Less than sixty seconds.
That was all it took for the Hyperion to turn the Giant Maw into a flaming tomb.
A B-class flagship—reduced to molten wreckage by three salvos of concentrated laser fire.
The two pirate escort frigates watched the destruction in frozen silence. The flagship was gone. Their warlord was gone. No comms. No retreat orders. No scream of vengeance.
Just vapor.
Panic set in.
Both ships turned and began emergency evasive maneuvers, their engines flaring wildly as they tried to flee the same fate.
They didn't make it far.
Silas Vire gave the order without ceremony.
[Re-targeting fire control.]
[Priority: Eliminate remaining hostiles.]
A second saturation volley ripped through the black.
The first ship vanished in a cascade of white plasma.
The second was struck mid-engine. It spun violently, hemorrhaging fuel and oxygen before disintegrating in a chain reaction.
[Threat cluster neutralized.]
[Elapsed time: 9 minutes, 44 seconds.]
And just like that, the Crocodile Pirate Fleet—one of the longest-surviving predatory forces at the system's edge—was gone.
Back at Pluto Outpost, the pilots of the emergency response fleet stood speechless at their stations. Their vessels had launched under orders to "rescue" the Hyperion.
Now, that notion seemed absurd.
"…Do we still need to intervene?" one of them finally asked.
Another answered, quieter. "If anyone needs rescuing, it's the pirates."
On the bridge of the Valkyrion, Lyra Caelis leaned back in her chair, staring at the holofeed. Her officers looked at her with wordless shock.
"We misjudged him," one whispered.
She said nothing. But in her mind, the image of that cold-eyed man boarding his ship alone replayed over and over.
Silas Vire had baited the pirates, endured their full strike, and eradicated them in under ten minutes.
What kind of man pilots a weapon like that without flinching?
—
Surrounding the wreckage, dozens of dronecraft launched from the Hyperion's ventral hangars. Controlled by Marvin-class automation cores, they swept through the debris field like vultures—salvaging broken hull plating, power conduits, and most importantly, scattered energy ore.
The Hyperion's systems devoured the resources like a starving god.
On the bridge, Silas sat watching the logistics feed scroll by.
[Energy Ore Recovered: 3,714 units.]
[Component Salvage Complete.]
[Predator Units: Standby.]
Satisfied, he crossed one leg over the other and waited.
And sure enough—
[Incoming Transmission: Pluto Outpost – Priority Channel]
Silas opened the link.
A full 3D projection formed beside him—a man in formal Alliance military attire, his uniform adorned with the insignia of a border command authority.
Commander Rourke, station chief of Pluto Outpost.
"Captain Silas Vire," Rourke began. "We've spoken before."
Silas gave a slight nod. "Commander."
"I wanted to formally commend your actions today. The destruction of the Crocodile Fleet is… significant. They've plagued Ascendancy space for years."
He straightened his collar, clearly rehearsed. "Per Solar Ascendancy bounty protocols, the elimination of Krell and his fleet warrants a bounty of one million stellar credits. We'll see that it's transferred to your system account within the hour."
Silas offered only a slight tilt of his head. "Accepted."
But Rourke didn't disconnect.
He hesitated. Then:
"We're also interested in negotiating for the Giant Maw's wreckage. If you're not planning to rebuild or retrofit it, we'd like to buy salvage rights."
Of course.
A B-class ship, even half-melted, was easier to refurbish than to build from scratch. A massive strategic asset—too valuable for any station commander to ignore.
Silas leaned forward.
"I'm willing to sell. But I'm not interested in stellar credits."
Rourke blinked. "…What are you proposing?"
"Energy ore," Silas said. "One hundred thousand units. In exchange for the wreckage of the Giant Maw and the two destroyed escorts."
There was a pause. Rourke did mental calculations in silence. It was a steep price—but not unreasonable for the strategic value.
Finally, he nodded.
"Done."
—
Hours later, the Hyperion returned to Pluto Port.
Its great shadow eclipsed half the docking spires, even as recovery ships swarmed over the remains of the pirate fleet under Ascendancy authority.
Commander Rourke arrived personally—this time aboard a secure transport loaded with crates of energy ore. An honor guard stood behind him, though all of them struggled not to gawk at the vessel's exterior as they boarded.
Inside, Silas welcomed him at the ship's private lounge.
The floor was obsidian glass. The lights—soft and warm. A bar was installed in the corner, tended by Marvin units in silver plating. It felt more like the drawing room of a royal cruiser than the command deck of a war machine.
Rourke took a drink that had been prepared for him. His eyes flicked around the space like a man still unsure if he was dreaming.
"…I've never seen a ship like this," he said at last.
"I doubt many have," Silas replied.
"This is… luxury. And power."
Silas gave him a look. "They were always meant to be the same thing."
Rourke stared into his glass.
"If I were a younger man," he muttered, "I'd beg to join your crew."
Silas smiled faintly.
"But you're not."
The commander laughed. "No. I've got a port to manage, reports to file, and a mountain of political fallout to manage after this."
He downed the rest of the drink and stood.
"Well, Captain. This will not be the last you hear from the Ascendancy. You've made an impression."
"I know," Silas said. "I intended to."
As Rourke departed, escorted by Marvin bots and followed by energy ore haulers, Silas turned back toward the viewport.
The solar system stretched out before him.
Behind him: a dead pirate fleet, the admiration of a military outpost, and a name that was beginning to spread like fire across comms relays.
And deep inside the Hyperion, a passenger stirred—still hidden in the ship's lower decks, unseen, unknown, watching.
Lady Celeste Vale.
And soon… she would have questions.