"Come on, Halley—get up," Oscar barked, steadying her with a hand that had learned to be steady in worse storms. Old squabbles tried to bloom in the corners—petty and ridiculous
"You two, Stefan—this is embarrassing," Oscar muttered, half a joke, half a prayer. Stefan snapped back before the humor could land. "Tell that to her—she started it!" Halley countered, the words edged. "Shut up, moron. You kidnapped me and my team first." "I did not kidnap anyone. I wasn't here," came the hollow defense from Stefan.
Then the base's comms lit up with a voice that sounded like a warning bell. "Commander, sir, we have a problem." The word problem felt laughable until the reply came: "What?!" Static and fear braided together as the report unfurled—breaches in the atmosphere. Brion signatures. The Empire had found them.
The command chain tightened like a noose. "Shit! How could this happen? Get everyone ready. We have to fight them. We have no choice." Another voice, quieter with the blunt honesty of numbers, answered: "But sir, we are outmatched. Seven planetary ships against the three we have at the base. I don't think we have any chance."
"Don't lose hope, my friend," came the obstinate reply from Stefan. "We have the advantage on the ground. I'll request backup from the main fleet—they should be here in a few hours. We just need to survive until then." Hope sounded threadbare, but it was all they had. Holding ground and waiting felt like a prayer cast into wind.
"Goddamn it—can we ever catch a break?" Oscar swore, breath ragged. "Come on, Halley, we need to get Harry and Vanessa and get out of here." "Don't worry, Oscar. We will cover you so you can escape. Replied Stefan. But you need to hurry. They'll be here any time soon." The promise was fierce and fragile at once.
High above, the Empire's assault ships drew like black teeth. In the command towers, the language was simpler, more brutal. "My lord, we are almost at the enemy base." The reply came with the cool cruelty of men who count bodies like currency: "Let's show those fools what real power is. Get the new orbitons ready—rain fire on them. Spare no one; we'll level that base to the ground."
Pilots joked in the hangars even as they strapped into death. The banter was thin camouflage: "This is gonna be a hassle. I just hope they don't have orbitons there. Said Clover. Maybe I could catch a wink." "Watch your mouth, Clover. If you do anything stupid out there I'll kill you myself." Plamers words cut like a blade. They argued about paint jobs and names—purple or white—while the world readied to burn. The trivial felt obscene and human all at once.
"Raven unit, get ready to launch." Cannons warmed. "Fire at will. Crack those havens." The order was a blade lowering.
The first impact reshaped the base. Buildings that had been whole a breath ago were now collapsing into themselves; dust tasted like iron and old rain. "Shit! They're already here. Connect me to Tartarusios—do you copy?" Oscar's voice cut through the static. On the other end Bjorn's reply was measured but raw: "Most of the work has been done, Captain, but there are still sectors being worked on." "Can we leap anytime soon?" Oscar asked. "The engine repairs are done, but not warmed. We may risk another failure on the next leap." The answer was a thin, dangerous calculus. "I think we have to risk this one. Get here. We'll fight too."
Inside the rubble of what had been the command center, Stefan paced with a thousand yard stare. "We lost thirty percent of the base in that first attack." Regret and anger tangled in his voice. "You think I don't know? Goddamn it. If only I'd taken more reinforcements this time."
A grim logic began to gather like smoke. "Do you think they'd come all the way here just for us?" Sergei asked, fingers tracing a map in the dirt. "They're here for the Tartarusios crew. What reason would they have to leave the front lines otherwise?" The answer was in the memory of Zellion—how, a few days past, the Tartarusios had almost felled an entire Empire fleet.
Sergei, eyes hard, said what a dozen had been thinking. "Oscar is a liability." The words landed like a verdict. "Just a mercenary group. Think how many lives we'd save if we handed them over to the Empire."
The thought had a currency: survival at a cost. "You do have a point," Stefan admitted with a hardness that made the air colder. "But when did we start selling people's freedom to save our own asses?" The room filled with the bitter taste of choices made in panic.
"Is that your final decision?" Sergei asked—an edge to the syllables.
"Yes." The word came like a door slamming shut.
There was a moment—a breath held between heartbeats—then the sound of a single gunshot. It cracked the air, sharp and obscene. Lives were bartered and one was taken as payment. Men arranged their survival with blood and rationalization; the base that had whispered of rebellion now whispered of deals with devils.
Outside, the sky continued to rain cannon fire. Orbitons braided death between the clouds. Oscar looked at them—Halley with jaw set, the others braced like anchors—and felt the weight of the decision they were about to make. They were running toward the storm, not away from it.
The planet convulsed. Light and shadow wore the same face. The alarm wailed, and the world narrowed to one imperative: live, or die trying.