop is the medbay. The corridor is quiet, the sounds of the ship's systems a steady hum. I can feel the tension in the air, the nervous energy of a crew that knows that something is about to happen, but doesn't know what.

I find Kit in a small, private room, just as before. But this time, he's sitting up in bed, a tray of untouched food on his lap. He's still pale, still gaunt, but there's a new look in his eyes. A look of grim determination. A look that I know all too well.

"Kit," I say, my voice calm, gentle.

He looks up at me, his eyes a deep, dark brown. "Sir," he says, his voice a dry, raspy whisper.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," I say, my gaze softening slightly. "But I need your help. We're leaving on a new top priority mission. I would like you to be there, when we go back out." I look into the boys eyes and I see a hint of something... a flash of anger.

He doesn't respond for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the blanket covering his legs. Then, he looks up at me, his eyes filled with a pain that is so raw, so visceral, that it takes my breath away.

"I'll go," he says, his voice a quiet, determined whisper. "But not for you. And not for the Alliance." He looks away, his gaze fixed on the white wall opposite him. "I'm going back out there for them. For Jet. For the rest of my wing. I'm going to make sure that their sacrifice... that it meant something."

"I understand," I say, my voice low. "More than you know."

He looks at me, his eyes searching mine. "Do you?" he asks, his voice a quiet, challenging whisper. "Do you really?"

I hold his gaze, my expression unreadable. "I do," I say, seriously. "Because I've lost people, too. A lot of people. And I know that the only way to honor their memory is to keep fighting. To make sure that they didn't die for nothing."

He nods, a slow, understanding movement. "Then I'll be there," he says, his voice a quiet, determined whisper. "Just tell me when and where."

"Good," I say, nodding. "We leave in 10 hours. Get some rest, son. You'll need it."

I turn and leave the room, closing the door softly behind me, leaving him to his ghosts and his grief. I make my way back to the station, my mind racing, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. I have a fleet of green officers, a damaged ship, and a mission that could either save us or destroy us. And as for Kit. I'm not quite sure why, but I want him—need him—to get better. As if, maybe if I help the kid, it will absolve all my shortcomings.

I head back to the station and my office and the remaining time in port is hectic, stress filled, flurry of activity. The Indomitable moves to a dedicated repair dock where the skeleton crew works alongside teams of engineers and technicians. The station itself is buzzing with activity, the news of our victory and secret deployment, spreading like wildfire. I spend the hours coordinating the repairs, reviewing the fleet manifests, and poring over the data from the alien transmission, my mind a whirlwind of tactical possibilities and strategic nightmares.

The 10 hours is finally up and I make my way back to the bridge, the familiar, scarred space a welcome respite from the chaos of the station. The crew has fully returned, their faces etched with a weary excitement. The lights are brighter, the systems humming with a renewed energy. The viewscreen shows the vast, star-dusted blackness of the dock, the sleek, unblemished hulls of the Tenth Division ships glinting in the station's lights. They look like museum pieces, pristine and perfect, a stark contrast to the Indomitable's battered, battle-scarred plating.

I take my command chair, the cool metal a familiar presence against my back. I run a quick diagnostic on the ship's systems, the readouts scrolling across my personal console. Repairs are at sixty-seven percent. Weapons systems are fully functional. Shields are at eighty percent. The jump drive is at ninety-five percent. She's not whole, but she's ready. She has to be.

I tap my comms. "Cora, are the other ships ready?"

"Ready and waiting, Commander," she replies. "All captains report green across the board. They're... eager to get started."

"Eager or terrified?" I ask, a wry smile touching my lips.

"A little of both, I think," she says, a hint of amusement in her tone.

"Good," I say. "Fear keeps you sharp. Have them form up on our flank. Standard spheroid formation. And have Commander Solace of the Valiant take the port-side wing. I want her close."

"Aye, Commander," she says, her tone a little more serious this time. "I'll see to it."

I cut the comms and lean back in my chair, my eyes sweeping across the bridge. The crew is at their stations, their movements practiced and precise. They are a good crew, a solid team. They've been through the fire, and they've come out the other side, stronger for it. I trust them. I just hope I can trust the others.

The comms chirp again. "Commander, we have a request for a direct communication from Commander Rostova of the Intrepid."

"Put her through," I say, a sigh escaping my lips.

Rostova's face appears on the main viewscreen, her expression a mixture of excitement and apprehension. "Commander," she says, her voice a little too loud, a little too eager. "We're all in position. The Tenth Division is ready to depart on your command. I was just wondering... what is our approach vector to the Cygnus system? Standard long-range entry, or...?"

I look at her, my expression neutral. "Standard long-range entry, Commander," I say, my voice a low, serious rumble. "We don't know what we're walking into. We'll approach from the outer rim, well outside the event horizon of the black hole. We'll run passive scans until we get a clear picture of the situation. No active pings, no energy spikes. I don't want us to be the ones to ring the doorbell. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," she says, her enthusiasm dimming slightly. "Understood."

"Good," I say. "Stand by for my command. Indomitable out." The screen goes dark.

I lean forward, pulling up the star-chart of the Cygnus sector on my console. I trace the path with my finger, my mind turning, the tactical possibilities unfolding. The black hole is the dominant feature, its gravitational pull a constant, menacing threat. The Cygnus Shipyards were built in a stable Lagrange point, a pocket of relative calm in the midst of the chaos. But that calm is an illusion. The slightest miscalculation, the smallest error in navigation, and we could be pulled into the abyss, our ships torn apart by tidal forces, our atoms stretched into infinity.

"Commander," Cora's voice cuts through my thoughts. "All ships report formation achieved. We are clear to depart."

I nod, my gaze fixed on the viewscreen, on the sleek, unblemished hulls of the Tenth Division ships. "Helm, take us out. Full sublight. And then, when we're clear of the station's proximity, lay in a course for the Cygnus X-1 system. Best possible speed."

"Aye, Commander," the helmsman replies, his hands a blur of motion on the console.

The Indomitable engines ignite, a deep, resonant hum that vibrates through the deck plates. The ship begins to move, a slow, majestic turn that brings away from the port and reveals the vast, populated expanse of the Eridani system. The other ships move in perfect sync, their movements fluid and graceful, a dance of steel in the void.

I watch them, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. I am leading them into the unknown, into a situation that could either save us or destroy us. I am a shepherd leading a flock of lambs to a place where wolves may not be the worst thing they find. And for the first time in a long time, I am afraid. Not for myself. I am afraid for them. For the eager faces of the green officers, for the battle-scarred veterans, for the boy who is haunted by the ghosts of his past. I am afraid for the future of the Alliance, for the fate of humanity itself. And I know, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that this is only the beginning.

The ship shudders slightly as it clears the station's safety limits and begins charging the dark drives as we enter warp. The stars on the viewscreen stretch into long, thin lines, the familiar, disorienting prelude to a faster-than-light jump.

"Helm," I say. "Engage."

The ship lurches, a sickening, stomach-turning jolt that is followed by a sudden, profound silence. The stars on the viewscreen resolve into a swirling vortex of blue and white, a tunnel of light that is both beautiful and terrifying. We are in the warp.

It’s a long haul to Cygnus X-1—far enough that help won’t come if things go wrong. The journey is a blur of endless starlight and tense, watchful silence. The bridge is a hive of quiet activity, the crew at their stations, their eyes glued to their consoles, their faces etched with a mixture of concentration and apprehension. Conversations are kept to hushed tones, as if speaking too loudly might break something fragile in the air. The hours bleed into days, each one an eternity, the silence a heavy, oppressive blanket.

I spend the time reviewing the data from the alien transmission, my thoughts looping as tactical possibilities and strategic nightmares unfolding in my head. The signal is a masterful manipulation of physics, a complex, layered construct that is both a message and extremely precise spatial distortion. Our best scientists only have a grasp of the bare edges of it. It is a key that can unlock the secrets of the universe, or a Pandora's box that could unleash a plague of unimaginable horror. But what about the ones who created it?

I also find myself thinking about Kit. I check in on him periodically, the medical reports a steady stream of data on my console. He's stable. His vitals are strong. But he's not sleeping. He's not eating. He's just... there. A ghost in a machine, a boy lost in a sea of grief. I know that feeling. I know it all too well. And I know that the only thing that can save him is the same thing that saved me: a purpose. A reason to keep fighting. A reason to go on living when all you want to do is give up. I hope that this mission, this impossible, terrifying mission, can be that for him. I hope that it can be a way for him to honor the memory of the girl he lost, to make sure that her sacrifice... that their sacrifice... meant something. I hope. But in the back of my mind, a dark, cynical voice whispers that hope is a luxury we can no longer afford.

After what feels like an eternity, the comms chirp, finally breaking the days long tension. "Commander," the helmsman's voice says, a nervous hum. "We are approaching the Cygnus X-1 system. Dropping out of warp in ten... nine... eight..."

The ship shudders, a deep, resonant hum that vibrates through the deck plates. The swirling vortex of light on the viewscreen collapses, replaced by a scene of breathtaking, terrifying beauty. The Cygnus system.

It's dominated by the black hole, a vast, bottomless pit of darkness that swallows in the light around it, a wound in the fabric of the universe. A swirling accretion disk of superheated gas and dust orbits it, a chaotic, mesmerizing vortex of orange and red and white—a cosmic hurricane of unimaginable power. The gravitational tides are visible to the naked eye, a shimmering, distorting haze that warps the very fabric of space, making the stars in the background dance and twist like fireflies in a heat haze.

The rest of the fleet drops out of warp behind us, their sleek, unblemished hulls a stark contrast to the Indomitable's battered, battle-scarred plating. They hold their formation, their movements a little hesitant, a little uncertain, like a group of children taking their first steps into a dark and scary forest.

"Report," I say, my voice tense.

"Sensors are online, Commander," the sensor officer replies, nervously. "We're... we're seeing a lot of gravitational distortion. It's... The tidal forces are... off the charts. I'm having a hard time getting a clear reading on anything."

"Keep trying," I say, my gaze fixed on the viewscreen. "I want to know what's out there. I want to know where the shipyards are. And I want to know if we're alone."

"Aye, Commander," she says, her fingers a flurry motion on her console.

The minutes tick by, the silence on the bridge an oppressive weight pressing down on the crew. Movements are tense, faces etched with a mixture of awe and fear. They are staring into the abyss, and the abyss is staring back.

"Commander," the sensor officer says, her voice a low, shaky whisper. "I... I think I have something. A... a contact. It's... it's right where the shipyards should be."

"Put it on the main viewscreen," I say, my heart pounding in my chest.

The viewscreen flickers, and the image of the black hole is replaced by a close-up of the contact. My breath catches in my throat.

It's the Cygnus Shipyards.

The station is there, its familiar, spider-like structure a stark silhouette against the swirling chaos of the accretion disk. It's fully intact. The catastrophic spacetime distortion that should have torn it apart is gone. The station is whole, unblemished, a monument to a miracle that defies all logic and reason.

But that's not the strangest thing. The strangest thing is the ships. There are dozens of them, clustered around the station, their hulls a strange, organic-looking design that is unlike anything I have ever seen. They are sleek, and graceful, with smooth, flowing lines and no visible weapon emplacements. They look more like works of art than warships, their hulls a shimmering, iridescent black that seems to absorb the light around them, a stark contrast to the brutal—functional design of our own vessels.

And they are not alone.

There are other ships there, too. Our ships. The ships that were assigned to the shipyards, the escort vessels, the supply ships. They are there, too, their familiar, blocky design a stark contrast to the alien ships. They are... dormant. Their running lights are off, their shields are down, their weapon systems are cold. They are like sleeping giants, their silence mirroring the emptiness of space around them.

"Are they... are they alive?" Rostova's voice crackles over the comms, a trembling, uncertain whisper.

"I'm... I'm not picking up any life signs, Commander," the sensor officer replies, her voice a shaky whisper. "From any of the ships. Human or alien. There's... there's nothing. Just a faint, residual energy signature. It's... it's the same as the alien transmission. It's... it's all around us."

My blood runs cold. No life signs. From anyone. The entire crew of the shipyards, the thousands of men and women who worked there, are gone. Or... worse.

"Commander," Cora says, her voice, concerned. "This is... this is a trap. It has to be. They lured us here, and now they're going to..."

"Easy, XO," I say, more confident than I feel. "Let's not jump to conclusions. We don't have all the facts yet." I tap my comms. "All ships, hold your position. Maintain yellow alert. Do not, I repeat, do not power up your weapons systems. I don't want to send any mixed signals."

"Aye, Commander," the chorus of replies comes back, a mix of relief and apprehension.

I lean forward, my mind racing. The alien ships are a mystery. Their technology is beyond our comprehension, their motives a complete unknown. They could be friendly, but they could also be a threat. A threat that makes the Invulcari look like nothing more than a minor inconvenience. And we are here, alone, with a fleet of green officers and a damaged ship, on the brink of a first-contact scenario that could either save us or destroy us.

"Commander," the sensor officer says, her a low, shaky whisper. "I'm... I'm picking up something else. A... a small craft. It's... it's detaching from one of the alien ships. It's... it's heading towards us."

"Put it on the main viewscreen," I say, my heart pounding in my chest.

The viewscreen flickers, and the image of the shipyards is replaced by a close-up of the small craft. It's a shuttle, a sleek, elegant vessel that is smaller than our own dropships, but it has no visible propulsion system. It moves with a silent, effortless grace, a ripple in space that is both beautiful and terrifying. It's not flying. It's... gliding.

"It's... it's hailing us, Commander," the comms officer says, her a low, nervous hum. "It's... it's the same signal. The same alien language."

"Put it through."

The bridge is filled with the strange, melodic language again, a series of clicks, whistles, and melodic tones that is both beautiful and unsettling. The synthetic translation begins to speak, its calm, monotone voice a stark contrast to the alien music.

"...greetings... to the... source... of the... disruption. We... have... been... expecting... you. We... are... the... S'kith. We... mean... you... no... harm. We... wish... to... speak... with... your... leader. Of the... ones... who... folds... space."

