The command center at the farthest end of Dawn felt vast and hollow. Its atmosphere was heavy with tension. The walls pulsed faintly with the hum of the ship’s reactors. In the center of the room, there was a projection with several points, each one representing a fighter in the field.
"How? How is this possible?" Nathanael’s voice cracked, his fist striking the table hard enough that the lights on the consoles trembled faintly. His eyes burned, locked on the holographic replay.
The three men stood together reviewing the most recent combat reports. Again and again, the recordings played back. Fighters cutting through impossible vectors, moving as though free of inertia, defying every law carved into the minds of seasoned pilots. However, there was more than that; there was also a coordination between the ships that was superhuman. They moved and fought as one, yet they were neither drones nor even AIs.
"These maneuvers; they can’t be real." Nathanael spat the words. He was the person who understood dogfighting better than anyone else on the entire ship. Even with all his experience, he had barely managed to shoot down a handful of enemy craft.
On the tactical grid, the enemy fighters blazed across the map as shifting motes of light. Each was paired with raw streams of data, angles, thrust, improbable bursts of acceleration, that almost mocked their counterparts. Nathanael’s voice carried a tremor between exasperation and disbelief as the truth sank deeper into the room. “They’re flying a York-designed ship, yes. But it makes no sense, even the newest generation of Yorks should not be capable of this. We’ve all seen it. Their limits, their failures. What I watched isn’t ‘next?gen’. It’s impossible.”
Beside him, Commander Maxwell leaned forward, fists resting against his console. His tone was quieter, more thoughtful, though no less worried. “Could they have altered them? Modified the frames, pushed them beyond baseline tolerances? Perhaps, upgraded somehow…?” His question trailed as he watched the red dots spin patterns of flight more intricate than anything he’d ever witnessed.
Nathanael shook his head vehemently. “Not unless they are the York. To tear apart one of those vessels and rebuild it into something better than its designers intended would require schematics of the highest level and engineers beyond reason. Madmen willing to gamble their lives on maybe making it one percent better.”
“Maybe the Yorks taught them? Could they be allies?” Maxwell raised other possibilities.
“No way.” Nathanael kept resisting. “We’re in the Republic, all under the same fate, and even then we don’t share schematics between the Houses.”
Orton studied his two commanders in silence, his gaze sharp and deliberate. The information laid before them was far from good, but the possibility that it might be real gnawed at his mind like a parasite.
“Let’s consider the hypothesis as true,” he said at last, his voice steady though his thoughts churned beneath the surface. “They surged ahead of the mining market because of their engineering. If that same mastery extends to shipbuilding… it would explain why their fighters are outperforming even York's original designs.”
Nathanael’s eyes narrowed, his jaw set in grim calculation. “In that case,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “we’re underestimating them. And if that’s true, Admiral, then the only logical move is to strike with everything we have.”
Maxwell’s head snapped toward him, disbelief flashing across his features. “Are you insane? On what? This assumption?” His words carried both frustration and a hint of irritation.
Orton knew Nathanael. The man was brash, often hot?headed, but never reckless without reason. For him to suggest such a drastic escalation meant he truly believed the threat was real.
“Commander Maxwell, you’re not seeing it,” Nathanael pressed on, his tone firm. “This level of engineering doesn’t appear overnight. They would have invested years into reaching this point. And if they’ve achieved it, then we cannot trust any piece of technology they deploy. Every machine they field could be beyond what we’re prepared to counter.”
The words lingered, heavy, undeniable.
Orton’s mind spun in silence. Thoughts collided and unraveled, everything and nothing at once. The Admiral’s chest felt tight, his pulse steady only because he forced it to be. Victory was not optional; it was a necessity. He needed to win this campaign.
Maxwell and Nathanael’s voices rose again, clashing back and forth in a heated argument, their words rolling over each other. Orton barely heard them.
Then, a faint vibration rippled against the skin of his wrist. His gauntlet pulsed with a muted glow, the subtle tremor cutting through the noise of the room. The Admiral raised his arm to see a new notification.
[Republic’s War Briefing]
- Alliance with the Orks dissolved. Maintain caution. Effective immediately, there will be no further contact with them. After the conclusion of research and the determination that containment is necessary, continuation of the partnership has been deemed unviable.
- Negotiations with the Militarists are ongoing. No progress has been made, but discussions continue.
- Imperialists mobilizing in the Fantasia System. An expedition has been publicly announced in the Imperial capital. The Empire is moving to seize control of the Fantasia System, a solar cluster that would cut off Ork access to deeper jump routes. Such a maneuver could close the Core Systems entirely.
Orton’s eyes traced each line again and again, the words burning into his thoughts. Every sentence felt detached, bureaucratic, as though the Republic had the luxury of time. Yet, Orton knew better. Empires shifted, alliances fractured, and here they were, locked in debates and waiting games.
A bitter exhale escaped him. “We cannot afford to waste time here,” he muttered under his breath.
Maxwell’s head tilted, his brow furrowed. “Sir?”
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Orton straightened, the decision solidifying in his mind. His voice rang with the command. “We’ll follow Nathanael’s recommendation. We strike them with everything we have. No more hesitation. No more waiting.” He turned sharply as he barked the order, “Follow me.”
Maxwell hesitated, his face a portrait of unease. He had always been the cautious one, the one to measure twice before cutting once. His voice carried that hesitation now, edged with quiet alarm. “Sir… if we commit our full strength, there may be nothing left to gain from them when it’s over.”
