For years, Tom became a machine.
His consciousness did nothing but oversee the grind: mine, refine, build, launch. He watched boatloads of hard-won materials vanish into the black hole of the space battlefield like common trash.
It was a stalemate of attrition. A test of who would bleed out first.
Just as the despair began to creep in—just as Tom began to wonder if this torment would last until the heat death of the universe—the sensors picked up a shift.
The battlefield changed.
The Mechanical Disaster Alliance's warships stopped their suicidal charges. They began to coordinate, gathering into tight formations and slowly pulling back.
Ten million kilometers. Twenty million.
They didn't stop until they reached the safety of the Flying Star.
They were retreating. The enemy had voluntarily ended the campaign.
Tom watched the telemetry for a long time, afraid it was a trap. When the distance continued to grow, he finally let out a long, shuddering breath.