The bridge is dead silent. The crew is staring at the viewscreen.

I guess that's me Whooboy.

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First | Previous | [Next] | Chapter 2.1

I make my way to my quarters on the Indomitable and try to sleep for the first time in 40 hours, but I can't. So I decide to take a walk.

My walk takes me to the ship's arboretum, a small, self-contained ecosystem of Earth-native plants that serves as a sanctuary for the crew as well as an assist to the CO2 scrubbers onboard. It's one of the few places on the ship that feels... normal. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers, a stark contrast to the sterile, recycled air of the rest of the vessel. I find a bench overlooking a small pond, its surface rippling with the gentle current of the filtration system.

I sit there for a long time, just watching the water, my mind a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions. I think of the faces on the wall, of the people I've sent to their deaths. I think of the billions on New Rigel, their lives extinguished in an instant. I think of the Admiral's call, the political fallout that is sure to come. And I think of the future, of the long, bloody road that still lies ahead.

Footsteps echo on the path behind me, and I turn to see Cadet Rhys approaching. He's out of his flight suit, dressed in a standard-issue officer's uniform, though it's a little too big for him. The cadet pin sits next to his flight wings. An unusual juxtaposition. It made me smile. He stops a few feet away, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed on a point just over my shoulder.

"Sir," he says, his voice a little too loud in the quiet of the arboretum. "Cadet Rhys reporting as ordered, sir."

"At ease, Cadet," I say, my voice soft. "I'm not your commanding officer right now. I'm just a man trying to find some peace and quiet." I gesture to the bench beside me. "Sit."

He hesitates for a moment, then complies, sitting stiffly on the edge of the bench, his hands clasped in his lap. He's a good-looking kid, with bright, intelligent eyes and a mop of unruly brown hair, but he looks like he's aged ten years in the last day.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" he asks, his voice a little unsteady.

"I did," I say, my gaze fixed on the pond. "I wanted to thank you. You and your wing. You did something... extraordinary. You faced down an enemy fleet in a handful of training interceptors, and you held the line. You bought us the time we needed to get our bearings, to mount a counterattack. You bought Rigel Prime a few more minutes. You did that."

Cadet Rhys shifts uncomfortably. "Sir. Not that I'm saying that we didn't do anything." He pauses. "But I think you may be attributing more to our assistance than what is warranted." He stairs at the ground. "You saw us flying along side the Cry but we couldn't have done it with out the 106th training regiment. They covered us as we fought our way out." His breathing heavy. "And then again....again when the tempests gave out they went in there and saved the Cry." His voice quavering. "They were trainees just like us, but they were so brave..." He stops his face down. His shoulders shaking.

"Then you're the one who needs to tell their story Cadet." I say my own voice suddenly feeling heavy. "The 106th is gone, Cadet." I pause my own vision going blurry for a second. "But it's people like them that give us a chance. A real one. And you saw that. So you will never forget it. You will honor them." Rhys looks up at me now, his tears freely rolling down his cheeks. "But I'm not here to talk about them, I'm here to talk about you. Because they gave you this opportunity, and you're going to have to honor them by making the most of it."

I take a deep breath, the scent of the flowers filling my lungs. "I've put in a request to have you and your wing assigned to the Tempests, as soon as you've completed your advanced training. You've earned your wings, Cadet. You've earned your place in this fight."

Cadet Rhys's eyes widen in disbelief. "Sir... I... I don't know what to say."

"Say yes, Cadet," I say, a small, tired smile touching my lips. "And then go get some rest. You've earned that, too."

"Thank you sir." He smiles but there is pain still there. He stands up to leave. "Oh I won't be the only one to tell their story. One of them survived. His name is Kit. He took charge after the instructor went down and he and his wing managed to take down a battle cruiser that was about to destroy the Cry. If anyone deserves their wings its him." Rhys turns to leave.

"Kit you say?"

"Yes sir," Rhys replies, his voice a little unsteady. "Cadet Kit. He's... he's in the medbay. He's... he's not doing so well. He took a direct hit. But he's alive. That's more than can be said for the rest of them." He looks at me, his eyes filled with a newfound urgency. "He's the one who really saved the Cry, sir. Not us. We were just... there. We were just a distraction. He was the one who really made a difference." He pauses, a flicker of something... guilt, maybe, or just awe... in his eyes. "I think he's going to make it, but the doctors aren't sure. He's... he's a tough kid." Rhys swallows hard. "I just thought you should know, sir. The hero of this story isn't me. It's him."

I nod, my mind reeling. A cadet. Well a wing of cadets, at most 12, in training interceptors, took down an Invulcari battle cruiser. It's... unbelievable. A fluke. A one-in-a-billion shot. But... it happened.

"Thank you, Cadet," I say, my voice a low, serious rumble. "I'll... I'll go see him."

Rhys nods, a flicker of relief in his eyes. "Thank you, sir. I... I appreciate that." He hesitates for a moment, then turns and walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts, the scent of the flowers, and the gentle ripple of the water.

The medbay is a hive of activity, a sterile, white landscape of beeping machines and hushed, urgent voices. The air is thick with the smell of antiseptic and something else... something metallic, coppery. The smell of blood. I make my way through the maze of beds, my steps soft, my presence a silent intrusion on the quiet grief and desperate hope that fills the room.

I find Cadet Kit in a private room at the far end of the ward, a small, sterile space that offers a modicum of peace and privacy. He's lying on the bed, his small frame almost swallowed by the crisp, white sheets. He's hooked up to a dozen different machines, their rhythmic beeps and whirs a constant, soothing counterpoint to the chaos of the ward. His face is pale, his eyes closed, but he's alive. His chest rises and falls with each breath, a steady, reassuring rhythm.

I pull up a chair, the metal legs scraping softly against the pristine floor, and sit down. For a long moment, I just watch him, this boy, this child, who has done the impossible. He looks so young, so fragile. He's just a kid, for Christ's sake. He should be in school, chasing girls, complaining about homework. Instead, he's here, in a medbay, on a warship, on the other side of the galaxy, a hero who has saved millions of lives.

"Kit," I say, my voice a low, gentle rumble. "My name is... I'm the commander of this fleet. I just wanted to... I just wanted to thank you."

Kit's eyes flutter open, a slow, sluggish movement. They're a deep, dark brown, and they're filled with a confusion and pain that makes my heart ache. He tries to speak, but a coughing fit overtakes him, a harsh, rattling sound that leaves him gasping for breath.

"Easy, son," I say, my hand reaching out to touch his shoulder, a gesture of comfort and support. "Don't try to talk."

He nods, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. He looks at me, his eyes searching mine, a question in their depths.

"You're a hero, Kit," I say, my voice filled with a conviction that I didn't know I possessed. "What you did... what you and your wing did... it was... it was incredible. You saved the Rally's Cry. You saved Rigel Prime. You saved us all."

He shakes his head, a slow, weak movement. A single tear escapes from the corner of his eye, tracing a path down his pale, gaunt cheek.

"We... we just... did what we had to do," he whispers, his voice a dry, raspy whisper. "They were... they were going to destroy it. The Cry. We... we couldn't let that happen."

"I know," I say, my voice soft. "I know. And you didn't let it happen. You stopped them. You gave us a fighting chance. You gave us a victory."

He looks away, his gaze fixed on the white wall opposite him. "I lost... my wing," he says, his voice choked with grief, and something else. "They're all... gone."

"I know," I say, my voice a low, somber rumble. "I'm... I'm so sorry. Their sacrifice... it won't be forgotten. I promise you that."

"You know?" He says his face changing. "No you don't know. We did it we saved the Rally's Cry and because of that she..." The words die in his throat. Anger, grief, and pride, all war for control on his face, somehow managing to be present simultaneously. Tears run like rivers. "We got out we made it but she didn't have and shields so when the Cry..." He looks down fists clenching and unclenching. His face a mess. Droplets roll down the side of his face as he stares at the ceiling. He's no longer speaking to me. Just speaking to a memory that is obviously haunting him.

"I saw it happen... I saw her go. She was looking at me right before, so scared... " He says, the words a strangled sob. "I tried... I tried to save her. I really did."

His confession hangs in the sterile air, raw and devastating. This isn't just a soldier mourning fallen comrades. This is a boy watching the girl he loved die. Suddenly the picture becomes horrifyingly clear.

"What was her name, son?" I ask, my gentle tone almost a whisper.

He turns to look at me, the tears still streaming down his face, a fresh wave of grief washing over him. "Her name... her name was Jet."

Jet. The name hits me like a physical blow. A girl. A child, just like him. I think of the holographic wall in the hangar, of the endless parade of faces. I wonder if her face was among them, if her eyes held the same bright, fierce light that I see in Kit's, even now, through the veil of his pain.

He starts to sob again, a deep, racking sound that seems to tear at his very soul. I don't say anything. There's nothing I can say. No platitude, no hollow words of comfort can ease this kind of pain. All I can do is be there, a silent witness to his grief.

After a long moment, he quiets down, his sobs subsiding into ragged, hitching breaths. He looks at me, his eyes raw and red-rimmed. "She... she would have liked to have met you, sir," he says, his voice a dry, raspy whisper. "She... she always talked about the heroes. The ones who really made a difference. We were all so excited when we saw your ship come in guns blazing like that."

A hollow ache spreads through my chest. Hero. The word feels like a curse. I'm the one who sent him into that meat grinder. I'm the one who ordered the charge that led to this. I am not a hero. I'm a butcher who got lucky.

"The real heroes are the ones who don't come back, Kit," I say, my voice thick with a grief that feels as old as the war itself. "The ones like Jet. The ones who make the ultimate sacrifice." I stand up, my knees stiff from the long hours on the bridge, from the weight of command. "You get some rest, son. You've earned it. And when you wake up, we'll find a way to honor her. I promise you that."

I turn to leave, my hand on the door handle, but his voice stops me.

"Sir," he says, his voice a little stronger now. "What... what do I do now?"

I look back at him, at this broken boy, this child who has seen too much, who has lost too much. I see the question in his eyes, not just about his future, but about his purpose. About how to go on living in a world that has been so thoroughly shattered.

"You mourn, Kit," I say, my voice a low, steady rumble. "You let yourself grieve for her, for your friends. You don't try to be strong. You don't try to be a hero. You just... let yourself feel it. All of it." I pause, my gaze unwavering. "And then, when you're ready, you get back in the cockpit. Because that's what she would have wanted. That's how you honor her. You finish the fight. You make sure that her sacrifice... that their sacrifice... meant something." My throat hitches. "That's what you do now. You go on living for them."

He nods, a slow, understanding movement. A flicker of something... resolve, maybe, or just acceptance...maybe a tinge of resentment in his eyes. "Thank you, sir," His words grudging, but also and acknowledgement. He makes solemn vow. "I... I will. For them."

I nod, a small, tired smile touching my lips. "I know you will." I start to leave the room to the boy and to his grief. I stop. And turn sharply. "I have a squadron of tempest fighters that need to refill its ranks. Say the word and the job is yours. I don't know any recruits that can take down an Invulcari battle cruiser with help or not, so congratulations you've graduated."

I don't wait for a response, closing the door softly behind me, leaving him to the quiet hum of the machines and the ghosts of his past. I lean against the cool metal of the corridor, my head bowed, the weight of the conversation, of the entire day, pressing down on me. I can still see the tears in Kit's eyes, hear the ragged pain in his voice. Jet. A name. A face. A life extinguished. And for what? For a victory that tastes like ash in my mouth.

I push myself off the wall and start walking, my steps slow and heavy. I have a report to write. A reckoning to face. A fleet to rebuild. But right now, all I can think about is a boy in a medbay, and the girl he lost, and the promise I made to a ghost. A promise that I will, somehow, someway, make this right. Even if it kills me. Even if it kills us all. The walk back to the bridge feels longer than the jump through the gate. The ship is quiet now, the frantic energy of battle replaced by a somber, exhausted calm. I pass crew members in the corridors, their faces etched with the same mixture of grief and relief, their movements slow and deliberate.

I happen to run across Cora. " Set a coarse for home would you? I need some sleep." I say, my voice flat.

Cora looks at me, her expression a mix of concern and understanding. "Home, sir?" she asks, her voice a low rumble. "Are you sure that's... wise? We're still exposed out here. The Invulcari could send another fleet. We should probably..."

"We're not exposed anymore, Cora," I say, cutting her off. " Besides I'll leave the 22n and the 87th here as insurance but it would be insane even for the Invulcari to try to attack a system again that wiped out a fleet that huge."

"And what if they send one that's bigger?" Cora says, her voice a low, challenging rumble. "What if they don't care about 'insane'? They haven't so far. We need to be smart about this. We need to consolidate, to regroup. To wait for reinforcements. Going home now... it's a risk."

I look at her, my eyes tired, my soul weary. "It's a risk I'm willing to take," I say, my voice a low, serious rumble. "I need to get this ship patched up. I need to get these people some real rest. And I need to face the Council. The longer I wait, the more time they have to spin this, to turn my victory into a crime. I need to get ahead of this. I need to control the narrative. Not to mention the elements that I pulled from their posts on the front are leaving us stretched even thinner than usual."

Cora looks at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she nods, a slow, deliberate movement. "Understood, Commander," she says, her voice a low, respectful rumble. "I'll set the course. Home it is."

"Thank you, Cora," I say, my voice a low and grateful. "I... I appreciate it." I give her a haunted, tired smile.

