[Nathanael‘s PoV]

  Nathanael tapped his boot on the floor. The soft rhythm mixed with the hum of the Dawn’s core and the quiet whir of the consoles. The command room glowed red from the holograms, a 3D map of the Aquarius system. One by one, the warships crept closer.

  'Any shot at a commendation is going down the drain,' Nathanael thought. He crossed his arms over his uniform and let out a frustrated sigh. He stayed in his side seat, a smaller chair surrounded by flickering screens, and watched the officers run the operation.

  “Something’s wrong,” a comm officer warned. He looked at Admiral Orton, who stood at the center of the room, eyes on the moving icons of the fleet. “Some satellites are already going dark. Shot down clean.”

  “Fighters and drones are swarming the upper atmosphere and tearing down the anti-teleport grid,” another officer added. A side display zoomed in. It showed Aquarius interceptors; their lasers cut the jamming spheres to pieces. Bits of metal burned as they fell into the atmosphere.

  “Too fast,” Maxwell said, leaning forward, his sharp blue eyes tight with suspicion. “Did they expect this move?”

  “We made our plan clear. We would tighten the grip,” Orton said in a steady, firm voice. Hands clasped behind his back, he watched the operation.

  “It won’t be enough to stop us,” Nathanael said, shifting in his seat, eager. This could be his chance to get into the fight, even if it didn’t earn a medal.

  Yet he noticed something off about Orton. The admiral, usually hard and sure of himself, scratched his chin. His eyes looked uncertain, his fingers tracing his jaw like he was working through a puzzle.

  “Any issue?” Nathanael asked, respectful and curious, leaning forward.

  “Their response. It’s too fast, too organized,” Orton said, sounding perplexed. On the holos, enemy fighters moved with sharp coordination, a tight, planned defense.

  “They live on the border,” Nathanael said with a shrug. “They have to keep their defenses sharp. Otherwise, the Orks would’ve wiped them out long ago.”

  Orton gave a slow nod, but doubt stayed in his eyes.

  “Send a squad of fighters,” Orton ordered, his voice cutting through the room. He pointed to the holo where enemy fighters were tearing down the anti?teleport satellites. “I won’t let them break our teleport screen. Put them back in their place.”

  Nathanael sprang to his feet, eager at last for action. “Sir, request permission to lead the operation,” he said, eyes bright at the thought of a real fight.

  Orton studied him for a long moment. Then he gave a short nod. “Go. Take a squadron. Hit fast and pull out. We don’t know what traps they’ve set.”

  The caution hung in the air, but Nathanael brushed it off. 'He’s overthinking it,' he told himself. 'This is a small backwater. Ragtag rebels behind cheap shields. No hidden fleets, no clever ambushes. Just upstarts who need a reminder of the Republic’s power.'

  “Aye, sir.” He saluted, fist thumping his chest, then turned and ran.

  The announcement blasted through the ship. “Squadron A14, report to Hangar 3. Prepare for immediate launch.” Across the carrier, pilots in flight suits sprinted through the corridors. The whole ship shifted into combat mode, the urgency of space battle rising like a tide.

  Nathanael was one of the last to reach Hangar 3, sprinting in from a far section of the ship. The huge bay was busy with organized chaos. Overhead cranes swung munitions pods into place. Tech crews in grease-stained jumpsuits rushed between fighters. Ten other ships were already powering on. Their hulls gleamed under hard lights. Crystal engines rumbled so deep the deck shook, and exhaust vents hissed hot vapor into the air.

  His ship waited on the far left, canopy open and ladder down. Nathanael climbed fast and dropped into the pilot’s seat. The adaptive chair molded to his body, firm and familiar. He pulled on his helmet. The visor sealed with a soft hiss. Green readouts filled the display. System checks scrolling by, targeting grids laid over the view of the hangar.

  A thick cable snapped into the port at the base of his helmet. The neural link locked in. At once, he felt the ship as if it were part of him.

  [Initiating Systems Check]

  [Weapons Online]

  [Communications Online]

  [Shields Online]

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  [Fuel Ready]

  The last system check chimed, and the squadron comms lit up. Nathanael’s HUD filled with green icons, squadmates’ vitals pulsing, weapon status glowing, and the ship’s AI whispering updates in his ear.

  “All ready?” Nathanael asked.

  “Aye, sir,” ten voices answered at once.

  “Launch sequence,” he announced. “Stay tight in formation. No jumps. Stay clear of the cities. We avoid civilian hits at all costs.”

  “They’re using basic fighters and drones to knock out our satellites,” he added. “You’re cleared hot, free to engage. Use whatever weapons you need to swat them down and keep the blockade locked in.”

  “Aye, sir,” the squadron answered again.