Orton paused, turning his gaze on the man. His expression softened, if only slightly. “That is why I need you both, you are here to keep me centered.” His tone lowered, almost confiding, though the strength never left his words. “But this moment demands raw power. We cannot sit idle while a group of backwater engineers tears apart our fighters. Every day we delay, every skirmish we lose, we bleed resources into nothingness. And resources are something the Republic cannot afford to lose.”
Nathanael’s eyes glinted with grim approval, while Maxwell still looked unconvinced. But Orton’s decision was final, and in that chamber the air itself seemed to tighten with the inevitability of what was to come.
The three men descended from the Dawn’s upper chamber, their boots echoing against the floors as they made their way toward the command deck. The corridors of the ship felt strangely quiet. Soldiers moved slowly in the corridors, some walking beside their superiors in hushed conversation, others drifting toward the barracks to rest after the last engagement.
The crew expected a lull. After the recent assault, no one believed the enemy would strike again so soon. The Dawn, for a moment, seemed to breathe in silence.
That stillness ended the moment Admiral Orton and his two commanders stepped onto the bridge.
Only a handful of officers remained at their posts. Communications staff hunched over consoles, verifying transmissions from units, and a few weary sentries paced the perimeter of the chamber.
Orton moved directly to his command chair. He pressed the communicator inset into its armrest, his voice carrying through the ship with the calm authority of a man about to break the stillness of battle.
“All officers, return to your stations on the command bridge. We are initiating a broadcast.”
The announcement was like a shockwave. The corridors erupted in hurried footsteps, the sound of boots hammering against metal as personnel rushed to their posts. Within minutes, the once?quiet bridge became chaotic. Officers pressed shoulder to shoulder at their consoles.
“Sir,” one breathless officer asked, still adjusting his console, “will the transmission be encrypted? Who is the recipient?”
“Wide broadcast,” Orton replied without hesitation. His tone was flat, decisive. “No encryption. Send it to any receiver in the Aquarius system.”
A ripple of unease passed across the bridge. Several officers exchanged wary glances but obeyed, their hands dancing over interfaces. Confirmation lights blinked green across the consoles.
A drone detached from the ceiling and descended silently, its lens focusing as it hovered before the Admiral. A faint red glow indicated that both video and audio were now streaming live.
Orton straightened in his chair. His voice, deep and resonant, filled the chamber and spilled outward into the system.
“Citizens of Aquarius,” he began, his eyes locked on the hovering drone’s lens. “I am Admiral Orton of the Republic of Enceladus. Two weeks ago, we extended an invitation for Aquarius to join our Republic. What followed, however, was not cooperation, but an irreversible conflict with your planetary governor.”
Murmurs stirred across the bridge. Officers leaned toward one another, whispering in confusion. 'Why are we broadcasting this?' one hissed under his breath. None dared interrupt aloud.
Orton ignored them, his gaze unwavering. “We offered protection. We offered resources. We offered a future under the Republic’s banner. Your governor refused. And since then, Aquarius has chosen endless confrontation.”
The Admiral paused, letting his words hang in the air like a blade suspended by a single thread.
“But today, I give you the power to prevent what comes next.”
A countdown appeared on the drone’s feed, its stark digits flashing onto every receiver in the system.
“Deliver to me, Governor Atlas Blackwell, within the next six hours,” Orton declared, his voice cold as ice, “and Aquarius will be annexed peacefully into the Republic."
The countdown glowed across every console, a silent executioner ticking away the final hours.
“Fail to meet the deadline,” Orton’s voice thundered across the transmission, “and we will begin bombardment of every city of Aquarius.”
With that, the broadcast cut. The hovering drone went dark, its red light extinguished, leaving only the Admiral’s words echoing in the minds of every officer present.
A ripple of reaction swept through the room. “Finally!” some of the younger officers cheered, fists clenched in excitement. “They’ll surrender, no doubt about it,” others whispered with grim confidence.
Orton raised a hand, silencing the chatter. His cold, deliberate tone cut through the air like a blade. “We will increase the pressure. But prepare for the alternative. Ready the bombardment sequence. Remember, parts of their cities run underground. Load anti-bunker warheads.”
“Yes, Admiral!” came the immediate, sharp reply. Fingers raced across control panels, activating targeting arrays, aligning launchers, and priming payloads that could shatter reinforced subterranean strongholds.
Orton lowered himself into his command chair, the high back rising like a throne behind him. His eyes never left the crimson numbers projected before him. Each second blinked away, dragging Aquarius closer to its fate.
[05:59]
At first, the bridge buzzed with energy. Officers speculated, voices carrying a mixture of bravado and certainty.
"They’ll hand him over."
"No one will risk dying just for him."
"This will be over before the hour’s done."
But as the first hour passed, then the second, and then the third, the mood began to shift. The voices grew quieter. Faces hardened. Some officers leaned against their consoles, staring at the countdown as if trying to will it to stop. Others muttered under their breath, their words betraying the unease they dared not voice aloud.
"We’re going to have to hit them."
"They’re insane. Why don’t they give him up?"
The weight of inevitability pressed down on them all.
Orton remained silent, his expression unreadable, though his mind churned behind his steady gaze. The people of Aquarius had made their choice, or their governor had made it for them.
The final hour bled away, each minute devoured by the march of the clock. The bridge was silent now, save for the faint beeping of the countdown.
[00:01]
[00:00]
Orton rose slightly in his chair, his voice calm, absolute, and merciless. “Initiate bombardment.”