She nods again, then turns and walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I watch her go, her back straight, her stride purposeful. She's a good officer. A good friend. The best. And I'm lucky to have her. The door to my quarters slides open with a soft hiss, revealing a space that is both a sanctuary and a prison. It's small, spartan, and impersonal, a reflection of the man who occupies it. A single bed, a small desk, a chair, and a closet that holds a handful of identical uniforms. There are no personal effects, no pictures, no mementos. Nothing to suggest a life beyond this room, beyond this ship, beyond this war. I cross the room, my movements slow and heavy, and collapse onto the bed, not even bothering to remove my boots. The mattress is firm, unforgiving, a stark contrast to the soft, yielding embrace of sleep that I so desperately crave. I close my eyes, the darkness a welcome respite from the harsh, unforgiving light of the ship's corridors. I can still see it all. The faces on the wall, the wrecked ships, the burning cities. I can still hear the screams, the explosions, the final, desperate message from the Administrator of New Rigel. I can still feel the bone-jarring impact of the enemy torpedoes, the sickening lurch of the ship as it's battered by enemy fire. I can still smell the antiseptic stench of the medbay, the coppery tang of blood, the fear-sweat of a thousand dying men. I can still taste the ash in my mouth, the bitter, acrid taste of a victory that has cost me everything.

I try to push it all away, to force the images and sounds and smells and tastes from my mind, but they're too strong, too visceral, too real. They're a part of me now, a part of my soul, a part of my very being. They're the ghosts of the dead, and they're here to stay. I can feel the exhaustion seeping into my bones, a deep, profound weariness that goes beyond the physical. It's a weariness of the spirit, a weariness of the soul. I'm so tired. So very, very tired. I want to sleep. I need to sleep. But the ghosts won't let me. They're here, in the darkness with me, their voices a constant, maddening whisper in my ear. They're here, and they're not going away.

I don't actually fall asleep. They won't let me. But their is a break in my conciousness. My body doing for me what my mind won't allow. I wake to the sound of the announcement that we are dropping out of warp as we arrive in Epsilon Edrani. My forward command, though not quite at the front. Its situated relatively near enough that I can coordinate without being constantly under threat. Its a good system and a hub for local trade and ship production. Which is exactly why I have been tasked to watch over it.

The silence of the journey home has given way to a nervous, restless energy. The crew is waiting. They're waiting for the other shoe to drop. They're waiting for the reckoning that I promised them, but now Im facing one of my own.

The Indomitable docks at a high-security pier, a solitary, scarred veteran among the sleek, gleaming ships of the fleet. The ramp lowers with a hydraulic hiss, and I step out onto the cold, metal deck of the docking bay, the sterile, recycled air of the station filling my lungs. Cora is right behind me, her face a mask of stoic professionalism. A small contingent of marines waits for us, their dress uniforms immaculate, their faces grim. They snap to attention as I approach, their movements crisp and precise. I return their salute, a slow, deliberate gesture, and then turn to face the officer in charge.

"Commander," he says, his voice a low, respectful rumble. "Admiral Vance's orders, sir. You're to come with us."

I nod, my expression unreadable. "Lead the way, Major."

The march through the station is a surreal experience. The corridors are bustling with activity, a chaotic mix of civilians and military personnel, their faces a blur of indifference and curiosity. They stop and stare as we pass, their whispers a constant, maddening murmur in my ear. I can feel their eyes on me, their judgments, their fears. I can feel the weight of their expectations, the burden of their hopes. I'm a hero to some, a villain to others. A savior, a butcher. A living legend, a walking ghost. I'm all of these things, and none of them.

We arrive at a set of large, imposing doors, guarded by a pair Marines Armed with plasma pistols. They boredly lean against the wall, but snap to attention and salute as we approach.

"We have an appointment with the secure connection hologram chambers."

The Major leads us into a small, sterile room, the walls a stark, unadorned white. A white dais a low table in front of it. On the table sits a glass of water, a single, perfect sphere of ice floating in its depths. A single spotlight shines down from the ceiling, casting a harsh, unforgiving light on the podium, creating a stark, dramatic pool of light in the center of the room.

"The Council is ready for you, Commander," the Major says, his voice a low, respectful rumble. "Please," he says gesturing.

I nod, my expression unreadable. I walk over to the dais and take my position. I pick up the glass of water, the condensation cool against my skin, and take a sip. The water is cold, crisp, and refreshing, a small, fleeting moment of pleasure in a sea of uncertainty.

I place the glass back on the table, the ice clinking softly against the sides. I stand with my back straight and my hands at my sides. My gaze is fixed on the empty space in front of me. I'm ready.

The sterile white void of your holo-chamber melts away, replaced by the opulent, overwhelming grandeur of the Grand Council Chamber. I am standing at the center of a vast amphitheater, surrounded on all sides by tiered rows of floating holographic pods, each containing a member of the Alliance's highest echelons of power. They are a sea of colorful robes, immaculate uniforms, and impassive faces. At the very apex of the chamber, High Chancellor Tarsus, a man with a face like carved granite and eyes that hold no warmth, looks down upon me. The silence is profound, the weight of their collective gaze a physical pressure against my skin. I see Admiral Vance looking down at me, an expression of stone but his eyes dancing.

"Commander," Tarsus's booms, his voice amplified and distorted by the vastness of the chamber, echoing off its unseen walls. "You have been summoned to answer for your actions at the Rigel system. Do you understand the gravity of the charges brought against you?"

"I do, Chancellor," I say, my own voice a low, steady rumble that, I hope, carries the same weight. "But before I answer to them, I wish to state for the record that my actions, however unorthodox, led to the destruction of an Invulcari armada and the salvation of Rigel Prime. A key industrial world. And the billions that call it home."

A murmur ripples through the pods, a rustle of fabric and a wave of whispers. Tarsus raises a hand, and the silence returns, more oppressive than before.

"Salvation?" Tarsus sneers, the word a piece of rotten meat in his mouth. "You call the loss of over two-thirds of a fleet of a hastily assembled grand fleet, the complete annihilation of a populated planet, and the catastrophic damage to a strategically vital moon system 'salvation'?" He leans forward, his holographic form seeming to grow larger, more menacing. "You gambled with the lives of billions, Commander. And you lost. You gambled with the security of this Alliance, and you put it all on the line for a... a 'victory' that has left us more vulnerable than ever before."

"The price was high, Chancellor," I concede, my gaze unwavering. "A price I will carry for the rest of my life. But the alternative was anhilation. The enemy was not there to negotiate. They were there to exterminate. There were no reinforcements anywhere near the system and even if their were its likely the strategy would've remained similar though in that case there may have been a greater chance to save New Rigel. The fleet I was able to gather was insufficient to meet them head-on. A conventional defense was a guarantee of failure. I was forced to create a new equation, and that required taking risks that you, in this chamber, could never conceive of."

"Insolence!" a councillor roars from a pod on the left, a portly man in the fine silks of a Core World magnate. "You speak of risk? You risked our entire war effort on a theoretical technology that has been deemed too unstable for deployment! You could have torn a hole in the fabric of space-time itself! You talk of victory as if you planned it, as if you didn't simply stumble into it through a combination of luck and sheer, bloody-minded recklessness!"

"That 'sheer, bloody-minded recklessness'," I snap back, my voice rising with a cold fury, "is the only thing that has kept the Invulcari from burning your precious Core Worlds to cinders! While you sit here in your comfortable chambers, debating logistics and profit margins, my people are out there dying! They are dying because we are losing this war! We are losing because we are fighting an unpredictable enemy while you preach predictable tactics. You cannot defeat an enemy that knows where your next punch is landing!"

The chamber erupts. A dozen holographic figures are on their feet, their shouts and accusations echoing in a cacophonous storm. I see Admiral Vance's face, tight-lipped, but he makes no move to silence them. He is watching, observing, letting the storm break over me.

"SILENCE!" Tarsus's command cuts through the noise like a shard of ice. The chamber falls quiet again, but the tension is now a palpable, thrumming thing. "Your emotional outbursts will not save you here, Commander. The facts are what matter. And the facts state that you acted outside your authority. You will be stripped of your command and face a full court-martial for dereliction of duty and gross negligence."

"I will not," I say, my voice dropping to a dangerously quiet level. "And neither will the people of the Alliance. I have here," I tap a command on the console at my dais, "a complete report on the engagement, including tactical readouts, communication logs, and after-action interviews. I have sworn testimony from Chief Engineer Imani of the Rally's Cry, confirming the necessity of her ship's final, heroic act. I have the data compiled from that calculates the potential arrival times from every nearby garrison that even the nearest one, which consisted of a 3 wings of Mark V vindicator fighters would have taken over an hour and a half to arrive. Not to mention that this was one of the largest single invasion forces we've seen outside of the disasters at Proxima and Vega."

"And I have this," I add, my finger hovering over another command. "I can, if you wish, patch in a live feed to the medbay on the Indomitable. You can speak to Cadet Kit, the sole survivor of the 106th Training Wing. You can ask him about the 'recklessness' of my actions in saving his system when his entire wing of cadets paid the ultimate sacrifice. You can ask him if he feels my orders were a 'gamble' worth taking."

My threat hangs in the air, but I have no intention of actually making good on it. The kid has been through enough. But my point is abundantly clear. I am putting the ghosts of Rigel, the faces of the dead and the mangled living, on trial alongside me. To condemn me is to condemn them. To call my victory reckless is to call their sacrifice meaningless.

For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound is the hum of the holo-projectors. Then, a new voice cuts through the silence. It's a woman, severe and composed, seated in a pod near Tarsus. She is Councillor Valderius, head of the War Council, a woman known for her cold logic and lack of sentimentality.

"The Commander raises a valid point, Chancellor," she says, her tone clinical. "The political fallout from prosecuting a... 'victor'... of such a high-profile engagement would be catastrophic. Morale is already fragile. To make a martyr of him now would be a strategic error."

"So we reward insubordination?" Tarsus scoffs. "We set a precedent that any field commander with a wild theory can throw the rulebook out the airlock?"

"No," Valderius counters smoothly. "We acknowledge the results. The Council cannot be seen to be so detached from the reality of this war that it punishes success, no matter how... unorthodoxly it was achieved." She turns her gaze to me, her eyes appraising. "The Commander's actions, while reckless, were effective. The loss of New Rigel is a tragedy, but the preservation of Rigel Prime's primary orbital shipyard and its antimatter refineries is a strategic imperative that cannot be overstated."

The chamber is a hive of murmurs again, but this time, the tone has shifted. They are politicians. They understand the language of strategic imperatives and public perception.

Admiral Vance finally speaks, his voice a steady anchor in the sea of opinion. "The War Council is correct. Commander's actions were a risk. But it was a calculated risk. And it paid off. My recommendation is not for punishment, but for consolidation. The Commander is a weapon. A blunt, unpredictable, and occasionally terrifying weapon. But a weapon nonetheless. And in a war of attrition, you do not throw away a weapon that has proven it can cleave through the enemy's armor. You learn how to wield it better."

Tarsus stares down at me, his granite face a mask of fury and indecision. He is a man who values order above all else, and I am the very embodiment of chaos. He wants to crush me, to make an example of me. But he is also a survivor. He knows when the political tide has turned against him.

With a visible effort, he cools his features into a neutral mask. "The Council will reconvene in one hour to deliberate," he announces, the words clipped and tight. "You will wait here, Commander. Do not leave this room."

The holograms of the councilors flicker and vanish, leaving me once again in the sterile white void. The silence is absolute. I pick up the glass of water. The ice has melted completely. I take a long, slow drink, the cool liquid doing little to soothe the fire in my gut.

The hour passes with agonizing slowness. The doors remain sealed. No one comes. I am left alone with my thoughts, with the ghosts of Rigel, and with the crushing weight of uncertainty. Well, that went well.

First | Previous | [Next] | Chapter 2.1

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Chapter 2.1 and 2.2 is basically a long standalone character intro to someone who appears in this chapter. It somewhat rehashes the evens of chapter 2-3 from his perspective so if that is not your thing feel free to skip. I'm leaving the link attached to this and chapter 4 and 5 because it makes the most sense to read it between the two. I summarized the keynote bits in this so it isn't necessary to read in regard to the main plot. I'm still editing that one so its kind of rough. I'm not sure how I messed it up but I know there is something wrong with the core structure that is why I kept it stand alone. Anyway enjoy and as always critiques encouraged.

First | Previous

“Evasive maneuvers!” Nyla yells.

I yank the control stick to the right, my interceptor rolling away from a stream of purple fire. The G-forces press me into my seat, but I keep my focus, my eyes locked on the HUD.

“I’m hit!” Yan screams, his voice a panicked yelp. “My shields are gone! They’re eating me alive!”

“Hold your position, Sparrow Five!” Nyla yells.

“Yan!” I scream as his ship disappears into a silent fireball. I stare in the place his icon used to be.

“He’s gone! Sparrow Two, bank left—we need cover from that weapons platform!”

I’m the only one able to hold formation as we bank toward the platform, its guns firing in every direction as the Invulcari scream down on top of us.

“I can’t hold these Gs—I need to level!”

A training interceptor breaks from our group entirely.

“Sparrow Eight, get back on me!” Nyla screams.

“I can’t—I need—AAH!”

A frigate-sized, crablike monstrosity fires a stream of pulsing green plasma shots, slicing through the training vessels. The stream continues as the ship brings its aim up level with the platform, its shields flaring.

“Engage all fire on that ship!”

My ship shakes as I fire a volley of lasers, the red beams lancing out and striking the frigate’s hull. The other cadets follow my lead, their own fire adding to the storm. The frigate’s shields flare, then shatter.

“It’s working!” Jet yells.

But the frigate is not alone. Another one of its kind joins the fray, its weapons adding to the storm of fire.

“We can’t take them both! Pull back and provide covering fire. Interpose the platform between us and them—between us and them,” Nyla says.

We race to comply, clumsily gathering behind the tenuous safety of the platform’s superior shields and guns.

Sparrow twleves’s comms symbol lights up. “Wake distortions measuring in beta waves—we have incoming!”

A ship appears just outside of Rigel’s orbit. And it’s not alone. A fleet of Alliance ships is emerging from the void, their engines burning bright against the black of space. Hope—a feeling I thought was torn out of me by the scourge of monsters around us—surges through me.

“Reinforcements!” Jet yells over the comms.

Just at that moment, we see another friendly signal separate itself from the orbital control station—large and already sporting a damage indicator.

“It’s the Rally’s Cry!” I yell excitedly.

“And if that name isn’t on the nose enough, that’s exactly what we need,” Nyla says, a grim smile touching her lips.