  Nathanael was hot-headed, but he wasn’t stupid. Years on operations had taught him that one mistake could wreck a mission. Hurting civilians would only make them fight harder and drag the siege out.

  He gripped the controls, his palms slick on the textured handles. The neural link tightened his connection to the ship. He eased the throttle up. The vessel glided toward the center of the hangar. Above, cranes folded back. Tech crews in hazard suits ran to safe stations.

  “Initiate hangar evacuation,” Nathanael ordered. His voice boomed from the deck speakers. Any remaining officers and troopers ran for cover or clipped into magnetic harnesses. Boots clanged on the grated floor as alarms rose.

  “Hangar doors opening,” control replied over the comm.

  The giant gates of Hangar 3 rumbled open. Reinforced panels slid apart with heavy hydraulics. Seals hissed, and air rushed out in white mist. Beyond was open space, black and full of stars, with Aquarius hanging below as a bright blue world.

  “Engines hot. Prepare for launch,” Nathanael said over the squad channel. He tightened his grip and pushed the throttle. The ship surged forward, the frame humming as it shot toward the open doors.

  One by one, the other ten fighters followed in tight formation. Their thrusters lit in synced blue plumes that washed the hangar in light.

  The eleven ships shot into high orbit. Their sensors lit up with transparent overlays of threats and targets around Aquarius. Radar pings showed the fight already underway.

  “Command, this is Strike?1,” a pilot said over the comm, voice tight. “We count twenty hostile fighters and another ten drone signatures closing on our satellites.”

  “Prioritize the fighters,” Nathanael ordered. He shoved the throttle forward. G?forces pressed him into the seat. “Leave the drones. We can hack those later. Keep it clean and precise, hit’em hard.”

  The ship leapt ahead. Stars slid past the canopy in bright streaks.

  “Strike?2, engaging,” a pilot called.

  The squadron broke formation and dove like hunters. Lasers slashed out in bright lines, lighting the thin upper air like brief comets as they aimed for the enemy fighters.

  “Strike-3, weapons hot,” a pilot called. Then came the rest in quick order. “Strike-4 locking on… Strike-5 firing…” One by one, the fighters spread.

  These ships, built in Lot’s top shipyards with fast crystal drives and smart, adaptive armor, should have owned the fight. They should have shredded the enemies and left only debris.

  But that hope disappeared fast. Even with Nathanael pushing his ship to the limit, engines screaming and hull shaking, the enemy fighters moved with utmost skill. They slipped through the laser bursts like ghosts, dodged every lock, and skimmed past kill zones with perfect timing. Drones buzzed at the edges, nipping at their flanks, but the fighters were the real problem. They danced through the chaos and fired back with sharp, pinpoint bursts that pushed the Republic shields hard.

  “They’re too quick,” one pilot said, awe slipping into his voice through the static.

  “Must be veterans,” another said, grudging respect in his tone as a near miss scorched his wing.

  “On a border rock like this?” a third shot back, disbelief sharp.

  “Cut the chatter. Keep up the pressure,” Nathanael snapped. They should have crushed these upstarts, yet he was locked in a tight dogfight. He banked hard after a darting fighter. The knot in his gut tightened as the fight dragged on.

  “Target hit. Hostile breaking off!” a pilot shouted over comms, joy cutting through the static. Cheers followed from the squadron, fists pumping inside tight cockpits. Nathanael let out a rough laugh.

  Then he caught himself. 'This wasn’t worth celebrating,' he thought, jaw tight under his visor. These were borderlands fighters with older and weaker ships. Forcing one to break away shouldn’t feel like a victory. It was the minimum they should expect.

  Minutes blurred into a brutal dogfight. The fighters wove along the edge of orbit, engines roaring, shields flaring as scattered shots hit and slid off their adaptive fields. The enemy fighters moved like quick shadows in the haze. Yet, they took hits. A plasma scorching a wing here, a burst nicking an engine there, sparks trailing in thin lines. However, no clean kills.

  “We’re almost through!” Strike?1 called over comms, adrenaline in his voice. On Nathanael’s HUD, red threat icons faded. The satellites steadied, and the jamming fields knit back together to restore the anti?teleport screen.

  “They’re pulling back, tails tucked!” Strike?2 said with a laugh. The enemy formation broke. Fighters spiraled toward the planet’s cover, and drones scattered.

  “That’s right. Run!”

  “See! That's the Republic’s might!”

  The taunts flew across the channel, bold but hiding their stress. Nathanael’s heart pounded as he lined up a last parting shot.

  “Blockade secured,” Nathanael said, satisfied. On his HUD, the orbital jammers slid back into position, their fields pulsing bright.

  "Operation completed. We're returning."