The platforms and ships around the station engage the Invulcari, their weapons fire adding to the storm. The tide of fire does everything it can to punch a hole through the veritable horde of enemy ships so the Cry can get out and move to a flanking position.

“All 106th Cadets, on me—we need to assist the Rally’s Cry with the fighters. Form up.”

A new voice comes through local. “106th, this is Cadet Rhys. We are moving into position to screen for the Rally’s Cry. We could use some assistance.”

As he speaks, some kind of large kinetic lance fires from a bulbous Invulcari cruiser. It passes through the station’s shield without slowing down and slams into the primary column. The station lights flicker, and the shield vanishes momentarily before reforming.

“They’ve hit the bridge! Station is experiencing critical system failure!” a new comms signal from the station announces.

“Rhys, this is Nyla, lead instructor for the 106th. You need to get the Rally’s Cry out of here—we will push the fighters back.”

A new wave of Invulcari fighters descends upon the station, their weapons fire a sickly purple energy that splashes against the station’s failing shields. The station groans, its lights flickering, its hull buckling under the assault.

“All ships, focus your fire on the lead Invulcari fighters. Let’s show them what we’re made of!” Nyla commands.

My fingers flash across the controls as my right hand yanks back on the stick, my interceptor a blur of motion. I fire my lasers, the red beams lancing out and striking the lead fighter. The other cadets follow my lead, their own shaky shots adding to the storm. The lead fighter’s shields flare, then shatter. It explodes in a silent, fiery bloom.

“One down!” I yell.

But the rest of the fighters are still coming, their weapons fire a relentless storm of purple energy.

“We can’t hold them!” Jet screams.

“We have to hold them!” Nyla yells. “Remember your training! Remember your duty! Remem—” A smear of purple light flashes off my port bow, and the instructor’s ship evaporates. The fighters are on us and Rhys’s squadron.

“Squad lead is down! Repeat, squad lead is down! Sparrow Two, you’re in command!” someone yells through comms.

Momentarily stunned, I snap back to myself as hearing my call-sign shakes me out of it. I grit my teeth, willing myself to focus.

“Break off, break off—we need to gain space.”

We bank away, flying several kilometers past a different weapons platform, which draws the fighters’ attention. I reorient myself to face the space station again.

In the brief lull, I look to the station—its battered husk still barely flickering with life. Then my gaze drifts to the holographic display, to the swarm of red icons closing in on the Rally’s Cry. I think of Yan, of Nyla, of all the cadets who have already fallen. I feel a surge of anger, a cold, hard rage that burns away my fear.

“All 106th Cadets, on me!” I command, my voice a low growl. “We are not going to die here. We are not going to let these bastards win. We are the 106th, and we are going to make them bleed.”

I slam my hand on the throttle, my interceptor shooting forward, its engines burning bright. The other cadets follow my lead, their own interceptors forming up behind me.

I share my lock on the rearmost fighter chasing Rhys’s squadron as the Rally’s Cry finally limps its way toward the enemy flank.

“We aren’t doing much, but that ship’s big gun might. We need to get those bugs off her tail!”

I slam the throttle forward, and the ship accelerates to max speed almost instantaneously. I pull into a steep climb, gaining relative altitude as enemy fire sizzles beneath us.

My HUD is a full-blown seizure hazard of flashing red and blue icons.

As the fighters close on Rhys, yet another new voice comes over the local comms—steady and powerful, not at all matching the adrenaline-filled yelling I’ve been hearing for the last twenty minutes.

“Cadet Rhys.” The voice is calm, almost dispassionate. “This is the General Commander of the Sixth Division. I am aboard the ISV Indomitable, and I am now in command of this theater.”

A young, breathless voice comes over the comms, laced with static and adrenaline. “Sir! Yes, sir! Cadet Rhys reporting! We’re… we’re holding, sir. Trying to!”

“Listen to me, Cadet,” the General’s tone leaves no room for argument. “You are no longer a trainee. You are a pilot in the Alliance Fleet. You and your wing are going to do exactly as I say. In sixty seconds, a wave of our premier fighters is going to hit the enemy force engaging you. Your job is not to fight. Your job is to survive. When they arrive, you are to break off and form up with them. They will give you your new targets. Do you understand me?”

I gawk at the comm channel for half a second in complete and utter shock. The Indomitable. Every soldier in the Orion sector has heard about it. Its practically a Legend at the point. The battleship of 100 battles. Truly Indomitable.

Rhys’s voice comes back, the shock in it almost palpable, but underneath it, a core of steel begins to show. “Understood, sir. We’ll be ready.”

I look down at the map and that's when I notice six fast-moving red icons closing hard on their rear. They won't even make it 60 seconds. They're almost locked.

“All 106th cadets, engage. Get them off Rhy's guys.”

My knuckles turn white from gripping the controls as I shove the throttle to the max. I open fire. Red beams lance out, forcing them to break formation and turn on us. I maintain tracking and push forward on the stick. My ship is a blur of motion, and the G-forces make my stomach want to eject any bile still left in it from earlier. But I don’t complain. I am a pilot. And this is my fight.

The view from my cockpit is dizzying as my ship dances through fire. An Invulcari fighter, one of the black metal wasps, looms in front of me, its weapons spewing sickly purple energy that splashes against my shields.

I yank the control stick to the left, my interceptor rolling away from the stream of fire. I push the throttle to the max, my ship a silver dart of death as I close the distance. I fire my lasers, the red beams lancing out and striking the fighter’s hull. The fighter’s shields flare, then shatter. It explodes in a silent, fiery bloom, its debris a fleeting, glittering cloud against the black.

“Nice one, Sparrow Two!” Jet yells, her voice a mix of fear and excitement.

But there’s no time to celebrate. Another fighter takes its place, its weapons a relentless storm of purple energy. I dodge and weave, my interceptor a blur of motion as I try to stay one step ahead. The HUD is a sea of red icons, the comms a cacophony of screams and shouts.

I see one of my own—Sparrow Nine, I think—get bracketed by two of the wasp-like fighters.

“I can’t shake ’em! I can’t—” The icon winks out.

Another voice floods the comms. “Harry, no!”

I yell with an authority I didn’t know I possessed. “Sparrow Eleven, get back in formation!”

A primal scream of fury pours out of the comms channel as Sparrow Eleven charges head-on at the fighter that just took out Sparrow Nine. Another friendly icon winks out.

I push my interceptor harder, the engine screaming in protest. I am a ghost, a phantom, a silver streak of defiance in the face of overwhelming odds. I fire my lasers, the red beams lancing out and striking the hull of an Invulcari fighter. It explodes in a silent, fiery bloom.

Then, a new voice cuts through the chaos of the battle.

“This is Tempest Squadron. You kids did a good job—we’ve got it from here.”

It’s a call from the reinforcements. Their arrival is a sudden, brutal shock to the system. They descend upon the Invulcari fighters harassing the Rally’s Cry and Rhys’s squadron like avenging angels, their weapons a coordinated storm of death.

They are everything we are not.

They are precise, disciplined, and deadly. They move with a purpose and a precision that is beautiful to behold. They are professionals.

And they are here to save our skins.

“All 106th cadets, this is Sparrow Two. Break off and form up with the Tempests! Now!”

I bank my interceptor, the G-forces pressing me into my seat. I watch as the V-formation of Rhys’s squadron wobbles, then peels away. Our group follows. We scatter like sparrows, some nearly colliding with each other in our haste. But we obey. We disengage, pulling back toward the safety of the Tempest squadrons, our job as a sacrificial lure—at least for now—complete.

I watch as the last of my squadron falls in with the Tempests, our ships battered and scarred, but still in one piece. I take a deep breath, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

I’m alive. We’re alive. And we did it. We bought them the time they needed.

A new wave of Invulcari fighters—reinforcements from the main fleet—descends upon the Rally’s Cry, their weapons fire a relentless storm of purple energy. The Tempests and the other squadrons engage them, their weapons a coordinated storm of death.

The battle is a beautiful, terrifying light show—a dance of destruction that unfolds in the silent vacuum of space. I watch, mesmerized, my heart pounding in my chest.

This is what we’ve been training for.

This is what it means to be a pilot in the Alliance Fleet.

I check my HUD. There are only seven of us left from the 106th…

A wave of grief washes over me, a cold, heavy weight in the pit of my stomach. I push it down. I don’t have time for grief. I have a job to do.

Then I see it.

A single, massive Invulcari carrier—a city-sized beast of black metal—escorted by a fleet of cruisers and destroyers. The Rally’s Cry’s port broadside batteries glow like hellfire.

A lance of incandescent energy leaps from the wounded behemoth, punching through the void and striking the carrier’s engine block. The carrier shudders, its engines sputtering, then explodes in a silent, brilliant bloom. The shockwave washes over the battlefield, a tidal wave of raw energy that sends smaller ships tumbling.

The Invulcari fighters, disoriented by the blast, become easy prey for the Tempests.

In that moment, a titanic blur barrels past as the Indomitable charges headfirst into the enemy flank and erupts with a storm of missiles, lasers, and torpedoes.

It’s a turning point. A small one, but a turning point nonetheless. But even as we score this minor victory, the horde seems endless—a relentless tide of black metal and purple fire. And for every one we destroy, three more seem to take its place.

We float there awkwardly, suddenly observers in a battle we were so fervently involved in. The friendly and hostile icons begin to merge together into a swirling, chaotic vortex of red and blue. I watch helplessly as an Invulcari cruiser, a beast of a ship with enough firepower to level a city, breaks through the Tempests’ defensive line. It’s headed straight for the Rally’s Cry.

“We have to do something,” Jet says, her voice a mix of fear and determination.

“We can’t,” I say, my voice a low, grim rumble. “We’re just cadets. We’re out of our league.”

“We can’t just sit here and watch them die,” Jet says, her tone a desperate plea. “We have to help.”

I’m torn. Jet is right. We can’t just sit here and do nothing. But we’re just kids in training interceptors. We’re no match for a cruiser. We’d just be throwing our lives away.

“Dammit,” I mutter, my hands gripping the controls. “All 106th Cadets, on me. We’re going in.”

I slam my hand on the throttle, my interceptor shooting forward, its engines burning bright. The other cadets follow my lead, their own interceptors forming up behind me.

Rhys’s voice comes through local.

“The General told us we had to break off and hang back.”

“No, he told you that,” I say. “The 106th’s last known official order was to hold the line. You saw what those ships are capable of. That’s the kind of firepower we need to hit them with. That ship is worth more than a hundred of our little birds.”

There is no reply as we zip toward the enemy—the remaining seven of us, a pitifully small force against a monster in every sense of the word.

The cruiser looms ahead, a fortress of black metal, its point-defense turrets already swiveling to face us, spitting a hail of small, lethal projectiles. They are like angry hornets—tiny but deadly.

“Scatter, pattern delta! Don’t give them a clean shot! Focus on those main turrets!” I command, my voice a tight, nervous bark.

I weave my interceptor through the incoming fire, the ship groaning in protest as I push it to its limits. My hands are a blur on the controls, my mind racing, every ounce of my simulator training screaming at me.

We are like gnats attacking a dragon. Our lasers splash against the cruiser’s thick armor, doing little more than scorching the paint. But we’re not trying to kill it. We’re trying to distract it. We’re trying to buy the Rally’s Cry a few precious seconds to recharge its battered shields.

One of our cadets—Sparrow Four, I think—gets a little too close. A stream of point-defense fire lances out, striking his interceptor. His shields flare, then shatter. The next volley punches straight through his hull, and he vanishes in a silent, fiery bloom.

“Sparrow Four is down!” Jet screams.

Another name. Another face. Another ghost. But there’s no time to mourn.

The cruiser’s main gun—a massive, gaping maw of swirling energy—begins to glow. It’s aiming for the Rally’s Cry’s exposed port side.

“We’re not going to make it!” I yell.

Just then, a flight of sleek, black Alliance fighters—the Tempests—roars past us, their engines burning bright. But far fewer than before, and desperate.

Despite everything, the Tempests descend upon the cruiser, their torpedoes a coordinated storm of destruction. They hit the cruiser’s main gun, and the resulting explosion tears a massive hole in its hull. The cruiser lurches, its systems failing, its engines sputtering.

“Direct hit!” Jet yells. “The cruiser is disabled!”

I watch, my heart pounding in my chest, as the tiny fighters surround the cruiser, coordinated fire blasting away at the monster, whittling down its shields. They fly in all different directions, but somehow every movement is a beautiful frenzy of coordination. The guns are being led by the nose as they almost perfectly spread the damage between them.

Finally, the shields give—but so do the Tempests.

First one, then another, and another. Their damage spread so perfectly, all their shields seem to fail at about the same time. Their wreckage slams into the hull as the cruiser’s lasers turn them into flashes of light.

All that for a few small scorch marks.

In that brief, glorious moment, a flash of light slices through the left side of its hull as the Rally’s Cry uses its secondary lasers to tear a hole in its side. But the cruiser isn’t dead. Not by half.

Its main gun powers up quickly, a counterpoint to the Cry’s long primary charge-up. A sickly green light lances through space and slams into the Cry. The ship shudders, and the glow in the primary cannons flickers and goes out. The Invulcari cruiser begins charging another shot.

“We can’t let it fire again!” I scream, slamming the controls forward.

“Sparrow Two, what are you doing? The Tempests—” Rhys’s voice cuts in over the comms.

“The Tempests are gone, Rhys,” I cut him off, my voice a cold, hard growl. “It’s just us now. We’re the only ones close enough to stop it.”

I push the interceptor’s throttle to the stops, the engine screaming in protest. The G-forces crushing me into my seat, but I don’t care.

I am a missile. I am a kamikaze. I am a ghost with a grudge.

The other cadets follow my lead, their own interceptors a blur of motion as we charge the crippled cruiser. We are a suicide pact, a pack of wolves against a dying, wounded mammoth. And we are going to make it bleed.

The point-defense turrets swivel to face us as we charge headlong at the monstrosity.

“I’m going for the hole!”

“Sparrow Two, they’ve got another salvo of fighters heading in our direction!”

I see them—a fresh wave of Invulcari fighters, black metal wasps, closing with terrifying speed. They are the reapers, coming to claim their dead.

Purple fire lashes out from a fighter.

And Sparrow Six silently unravels into shrapnel.

Sparrow twelve's comm indicator lights up. “We won’t make it.” His voice hitches. “I’m gonna buy you guys some time.”

His ship arches up and away from the cruiser at almost a 90-degree angle.

“Kay, get back in formation—we’re gonna make it!” I howl.

“Remember me, guys.”

“Kay, come back right fucking now! Goddammit, we need you!”

Three fighters arch up with him the same time as the automatic turrets of the battle cruiser track him, prioritizing the sudden vector change, giving us precious seconds as we race over the hull. Fire flashes somewhere above me, and I don’t let myself look anywhere besides the breach in the hull. The fighters still tracking us land another lock—this time on Jet.

“Sparrow Seven, they have a lock. Punch it!”

I aim up and hold down the trigger as plasma fire streams out from underneath my cockpit, to little effect. The Invulcari fighters evade almost lazily, and a horde of tiny missiles erupts from their backs.

“Jet, look out!” I scream.

The missiles scream after her, and they are just about to make contact—but she makes it, diving right into the jagged hole as the missiles carpet-bomb the surface of their own cruiser. Sparrow Three is right behind her.

I yank back on the throttle and turn up, then corkscrew back down into the hull. I find myself coming out into a cavernous space inside what must be a third of the ship—easily large enough to fly our ships around.

Its black, chitinous metal is pocketed with glowing lights and energy lines. There is a large pillar in the middle of the room. Several large sections of the space are defined by dome-like bulges, each with glowing energy lines encircling them. The bulges expand and contract with some degree of regularity—almost like breathing, but more mechanical.

“What is this?” Jet asks quietly.

“I was expecting…” I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

We see the walls of the ship vibrate as another shot goes out from its main gun. It immediately brings me back to myself.

“Screw it—just light this place up. Aim for anything that looks important.”

I tap the stick and line myself up with one of the weird mechanical lung things and open up. My lasers flash across the cavernous space and impact the side of it. The surface explodes in a shower of sparks and shrapnel, but the damage seems superficial. Still, we keep firing, our small lasers eating into the bizarre black metal.

Sparrow Three is firing on the lung directly across from mine.

“It’s not working—we aren’t punching deep enough,” she says, her voice reedy.

“Just keep firing—we are getting through!”

“Guys, look at the center!” Jet yells.

My HUD auto-zooms into what she’s pointing at. In the dead center of the cavernous space, the massive pillar—which is now obviously more than just a pillar—lights up, glowing lines of energy swirling up and into it from dozens of conduits running from the walls.

“The guns must be drawing power from that!”

We all converge our fire onto the central pillar, a new sense of hope surging through me. Our lasers splash against the pillar’s surface, the black metal glowing red-hot under the sustained assault.

The pillar begins to vibrate, a low, guttural hum that I can feel through the hull of my interceptor.

“It’s working!” Jet yells. “Keep firing!”

But the cruiser’s internal defenses are not idle. Small, drone-like turrets emerge from recessed panels in the walls, their weapons spitting a hail of small, lethal projectiles. They are like angry hornets, their fire a constant, stinging rain against my shields.

“We’ve got company!” Sparrow three screams.

“I see them!” I yell back, my hands flying across the controls. I yank the control stick to the left, my interceptor rolling away from a stream of fire. “Just keep firing on the pillar! Don’t let up!”

We dance through the cavern, our interceptors a blur of motion as we dodge the drone fire, our lasers a constant, focused stream of energy on the central pillar.

The pillar glows brighter, its vibrations growing more violent. The very air in the cavern seems to crackle with raw energy. The mechanical lungs around us start to spasm, their rhythmic pulsing becoming erratic. A high-pitched whine fills the comms—a sound that makes my teeth ache.

“It’s going to blow!” Sparrow Three yells.

“We need to get out of here!” Jet screams.

“Yep, time to go,” I say, my fingers flying across the controls as I slam the throttle to max. “Everyone get out! Now!”

I yank the control stick back, my interceptor climbing steeply. The other two follow my lead, their ships a blur of motion as they race for the jagged hole in the hull. We are three tiny silver darts, fleeing a dying god.

We burst out of the cruiser just as the internal explosion tears it apart from the inside out. The ship shudders, its hull buckling, then erupts in a silent, brilliant bloom.

The shockwave washes over us, a tidal wave of raw energy that sends our interceptors tumbling end over end. I struggle with the controls, my hands flying across the console as I try to stabilize my ship. The G-forces are a crushing weight, a pressure that makes my vision swim.

Finally, I manage to regain control, my interceptor shuddering but stable. I look back at the spot where the cruiser used to be. All that’s left is a cloud of expanding debris—a glittering graveyard of twisted metal and shattered dreams.

Our ships drift, and we almost collide, but I tap the throttle and match my vector to hers. We are so close we can actually see each other inside our cockpits.

“We did it,” Jet says, her voice a hushed, disbelieving whisper.

“We did it,” I repeat, my own voice a low, awed rumble.

“Look—the Cry is still standing.”

The maimed battle cruiser is limping and barely holding together, but it is still there.

“My shield is at ten percent,” I say.

“Mine is gone, and I’ve taken some hull damage,” Jet replies.

“Sparrow Three?” I say, suddenly looking around, realizing the icon is gone. “...Sipha?” I try again. Nothing but static.

The realization hits me. The explosion must have gotten her. Another friend. Another ghost.

“She got caught on a metal beam inside the ship on the way out of the hull.” Jet's voice quavers momentarily but steadies. “She’s gone.”

I force the grief down, a cold, heavy lump in my throat. There’s no time for it. Not now.

The battle rages around us—a beautiful, terrifying light show. The weapons platforms around Rigel Prime are on their last legs. The planet is exposed, vulnerable.

And then suddenly—it halts.

The Invulcari, almost as one, begin turning and streaking toward the moon Cisternae.

Confused, I consult the holographic map—and what I see there almost breaks me with joy. Scores of ships, even more than came with the general on his attack run, are demolishing the remainder of an Invulcari attack group.

But the numbers…

I watch the horde move again. It’s a horrifying swarm of incomprehensible black shapes, screaming right toward them.

“There are still too many of them!” My eyes are locked on the map.

“The Rally’s Cry—it’s turning!” Jet yells over the mic.

The Cry, which was limping before, is suddenly barreling along at breakneck speed, a bright glow emanating from its half-covered side.

“They are overloading the engine. That’s how they are moving so fast,” I say.

“If they keep doing that, they are going to blow up,” Jet replies.

The onboard computer system chimes.

“Spacetime distortion detected,” it says mechanically.

“Oh my god—they are charging the dark drives!”

“All ships,” the General Commander’s voice rings across the fleet, “prepare for a high-yield energy blast. Brace for impact. And when the light fades, we give them everything we’ve got left. For Rigel!”

“Brace, brace!” I yell.

“Kit… Kit, I don’t have a shield.” She looks at me in horror—and it washes over me too. “Kit, I don’t think—”

The blast is blinding.

The world becomes a silent, brilliant white.

A wave of pure, raw energy washes over my interceptor—a force that slams into me with the power of a collapsing star. My ship screams, its systems overloading, its alarms a cacophony of panicked shrieks.

My vision swims—a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and scrambled data. The G-forces are crushing, squeezing the air from my lungs and pressing me deep into my seat.

I feel a sharp, searing pain in my left arm, and I look down to see a piece of shrapnel from the console embedded in my flight suit, blood welling up around the metal.

I hear Jet’s scream—a short, sharp sound that cuts off into static.

“Jet!” I scream, my voice hoarse. My ship tumbles—a helpless, crippled leaf in a storm of cosmic fury. “Jet, are you there? Jet!”

Nothing but static.

I fight the controls, my hands slick with my own blood, my vision blurred with pain and exhaustion.

Finally, I stabilize.

Alarms blare about the half-dozen system failures plaguing my wrecked interceptor.

I straighten up, my voice suddenly clinical as I work the controls.

“Sparrow Seven, this is Sparrow Two. Do you read?”

My eyes are blurry.

“I say again, this is Sparrow Two to Sparrow Seven. How copy? Over.”

I blink hard, keeping my back straight as my nose begins to run.

“Jet…” My voice cracks. “It’s Kit. Are you out there?”

Tears stream down my face, and they aren't stopping.

“We made it…” I shudder. “We saved the Cry…”

And then the dam breaks.

My head slams into the console as a deep, guttural sob wracks my body. My mind floods with memories—faces, moments, flashes of everything.

Yan.

Nyla.

Harry.

Steven.

Sipha.

Kay.

…

Jet.

I grind my bloody, tear-soaked face into the console, screaming. I slam my fist into it over and over, willing the reinforced glass to crack.

I keep hitting it, rage mounting through a pain so deep it numbs everything else.

I slam harder. Again. Again.

I feel my wrist snap—but it doesn’t matter.

I cry like my soul has been ripped from me, as the scenes from the last hour replay themselves over and over. Sparrow Twelve—Kay. His voice rings in my ears. The only one who had more than ten seconds to contemplate his doom.

“…Remember me, guys.”

I scream until my voice tears itself apart, sound ceases, not for lack of trying.

My energy finally fades. The physical pain rushes in to join the real pain—but it barely matters.

My vision dims.

I slump over the console.

And everything goes dark.

First | Previous

"We... we did it," Cora whispers, her voice filled with a mixture of disbelief and exhaustion.

There is no cheering. Not immediately. Just a collective wide-eyed sharing of perpetually panicked glances. Adrenaline still ruling everyone's nervous systems. But one by one, people begin to relax. Palpable relief washing away the strained looks of focus and dread. Then one of the weapons station operators suddenly jumps up from his station and raises a fist.

"WHOOP!"

Suddenly the entire bridge erupts into a cacophony of released tension. People are hugging each other, crying, laughing. A few people slump over their consoles, their adrenaline finally giving way to exhaustion. It's display of uninhibited emotion, a testament to the sheer magnitude of their terror and relief. I feel a surge of pride, but also a profound sense of loss. We won, but the cost was high. I glance at the holographic display, and the list of friendly ships that are no longer responding. The number is staggering, and the amount of wreckage in the area makes even simple maneuvers a hazard.

Rigel Prime is still there, its brilliant blue reflecting off the planet's oceans a beacon of hope in the darkness. New Rigel, though is scarred, and burning. And the moon of Cisternae has a massive crater where one of its cities once stood. The cost was high, unreasonably, ridiculously high.

"Get me a damage report," I say, my voice cutting through the celebration. "And a casualty count. I want to know what we've lost." My tone is somber. The celebration on the bridge dies down, replaced by a quiet, solemn focus. They all know. We survived, but we paid a terrible price.

My comms officer, her face still streaked with tears of relief, looks up from her console. "Sir, I have Chief Hask from Rigel Prime on the line. He's... he's asking to speak with you."

I nod. "Put him through."

Hask's voice comes over the comms, a raw, ragged sound. "Commander... we... we saw it. We saw what you did. What the Rally's Cry did. You... you saved us. I don't know how to thank you."

"There's no need for thanks, Chief," I say, my voice heavy. "We're all in this together. What's the status of the planet?"

"Prime has sustained minimal damage, thanks to you and the many many heroes that gave their lives today to buy time. Some cities are reporting fires and communication difficulties as some of the infrastructure was hit by a few orbital barrages that managed to overwhelm the ground defensive grids. All in all it could have been much worse."

"And New Rigel? I saw some of its weapons platforms still firing as we jumped into the system." I ask my chest tightening.

"We lost contact with New Rigel an hour ago, sir," Hask says, his voice barely a whisper. "The last transmission we received was a final broadcast from the Administrator there, stating that their ground defense network was failing. Then... silence. We fear the worst." He takes a ragged breath. "The cost was high, sir. But we're still here. Most of us anyway, and for that, we owe you everything."

"I'm going to dispatch a flight group to New Rigel now to determine the extent of the damage and start with search and rescue. I'll let you know what we find. Over and Out."

The next several hours consist of a morbid cleanup effort. Primarily and accounting of the dead, and a collection of the myriad of life boats strewn across the system. The lucky ones. The worst of it was seeing the devastation on New Rigel. The once vibrant planet is now a blackened husk, its surface scarred with the craters of orbital bombardment. The cities are gone, replaced by a sea of molten rock and glowing embers. The few survivors we manage to find are huddled in what's left of their bunkers, their faces blank, numb with horror as they mechanically move to the transports. The entire planet is a ghost world, a silent tomb for billions. The casualty count is so staggering it's hard to comprehend. The initial reinforcements I called for finally arrive through conventional means. Now they are acting as a triage unit, but provide regrettably few numbers to the survivor category as they scour New Rigel and the abandoned moons.

I find myself standing on the bridge of the *Indomitable*, staring at the holographic display, the grim list of confirmed losses scrolling by in an endless, heartbreaking torrent. The *Indomitable* itself is a mess, its hull scarred and pitted, its systems working at just above half capacity. The crew is exhausted, their faces haggard, their movements slow and deliberate. We've won, but it doesn't feel like it. It feels like we're massacre survivors now tasked with burying our dead.

The bridge doors hiss open, and Cora walks in, a data-slate in her hand. She looks as tired as I feel, her uniform disheveled, her hair a mess. She stops beside me, her gaze also fixed on the scrolling list of names.

"Final casualty report," she says, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Two-thirds of the fleet is gone. The Rally's Cry, of course. The 106th... what's left of them is less than a squadron. The 32nd is down to a single cruiser and a handful of destroyers." She pauses, her jaw tight. "We lost a lot of good people today."

"And the cadets?" I ask, my voice quiet.

Cora looks down at the data-slate grimly, "The majority of the cadet wings were wiped out." She pauses, her finger tracing a line of text. "Cadet Rhys and his wing," she says, a flicker of something—pride, maybe, or just disbelief—in her voice. "They made it. All twelve of them. They're... they're requesting new assignments. They want to stay in the fight."

I let out a long, slow breath. "Well that's something at least," I say, my voice a low rumble. "Good. Give them to the Tempests as soon as they've finished training. Tell them they've earned their wings."

Cora nods, a small, grim smile touching her lips. "I'll make it so." She hesitates for a moment, then looks up at me, her eyes searching mine. "What's next, Commander? We can't stay here. We're exposed, and our fleet is... crippled."

"We rebuild," I say, my voice firm. "We mourn our dead, and we tend to our wounded. We rebuild, and we regroup. But first, we have a duty to perform." I turn away from the holographic display, my gaze sweeping across the bridge, at the exhausted crew who have given everything. "We're going to hold a service. For everyone we lost. And then, we're going to show the Invulcari that humanity doesn't break. We bleed, we mourn, but we don't break. Ever."

Cora nods, her expression resolute. "I'll make the arrangements, Commander."

As she turns to leave, my comms officer, a young woman with tired eyes, looks up from her console. "Commander," she says, her voice hesitant. "You have a priority one transmission coming in. From... High Command."

I bristle. High Command. They were the ones who had given my request for the *Indomitable* so much trouble, who had called my strategies 'unorthodox' and 'reckless'. All while sitting in their comfortable offices while we bled and died in the void.

"Put them through," I say, my voice tight.

The main viewscreen flickers, and the familiar, imposing face of Admiral Vance fills the screen. He's an older man, with a face that looks like it's been carved from granite, and eyes that have seen too many wars. He doesn't look pleased.

"Commander," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "I've read your reports." He pauses, his gaze hard and unforgiving. "You disobeyed a direct order. You launched an untested jump gate, and risked destroying an entire star system. On top of which you led a suicidal charge against a vastly superior enemy force with little to no intelligence. You've lost two-thirds of the fleet you assembled, and you've sacrificed an entire planet and several populated moons."

He takes a breath, and I can feel the weight of his disapproval, even through the distortion of the comms.

"But you won," he says, the words sounding like they're being pulled from him against his will. "You saved Rigel Prime, and you delivered a victory that this fleet desperately needed. The morale boost from your success is already being felt across the entire front. They're calling it the Miracle at Rigel."

He leans forward, his gaze intensifying. "I'm not going to punish you for your insubordination, Commander. Because, as much as it pains me to admit it, your insubordination is what won this battle." He pauses, a flicker of something—respect, maybe—in his eyes. "A promotion is on the table if you want it, but at this time in the war it's people like you holding together the front that often make the biggest difference." He lets that hang in the air for a moment.

I look around the deck at the expectant faces of my eves-dropping crew. I smile.

"Nah. I'm good admiral." My indecorum drawing a scant smile from Cora. Vance on the other hand does not react at all. "I'd like to request two things instead. First, that my losses are replaced, and then some. And second, that the experimental department gets all the funding it needs to replicate Petrova's success. If we can move fleets like that again, this war changes."

Vance leans back in his chair, a slow, deliberate movement. For a long moment, he's silent, his expression unreadable. He's not used to being spoken to this way. Not by anyone.

"You're a bold one, Commander," he says, his voice a low growl. "I'll give you that." He strokes his chin, a thoughtful gesture. "As for your request... I can't promise you a whole new fleet. Not right away. The shipyards are working at maximum capacity, and there are other fronts that are just as desperate as yours." He pauses, a flicker of something in his eyes. "But I can promise you that the *Indomitable* will be refitted and rearmed, and that you'll get priority on new ship deployments. And as for Petrova's little project... I'll see what I can do. The Council has been... hesitant to fund it anymore than they have been. But after today... they might be more receptive." He sits forward again. A picture of square jawed authority. "Just realize commander, despite my confidence in your display today there will be a reckoning when the council convenes. Make sure you have you're story straight, and your ducks in a row."

"Tell the council they can bring their reckoning," I say, my voice flat and cold. "I'll be waiting. Out."

I cut the transmission before Vance can respond, the main viewscreen reverting to the star-dusted void of the Rigel system. I turn to face my crew, their expressions a mix of shock and awe. They can't believe I just spoke to an Admiral like that. But I don't care. I've earned the right to be a little insubordinate. I've earned the right to be a little reckless. I've earned the right to be a little... human. Especially after everything that has happened today.

Cora walks over to me, a data-slate in her hand. "That was... bold, Commander," she says, her voice a low rumble.

"It was necessary, Cora," I say, my gaze still fixed on the viewscreen. "They need to know that we're not just pawns in their game. We're the ones bleeding and dying out here. We're the ones winning this war. And we deserve to have a say in how it's fought."

"I couldn't agree more," she says, her expression resolute. "Now, about that service..."

I nod, my mouth a grim line. "Right. Let's get it over with."

The service is held in the main hangar bay of the *Indomitable*, a cavernous space that can usually hold a squadron of fighters. Now, it's filled with the surviving crew members of the fleet, their faces etched with grief and exhaustion. The walls are lined with holographic projections of the fallen, their faces frozen in time, a silent, ghostly reminder of the cost of victory. There are so many of them. The hangar is eerily quiet, the only sound the low hum of the ship's systems and the occasional, muffled sob.

I stand at a podium at the front of the hangar, my hands gripping the polished wood, my knuckles white. I look out at the sea of faces, at the men and women who have followed me into hell and back, and I feel a wave of guilt wash over me. I led them here. I'm the one who gave the order to charge. I'm the one who sacrificed the Rally's Cry. I'm the one who is responsible for all those faces on the wall.

But I'm also the one who led them to victory. And that's a burden I'll have to carry.

"Today, we mourn," I begin, my voice a low, somber rumble that echoes through the hangar. "We mourn our friends, our family, our comrades. We mourn the brave souls of the Rally's Cry, many of whom gave their lives and remained on board despite my orders to abandon ship to make sure it reached its final destination." I look up at the face of engineer Imani rendering an impeccable, permanent holographic salute. "We mourn the many people across Rigel, who were taken from us in a senseless act of aggression. We mourn the millions who perished on the moons of Cisternae, Rotuna, and Cidal. And of course..." My throat hitches. "The billions of people lost on New Rigel." I pause my face contorting as I fight to retain control of my emotions. "Three billion, six hundred sixty-eight million, one hundred fifty-three thousand, one hundred eleven lives have been lost across Rigel. Over two and a half billion from New Rigel alone. A number I desperately hope shrinks as rescue efforts continue. Each digit a life, a family, a future."

I pause, my gaze sweeping across the hangar, my eyes meeting those of the survivors.

"But we also celebrate the thousands, perhaps millions of heroes who held the line," I continue, my voice growing stronger, more resolute. "We celebrate their courage, their sacrifice, their unwavering devotion to the cause of freedom. We celebrate the fact that they did not die in vain. They died heroes. They died defending their homes, their families, along with the lives of countless others. Not the least of which were our own. They died so that we might live."

I raise my voice, my words ringing with a newfound conviction.

“They stood against a faceless, monstrous enemy—one that consumes light and stars—and said, ‘We will not disappear into the dark.’” I pause taking a deep breath. “And we will not let their sacrifice be in vain,” I say, my voice a roar of defiance. "We will honor their memory by fighting harder, by fighting smarter, by fighting with every fiber of our being. We will honor their memory and the people of Rigel by winning this war. We will honor memory of our fallen heroes by ensuring that future generations can live in a galaxy free from the tyranny of the Invulcari. We will honor their memory by never, ever forgetting."

I hold my gaze for a long moment, letting my words sink in. Then I raise my right hand in a crisp, sharp salute.

"To the fallen," I say, my voice a low, solemn vow. "We will carry your torch. We will finish your fight. We will avenge your deaths. We will not rest until this war is won. We will not rest until the Invulcari are nothing but a distant, forgotten memory. I promise you that."

The entire hangar returns my salute.

"HOOAH." They roar in unison.

The word is raw, a primal scream of grief, rage, and unending pride. It's a promise. A vow. A declaration of war. And in that moment, I know that we are not broken. We are not defeated. We are battered, bruised, and a little worse for wear. But more than anything we are angry. God help the next Invulcari that comes across any of these soldiers, because we will never—ever— let this happen again.

The roar dies down, replaced by a somber silence. I hold my salute for a moment longer, then lower my hand.

I speak one final time, my voice a low, weary rumble. "Dismissed."

---------------------------

Hi guys this is the mini arc wrap up. Let me know what you think. Yet again Hfy repost.

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" Gather the nearest hundred or so ships into assault formation. Reroute everyone else to the dark side of Cisternae and get me an open line to Rigel command." My vision locked on the *Rally's Cry*. "We're gonna give those kids some help."

Cora's head snaps up. "Commander, an assault? With only a hundred ships? We'll be torn apart!"

I turn to her, my face a stony mask. "They aren't expecting us to be here, Cora. They're focused on the diversions and the Cry. We aren't trying to win in a head on fight. We're trying to bloody their nose. We hit them fast, we hit them hard, and then we pull back behind the moon with the rest of the fleet. This buys us time so the rest of the fleet can rally and form up." The plan is insane, a suicidal charge born of desperation, but it's a plan. And right now, a plan, any plan, is better than the crushing weight of four-to-one odds.

Your comms officer works furiously, bypassing half a dozen fried relays from the violent jump to re-establish the link. For a few tense seconds, there's only the crackle of static, a stark reminder of how fragile your lifeline to Rigel is. Then, a new voice cuts through, rough and strained.

"Commander? This is Gunnery Chief. Hask."

"Chief what happened to the administrator?"

" Administrator Valerius is... he's gone, sir. Took a direct hit on the command deck two minutes ago Orbital control is too. I'm the highest-ranking comm officer left alive on this channel." The chief's voice is raw, devoid of panic but filled with a bone-deep weariness.

"Hask," I say, cutting to the chase. "I don't have time for pleasantries. Listen closely. The *Rally's Cry* is engaging the enemy. My forces are scattered. I'm launching a focused strike with a hundred ships to relieve her. I need your people on the ground to do something for me."

"We are at your command, sir," Hask replies, his words clipped.

"I need you to reroute about half the orbital platforms on prime to behind the moon bearing E-5-378-201. Keep the ones facing the enemy but all the ones on your flanks and rear are mine. Also I need you to power up those batteries on Cisternae's dark side."

"Sir," the chief's voice is tinged with confusion. "The moon's planetary batteries are... inactive. They were the first to be powered down for the evacuation. Not to mention they are facing the wrong way. The Invulcari didn't even bother to blow them up. They didn't need to. And re-routing the prime platforms will leave the other sectors of the planet exposed."

A grim smile touches my lips. "I know. That's why I didn't ask permission, Chief. I'm giving you an order. Get those batteries online. The enemy won't be looking there. I want them fully charged and waiting. I will give you the firing coordinates personally. And don't worry about the exposure, we have a very big, angry battleship that's about to make a nuisance of itself." I don't wait for a response. "Do it. Out."

I turn back to Cora. "You have your orders, Commander. Get those ships in formation. Have our helmsman set a course for the enemy's flank, right behind the *Rally's Cry*. Maximum burn. Let's show these bastards what human resolve looks like."

On the viewscreen, the chaos of my fleet's arrival begins to coalesce. A hundred ships, a mixed bag of cruisers, destroyers, and frigates, ignite their drives in near-unison. Their engines flare brilliantly against the black, a sudden, sharp point of light in the maelstrom. They form up around the Indomitable, a makeshift spear tip aimed at the heart of the enemy formation.

"Tempest squadrons are away, Commander," the tactical officer announces.

"Find me a line to whoever is in lead position of those recruits." I say.

"It... it's a cadet by the name of Rhys, sir. A pilot. He seems to have taken command after their instructor was lost." the comms officer replies. "It seems he's the only one with any flight hours outside the sims."

"Cadet Rhys," my voice is calm, almost dispassionate, a stark contrast to the fury of moments before. "This is General Commander of the 6th Division. I am aboard the *ISV Indomitable*, and I am now in command of this theater."

A young, breathless voice comes over the comms, laced with static and adrenaline. "Sir! Yes, sir! Cadet Rhys reporting! We're... we're holding, sir. Trying to!"

"Listen to me, Cadet," I say, my tone leaving no room for argument. "You are no longer a trainee. You are a pilot in the Alliance Fleet. You and your wing are going to do exactly as I say. In sixty seconds, a wave of our premier fighters is going to hit the enemy force engaging you. Your job is not to fight. Your job is to survive. When they arrive, you are to break off and form up with them. They will give you your new targets. Do you understand me?"

Rhys's voice comes back, the shock in it almost palpable, but underneath it, a core of steel begins to show. "Understood, sir. We'll be ready."

The *Indomitabl*e lurches as the main engines fire at full power. The view on the screen shifts, the enemy fleet swelling as we close the distance at an impossible rate. The battle that was a distant light show is now a tangible, terrifying reality. We can see the individual energy beams lancing through space, the blossoming fireballs of exploding ships, both human and Invulcari. I see one Invulcari ship harrying a weapons platform and suddenly another signal barreling towards it. The frigate explodes as the two objects collide. I blink. Was that a freaking cargo hauler? The people of Rigel prime are giving it everything they got that's for damn sure. The crippled cargo hauler manages a feeble engine burn as it limps away from the wreckage. I continue watching the chaos as the mix of civilians ships, wings of trainees, and weapons platforms mount a desperate defense.

I tear my attention away from the insane scene unfolding on the console and bark into the comms receiver."All ships prepare to charge. As soon as the *Rally's Cry* and the Indomitable unleash their salvos everyone bank for Cisternae and try not to lose momentum. We aren't sticking around to get shot to pieces."

"Twenty seconds to engagement envelope," Cora announces, her hands flying over her console, coordinating the frantic assault fleet.

Outside, the Tempest fighters, sleek silver darts of death, scream past the bridge viewport. They move with a purpose and precision that the cadet V-formation completely lacked, a blade unsheathed. They descend upon the Invulcari ships harassing the *Rally's Cry* like avenging angels.

The enemy, so focused on the lumbering, wounded battleship, is taken completely by surprise. One of their smaller, crab-like vessels, its attention locked on the *Cry's* charging batteries, simply evaporates under a coordinated missile strike from the Tempests. Two more break off, their attention diverted, only to be met with a torrent of laser fire from the *Indomitable's* forward cannons as we blow by.

"Now, Cadet Rhys! Break off! Now!" I command.

On the tactical display, the ragged V-formation of the training interceptors wobbles, then peels away. They don't retreat with any grace; they scatter like sparrows, some nearly colliding with each other in their haste to obey. But they obey. They disengage, pulling back toward the safety of the Tempest squadrons, their job of being a sacrificial lure, for this moment at least, complete.

Now its our turn to be the bait. The main gun of the *Indomitable* begins its signature high-pitched whine. The whole ship shudders with the power building up.The port-side of the *Rally's Cry* glows with a blinding, hellish orange light. For a second, it looks like the ship is about to tear itself apart. Then, it speaks. A torrent of plasma and raw energy, a broadside from a god, leaps across the void and slams into the flank of a massive, central Invulcari carrier—a bulbous, organic-looking monstrosity that seems to be coordinating the local attack. The carrier's shields flare brilliant blue, then shatter like glass. The beam tears through its hull, and the ship doesn't explode so much as it unravels, chunks of black metal and chitinous plate peeling away into the vacuum.

In that same instant, the Indomitable arrives. The *Indomitable's* main cannon fires, a spear of pure 40-gigawat energy that punches clean through the engine block of a different Invulcari cruiser. The ship goes dead in the water, its lights flickering out before a secondary explosion turns it into a brief, silent sun.

"Fire all forward batteries!" Cora yells.

The Indomitable becomes a symphony of destruction. Lasers, plasma torpedoes, and swarms of antimatter missiles erupt from its hull, joining the chaotic assault. Our hundred-ship-strong formation follows our lead, their own weapons adding to the storm. The sudden, focused fury of our attack punches a ragged hole in the enemy line. They were not expecting this. Their formation, set up for a slow, grinding siege, is too slow to react to a charging rhino.

We see the effect immediately. The enemy ships directly engaging the *Rally's Cry* and the orbital platforms of Rigel Prime hesitate, their attack patterns disrupted. Several break off to face this new, unexpected threat on their flank. We've bought the planet minutes. We've drawn their fire.

But they are recovering. Fast. A squadron of their own smaller fighters, things that look like black metal wasps, detaches from the main group and screams toward us. Their weapons fire is a sickly purple energy that splashes against the *Indomitable's* forward shields, making the energy readings on my console dip dangerously.

"Shields at eighty percent and holding!" tactical reports. "We're taking fire from multiple vectors!"

"Thirty seconds to our turn point!" Cora warns.

"Slow the Indomitable's vector velocity and keep firing. I want them really pissed off at us." I say gripping the arms of my command chair, my knuckles turning white.

The Indomitable shudders again, not from its own weapons this time, but from a brutal impact. An enemy torpedo has gotten through, slamming into our port armor. Alarms blare across the bridge, a cacophony of urgent warnings.

"Port hull breach on deck seven! Emergency seals engaged!" an officer yells.

I ignore it. My eyes are locked on the viewscreen, on the enemy ships that are now fully turning to face us. The gambit is working. We are the juiciest target on the board, an arrogant, lone wolf charging into their pack.

"All ships," I command, my voice cutting through the noise of the battle. "Execute the maneuver. Now."

On my command, the hundred ships of our assault fleet, as one, cut their main engines. They simultaneously fire their lateral thrusters, performing a high-G turn that should have torn lesser ships apart. They pivot, their engines now flaring as they burn hard, directly away from the enemy, towards the dark silhouette of the moon Cisternae.

The Indomitable, with its greater mass, turns slower. It lumbers through the turn, its rear armor now presented to the enemy like a giant, steel target. "Fire a full spread of mines from the rear tubes! All of them!" Cora commands.

I watch the dizzing number of energy signatures appear on shield display, the ship shuddering from the inside as the generator is pushed to the absolute limit. I watch as more and more ships start turning towards us.

"Power down all weapons systems and reroute all auxiliary power to thrusters and shields. Get us the hell out of here!" I yell.

"Helm reports we've lost engine three to a critical hit!" the comms officer announces. "Our maximum acceleration is down by twenty percent!"

Outside, a small cloud of tiny, metallic spheres erupts from the *Indomitable's* rear, a parting gift for our pursuers. The enemy fighters, in their bloodlust, fly right into the trap. A series of small, sharp detonations lights up space, and three of the wasp-like fighters vanish in silent puffs of debris.

The *Indomitable* groans as it pushes its remaining engines, the great ship straining, wounded but not broken. The dark face of the moon Cisternae swells on the viewscreen, a welcome refuge. We can only hope our gamble works.

The pilot, her face a mask of intense concentration, performs a miracle of ship-handling. The Indomitable, a vessel meant for broadsides and frontal assaults, dances like a fighter, her thrusters firing in precise, controlled bursts. I watch, a newfound respect blossoming in my chest, as she rides the fine line between the pursuing enemy fire and the unforgiving gravitational pull of the moon. The bridge shudders violently with each impact, the lights flickering as the shield generator screams in protest, but the ship holds together, a testament to her skill and the vessel's over-engineered design.

As the *Indomitable* slingshots around the moon's dark curve, the view on the main screen shifts dramatically. The terrifying pursuit of the Invulcari fleet is now behind us, and ahead lies the full, assembled might of the human reinforcements. Hundreds of ships, from heavy cruisers to nimble corvettes and the remaining weapons platforms, emerge from the moon's shadow, their weapons ports glowing with deadly promise. They are no longer a hidden reserve; they are an ambush fully sprung. I press the command button, my voice a raw bark of authority that echoes across every ship and platform in the system. "All ships and platforms open fire!" I take a breath and then add "Chief Hask, if you're listening, fire the Cisternae batteries at the following coordinates! Don't wait for my command!"

The silence lasts for a heartbeat. Then, Cisternae speaks.

From the dark, silent face of the moon, dozens of beams of crimson energy erupt, punching across space in a perfectly coordinated volley. They strike the Invulcari fleet that was confidently pursuing the Indomitable. They slam into the enemy's vanguard, into the ships that were so eager for the kill. The surprise is absolute. The lead enemy cruiser, its forward shields already weakened by its chase, simply ceases to exist, its hull vaporized by the concentrated fire. Two more ships stagger, their engines dying, their formation breaking. The pursuing fleet, which was a single, focused spear of aggression, suddenly becomes a chaotic, panicked mob, its leadership decapitated, its momentum shattered by the attack from a quarter they had deemed utterly defenseless.

Simultaneously, the rest of the fleet emerges from behind the moon, their own guns joining the fray. The battle, for a brief moment, turns. The enemy, so arrogant in their superiority, is now the one trapped, caught between the anvil of the newly revealed fleet and the hammer of the moon's hidden guns. The Involucari ships that survived the initial volley from Cisternae try to turn, to bring their own weapons to bear on the moon, but they are too slow, too disorganized. Your cruisers and destroyers are upon them, a wolfpack descending on wounded prey. For a glorious, blood-soaked minute, the tide of battle has shifted.

"Status report!" I command, my eyes glued to the holographic display. It's a dizzying kaleidoscope of friendly blue and hostile red icons, the latter winking out with satisfying frequency.

"Direct hit confirmed on the Invulcari command dreadnought, Commander!" my tactical officer yells, a note of triumph in his voice. "It's... it's breaking apart! Their local coordination is collapsing!"

A wave of cheers erupts across the bridge, a raw, visceral release of the terror and tension that has been building for hours. Even Cora allows herself a tight, grim smile. But the celebration is short-lived. In the chaos of the battle, a new alert chimes, a sound that has become all too familiar.

"We've got incoming!" My tactical officer screams, cutting through the cheers. "The rest of their fleet is turning away from Rigel Prime. They are headed straight to us. There is still over 800 of them!" His face pale as he looks at the main screen. "And the Rally's Cry... she's taking heavy fire. Her port broadside is gone, and her engines are flickering. She's a sitting duck out there."

I watch the swarm of red lights streaking towards our position. "Patch me through to Rally's Cry. I've got one last job for them."

The comms officer works frantically, her fingers a blur across the console. "I have them, Commander. Patching you through to... the bridge. It's their chief engineer, a woman named Imani. The bridge crew is... gone."

"This is General Commander," I say, my voice cutting through the static. "Engineer Imani, I need you to do something for me. Something brave."

Her voice comes back, a mix of exhaustion and raw determination. "Anything, sir. We're not going down without a fight."

"I need you to point what's left of your ship at their main formation and overload the engine while charging your dark drives. Then I need you to get your people to the escape pods and get the hell out of there. Can you do that? The explosion should be enough to give us a fighting chance or else we are going down along with all of Rigel."

There's a pause, a beat of silence that hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of the command. Then, Imani's voice comes back, stronger than before. "Understood, Commander. We'll give them a light show they'll never forget. It's been an honor." The channel cuts out.

On the viewscreen, the dying Rally's Cry, a beast of a ship on its last legs, begins to turn. Its remaining engine glows with a terrifying intensity, a single, defiant star against the encroaching darkness.

"All ships," I command, my voice ringing across the fleet. "Prepare for high-yield energy blast. Brace for impact. And when the light fades, we give them everything we've got left. For Rigel!"

The bridge of the Indomitable falls silent, the only sounds the hum of the ship engines, and the groan of the superstructure caused by the straining shield generator. We all watch as the Rally's Cry, a lone, wounded hero, sails toward the heart of the enemy fleet. It's a suicide run, a final, desperate act of defiance. And for a moment, the charge seems to stall. The Invulcari ships, so confident in their victory, hesitate, their formations breaking as they try to figure out what the crippled ship is doing.

Then, it happens.

The *Rally's Cry* vanishes in a flash of light so brilliant it whites out the main viewscreen, a silent, beautiful, and terrible explosion that ripples across the void. A wave of raw energy, a tsunami of pure destruction, washes over the Invulcari fleet. The tactical display goes haywire, a sea of red icons winking out, then flickering back to life, their statuses unknown. The *Indomitable* groans, its shields flaring as the wave of energy washes over us, a distant echo of the fury unleashed. The bridge is plunged into a momentary darkness as the power fluctuates, the emergency lights casting a grim, red glow over the faces of the crew.

"Report!" I yell, my ears ringing.

"Shields are down to fifteen percent!" Cora shouts, her hands gripping the command chair for support. "We took a glancing blow from the ion shockwave! The blast was... it was immense!"

The viewscreen flickers back to life, the glare slowly fading to reveal the devastation. The center of the Invulcari formation is gone, replaced by a spreading cloud of debris and venting atmosphere. Dozens of their ships are outright destroyed, their shattered husks tumbling through space.

"Give them everything you got! Light the bastards up!" I roar.

The *Indomitable's* forward cannons, now recharged, speak again, their 40-gigawat lances of energy punching through the hull of a disoriented Invulcari cruiser. The ship doesn't explode so much as it unravels, its black metal peeling away into the vacuum. Around us, the rest of our fleet, no longer scattered and afraid, but organized and enraged, unleashes their own fury. The cruisers, their broadsides now fully charged, become symphonies of destruction, their laser cannons and plasma torpedoes tearing into the enemy's flanks. The destroyers, nimble and deadly, weave through the chaos, their precise strikes crippling smaller Invulcari vessels. The battle devolves into a brutal slug fest, but slowly the combined might of the weapons platforms, ships, and planetary batteries begins to whittle down their remaining forces. Then, a turning point. The coordinated fire of our fleet begins outpacing the enemies as their losses compound exponentially, reducing their ability to focus fire and distract our ships and leaving more and more of our own free to blast away uninhibited. The Invulcari, once a terrifying, coordinated force, are now a chaotic, panicked mob. Their formations breaking, their fire becoming wild and inaccurate. They are being systematically hunted down and destroyed, their technological advantage negated by our sheer, bloody-minded refusal to die.

The *Indomitable* locks onto the last of the Invulcari ships, a wounded, limping frigate, that looks like black rectangular rod which comes to a point at one end. The ship tries to make a run for it, its engine sputtering. The *Indomitable's* forward cannons fire one last time, and the frigate vanishes in a silent, fiery bloom.

Then, there is silence.

The alarms stop. The only sounds on the bridge are the hum of the ship's systems and the ragged, collective breaths of the crew. The viewscreen shows a scene of utter devastation. The space around Rigel is a graveyard, littered with the wreckage of both human and Involucari ships. But the enemy fleet is gone. The red icons on the holographic display have all vanished.

"We... we did it," Cora whispers, her voice filled with a mixture of disbelief and exhaustion.

---

Hello again repeat offender. As before this is a Repost from Hfy. Looking for anything and all opinions.

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I yell, "Get experimental department on the line immediately! I need to know the status of that accelerated jump gate we've been wasting trillions on right now!"

The new command shatters the grim focus that had settled over the room. Heads snap up from their consoles, looks of confusion and disbelief crossing faces. Experimental? In the middle of this? My assistant, who had been staring at the holographic map with the look of someone watching a ghost, turns to me with wide, pleading eyes. "Sir? The Rigel situation..." she starts, but I cut her off with a glare that could melt through a ship's hull. She closes her mouth and immediately turns to a different comms panel, her movements now frantic and uncertain.

The connection is made with a speed that betrays the terror of my command. A moment later, a new voice fills the bridge, one laced with academic detachment that sounds utterly alien in the current chaos. "Commander, this is Director Petrova of the Experimental Technologies Department. To what do I owe the... interruption? Our simulations on the Gate's energy cascade matrix are at a critical phase." The director's tone is one of mild annoyance, as if I've just pulled her from a routine staff meeting, not a battle for the soul of the Orion Spur.

I don't have time for pleasantries. "Petrova, cut the crap. The Rigel system is under attack. How fast can you get a jump gate spun up and aimed there?" The silence on her end is different from Valerius's—it's not filled with fear, but with the whirring of processors and the rustling of data-slates. I can almost hear the gears in her hyper-advanced mind turning.

"Commander," she says, her voice suddenly sharp and focused, all traces of annoyance gone. "The Accelerated Jump gate Prototype is not ready for field deployment. We haven't even run a full-scale matter transmission test. The energy feedback could be catastrophic, it could tear a hole in spacetime the size of..."

"I don't give a damn!" I snap. "We are about to lose Rigel! If we don't get reinforcements there, and I mean now, we've lost our primary training base, and billions of lives. If we lose here, morale will be shot so bad we won't recover! The entirety of Orion could be lost over this one battle! So, so goddamn what if we tear a hole in spacetime, because it's either now or get picked apart piece by piece."

Your roar of frustration doesn't just fill the command center; it seems to pour down the comms channel itself. On the other end, Director Petrova falls silent. The academic detachment in her voice vanishes completely, replaced by a cold, hard certainty that mirrors your own desperation. She understands. This is no longer a theoretical exercise. When she speaks again, her voice is clipped, efficient, and stripped of all emotion. "You're right," she says, a simple statement of fact that carries more weight than any argument. "The cascade instability risk is 87.4 percent. But the potential energy output is... theoretical. Off the charts."

“What does that mean for me in terms I can understand director?”

Director Petrova cuts in immediately, her voice sharper now, urgency bleeding through the precision. “It means the jump will hold,” she says. “The aperture will form, and it will stay stable long enough to push a fleet through. That part isn’t the problem.” She takes a beat, short, tight. You can hear something heavy powering up behind her, a low, rising hum.

“The exit solution is unstable. You won’t come out in formation—you’ll be scattered across the system, maybe worse. Some ships could drop too close to gravity wells, some too far out to engage immediately. You’ll have cohesion issues the moment you arrive.”

Another pause.

“And there’s a non-negligible chance the stress fractures spacetime around the aperture. Not a guaranteed rupture, but enough risk that we could tear something open we don’t fully understand. Most likely it will create a friendly neighborhood super massive black hole, but it could also do something very different that we may not account for. It won’t stop the jump but it could complicate everything after.”

Her voice hardens. “Bottom line, Commander: you will get there. But you won’t arrive clean, and you won’t arrive together. If you’re going to do this, you need to be ready to fight disorganized from the second you come out.”

I barely Hesitate. “If it can get us there at all, good. Make it happened director.”

I hear the telltale beeps of the Director sending out messages from her console. There's a flurry of activity in the background of her transmission—the sound of klaxons and shouted orders, but not the panicked kind like those heard from Rigel. This is the sound of controlled, furious problem-solving. "I'm rerouting all auxiliary power from the station's non-essential systems to the Gate's primary capacitors. We'll have one shot. One. The energy surge required to form a stable aperture at that distance will fuse the induction coils. The gate will destroy itself after this use." She pauses for a fraction of a second. "I can have it ready in sixty minutes. I'll need you to designate a destination fleet within its immediate effective range, as well as a rough estimate of how many ships it has. They'll have to be the ones to jump through. I hope they're ready for a... bumpy ride."

I pause, my face set in a grim line. "Just make the hole as big as you can. I'm bringing all of them." Beep. The channel goes dead as I end the call.

I stand up straight, and face the room, making brief eye contact with many in the the sea of faces. Everyone of them watching my every move. “I need you to contact every fleet, unit, and wing within jumping distance and tell them to be here in 1 hour. And get my ship ready!"

My command slams into the room with the force of a physical impact. For a heartbeat, no one moves, my officers and technicians frozen in the sheer audacity of the order. "All of them?" my station's tactical officer whispers, the words barely audible, a ghost of disbelief.

But my grim, unyielding stare is all the confirmation they need.

The silence shatters.

The chaotic din of before returns, but it's different now, focused, channeled, a storm with a single, terrible purpose. My assistant is already on the main fleet-wide comms, her voice ringing out with an authority I didn't know she possessed, relaying my impossible deadline to every available ship in the sector.

My personal aide Joric, a grizzled veteran who has served with me since before the war, is already at my side. "The *Indomitable* is spinning up her primary drive, Commander," he says, his tone steady as a rock. "Crew is at battle stations. Navigation is plotting a direct course to the gate coordinates. They're asking for your ETA on deck."

He doesn't question my decision to lead this mad charge myself. He knows that if this gambit fails, my command center here is just as doomed as Rigel, and I would rather go down fighting at the head of a fleet than watching the lights go out from a chair.

I stride toward the command center's exit, my face a stony mask of determination. The frantic activity of the staff blurs into a peripheral whirl of motion and color. My focus is absolute. I can feel the thrum of the deck plates beneath my feet as the station itself diverts power to Petrova's mad experiment, a sacrifice for a single, desperate roll of the dice.

As I reach the door, I glance back at the holographic map. The Mobile platform fleet is almost at New Rigel, and the red icons of the Invulcari are beginning to engage them.

My gambit has begun.

I make my way to the command deck of the division flagship. An absolute unit. It's a battleship the size of a carrier, complete with antimatter missiles, 40-gigawatt laser cannons, and shields almost as tough as the space station I just left. It was initially met with resistance when I commissioned it the cost alone could have funded multiple standard battlecruisers or even a carrier group but when it was finally built, it was a centerpiece in every major battle I could jump it into. No one questioned its usefulness now.

When the *Indomitable* appeared in battle, it inspired hope. It meant the tide could turn. That maybe—right here, right now—we could beat these bastards, so keep on fighting. On more than one occasion that made the difference.

I just hope it'll be enough.

\[ Location: Command Deck, ISV Indomitable \]

"Status report," I say as I walk onto the bridge.

The command deck of the *Indomitable* hums with a different kind of energy than the frantic chaos of the station. Here, there is controlled power, the quiet confidence of a warship that has seen hell and returned. The officers at their stations are a portrait of discipline, their backs straight, their movements precise. The main viewscreen dominates the forward bulkhead, currently displaying the swirling, star-dusted void of space—a deceptive calm before the storm.

As I enter, every officer on the bridge straightens, their eyes snapping to me. The respect is palpable, but so is the tension.

My executive officer, Commander Cora, meets me at the center of the command dais. She's a woman with iron in her spine and a face that has forgotten how to smile.

"Commander," she says, her voice a low, steady rumble. "All systems are green. Reactors are at one hundred percent and feeding the primary shields. Laser cannons are fully charged, and antimatter missile bays report a full load. The crew is at battle stations and ready for your orders."

She gestures toward the tactical officer's station.

"We're receiving the fleet-wide transmission you sent. The response is... chaotic, but they're coming. Every ship that can make it is rerouting to the gate. Petrova's people are screaming at us to hold position—they're finalizing the energy matrix."

The *Indomitable's* titanic thrusters rumble loudly as it disengages from the station and more lithely than I would've expected, brings us along side the formation of ships already forming up from within the system. Then we wait for the reinforcements I called for to arrive.

The first ships begin to appear on the tactical display in uneven bursts, single icons at first, then small clusters. Destroyers, frigates, a few cruisers pushing their drives harder than they were ever meant to. They don’t arrive organized either, some overshoot their approach vectors, others drift wide before correcting, engines flaring as they fight to fall into something resembling a staging pattern.

Outside the viewscreen, ships begin to puncture the darkness one after another, brief flashes of distorted light as they drop out of transit and burn hard to reposition. Their drives flare like sparks in a growing storm, scattered at first, then thickening into a loose, uneven cloud of steel and fire around the projected gate coordinates.

I watch the numbers climb, ship by ship. Not enough. Still not enough. Every new arrival helps, but it doesn’t change the math fast enough to matter until it does. Until suddenly it might. More ships arrive. Then more. The tactical display fills until it’s almost hard to read, icons stacking and overlapping as the available space around the gate coordinates runs out.

MY XO turns back to me, her gaze unwavering.

"The gate formation is imminent. Petrova estimates we have ninety seconds before it opens. She also stressed again that this is entirely untested. The spatial distortion could be... significant. The fleet won't be coming out in a neat formation, Commander. We'll be scattered, potentially disoriented."

Outside the viewscreen, space itself begins to shimmer, a distortion in the starfield growing more pronounced by the second.

Even as the distortion spins up, I see more ships jumping in alongside us. I walk over and press a button on my chair that overrides all local channels and projects my voice across the entire fleet.

"Soldiers... pilots... my fellow humanity..."

I smile to myself and decide to drop the formality. Today was not a day for speeches. Hell, every person here might die the moment we hit the system. The number of ships jumping in, enough to cause gamma-class distortions, is staggering.

"They are fucking with our people in Rigel. We have some aliens to kill—hooah?"

My voice, stripped of all pretense and raw with fury, echoes across the bridge and is amplified into the void, reaching every ship now converging on the shimmering tear in reality. For a split second, there is only silence across the fleet frequencies. Then, the comms channel erupts. It's not a coordinated cheer, but a chaotic, roaring cacophony of pure, unadulterated rage and battle-lust. Hundreds of voices, from fresh-faced pilots on their first real deployment to grizzled sergeants who have lost entire squads, all scream back a single, unified response.

"HOOAH!"

The sound is so overwhelming it almost shorts out the bridge speakers.

The computer starts counting down as the cries continue to come through the speakers

"Jump initiating in Five...Four...Three...Two"

As the gate spins up, I expect the usual, stars stretching, space thinning, everything pulling long as we break into warp.

But none of that happens.

On the viewscreen, the distortion tears open. It's a raw, ragged wound in spacetime, a vortex of blinding white energy and crackling lightning that spills impossible colors across the hulls of the assembled ships that seems to reach out, pulling us into the scar in sky in front of us. Petrova's warning about the ride proves a massive understatement. The *Indomitable*, a beast of a ship built for stability, groans like a living thing as its inertial dampeners scream in protest. The deck plates shift violently beneath my feet, and the stars on the screen smear into stretch and distort into kaleidoscopic streaks.

The jump is instantaneous and eternal all at once. One moment, I'm in the empty void; the next, I'm spat out into a maelstrom. The alarms on the bridge wail as the ship's systems fight to stabilize. The viewscreen flickers to life, showing a scene of absolute pandemonium. I'm not in a neat formation with the rest of the fleet. Ships are emerging from the chaotic gate every which way, some tumbling end over end, others materializing perilously close to one another. A couple ships do collide though it doesn't seem catastrophic. At least, I don't see any lights go out the holographic map.

And in the distance, bracketed by the brilliant blue of the supergiant Rigel, is the enemy.

A sprawling, nightmarish mass of jagged, asymmetrical vessels that defy all human understanding of engineering. They look less like warships and more like living weapons of black metal and chitinous plates. They're ignoring the chaotic arrival of my fleet, focusing their fire on the orbital stations and the desperate diversionary forces around New Rigel.

“My god how many are there?”

Cora doesn’t look away from the display. Her jaw tightens, just a fraction.

“Too many,” she says quietly. “And still climbing.”

Her eyes flick to a rapidly updating column of contacts, then back to the main screen.

“That’s just what we’re seeing. If their insertion profile matches what we think it does, there are more still in transit… or already inside the system and we just haven’t resolved them yet.”

"I need the status of our fleet, and at the very least a rough estimate of how many they have." My command is clipped, sharp, cutting through the blare of the alarms.

My tactical officer’s hands fly across his console, his face a mask of intense concentration. "It's... a mess, Commander. The spatial distortion threw us everywhere. We're confirming transponders, but it's going to take minutes. Initial scan puts our fleet strength at... approximately three hundred ships at least frigate sized, not counting support craft and fighters. But we're scattered all over the inner system. Some ships are nearly in orbit of Rigel Prime, others are still out past the asteroid belt."

He pauses, swallowing hard before continuing. "As for them..." He gestures at the main screen, where a new overlay appears, painting the enemy fleet in shades of hostile red. "Estimating... eleven hundred and fifty plus. " The number hangs in the air, a death sentence. We brought everything, and it's still not enough. We're outnumbered nearly four to one.

For a moment, the bridge is silent, save for the hum of the ship and the distant crackle of laser fire simulated by the computer from the ongoing battle. The sheer scale of the enemy fleet is a physical weight in the room. Then, the tactical display updates. A new icon, flashing blue, appears on the screen, dangerously close to the main Invulcari formation. It's a battleship icon, one I recognize immediately. "Commander... it's the Rally's Cry," the officer says, a sliver of hope in his voice. "They... they actually launched. She's moving to engage the enemy flank."

My gaze snaps to the viewscreen, zooming in on the half-finished warship. She looks like a ghost, vast portions of her hull still showing the open skeletal framework of her ongoing refit. Yet, there, on her port side, one of her secondary broadside batteries is glowing, gathering power. Looking closely as I watch the weapons charge, I see small wing of fighters in a ridiculous parade V formation circling the lumbering battleship. The recruits, doing their best to act as some kind of screen as the Rally's Cry, a wounded beast charging into the jaws of the pack, tries its best to buy a few more minutes for the world below. A fool's gambit, but a glorious one. And a perfect distraction.

"Order all Indomitable wings of Mark-XI 'Tempest' fighter and bomber squadrons to launch," I command, my voice dropping into a low, predatory register. "Their primary target is to provide screening and support for the Rally's Cry. Keep the Involucari off her long enough for her to make that shot count. They are not to disengage until the Cry falls back or is destroyed." I pause thinking furiously. My eyes scanning the system map, looking for anything I can use as a tactical advantage. Enemy position, formation, our formation, solar bodies, anything. Then my eyes land on the moon Cisternae. Even from here I can see the dome cities burning in its thin atmosphere. But that isn't what is drawing my eye. Then my eyes flick back to the Rally's Cry and the recruits.

" Gather the nearest hundred or so ships into assault formation. Reroute everyone else to the dark side of Cisternae and get me an open line to Rigel command." My vision locked on the Rally's Cry. "We're gonna give those kids some help."

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Hello all this is a Repost from Hfy. Looking for opinions and critiques. Excited to hear from you!

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