Ragnar's fleet lies silent in the vacuum.
After Aspida's devastating strike, the silence feels deafening—
not peace,
but the stillness of assassins before a second kill.
On the battle platforms and escort ships, voices erupt in triumph.
Androids exchange bursts of coded praise.
Some raise clenched fists—
a gesture of victory borrowed from humanity.
Victory seems close.
This is it, Ragnar thinks.
This is the moment when the enemy blinks.
And these are the moments—
when the worst mistakes are made.
Suddenly, his voice slices through the comms—low, iron-heavy,
like a wrench slamming against steel.
"All stations—hold formation. This isn't over."
His words roll like thunder across the silence.
"We hit their flanks. Full force."
He pauses. Eyes narrow.
Focused like crosshairs on the tactical hologram.
"General Jamal is recharging Aspida. Another blow is coming.
But we strike first.
Prepare for assault!"
The crews fall silent.
No words.
Just immediate execution.
Warning lights flicker to life.
Weapons rise and lock into place.
Energy begins to pulse through their cores.
One hundred sixty-one units align into perfect formation—
as if the geometry of war itself is waking in the ink of space.
Now.
This moment.
We break them—
or we vanish.
"Fire!"
Ragnar's voice ignites the void.
A storm of light erupts.
A firestorm tears across the black.
Shells rip through the weakened net of Martian drones.
Their flanks buckle—
shields collapse—
units detonate like petals ripped from a burning flower.
But the enemy is far from silent.
The remaining drones strike back—hard.
The first blast hits Ragnar's flagship dead-on.
His platform blazes up—
a torch in the dark.
Plasma wraps the hull.
The heat is hellish, unbearable.
Inside—flames, sparks, screaming chaos.
"Evacuate!" Ragnar roars.
"To the escort ship! Abandon platform—go!"
Sirens scream.
Crew rushes to the hatches.
The platform shudders. Bulkheads groan—
like ancient trees splitting under lightning strikes.
Androids sprint through corridors of fire.
Panels collapse, burn, shatter—
a rain of molten light from a dying sky.
The navigator slams the evacuation command.
Suits deploy. Armor seals.
Every panel hisses shut.
Escape must come through flame.
Every second—an eternity.
Every movement—life or death.
They leap through the emergency conduit—
a burning corridor linking them to the escort ship.
One by one.
All for one.
Captain Veronica is the last to make it through.
Her suit is damaged.
Shoulder scorched.
The visor cracked, streaked with smoke and soot.
Behind her—an inferno swallowing everything that was the command center.
The center of will.
The center of belief.
Onboard, in the emergency bay, Ragnar stands over the crew—his voice thunderous, but shadowed with fear.
"Captain Veronica?!"
"I'm here!"
Her voice rasps—burnt, breathless.
But firm.
She rises.
She stands.
"We can go."
Ragnar nods.
On his face, a crack—barely visible.
Not a smile.
Not joy.
Just resolve.
"Detach the platform. We're leaving."
The release mechanism clunks.
The platform drifts—
burning, glowing from within—
like a volcano finally letting go.
Its death feels like the farewell of a titan.
Veronica watches it.
Long.
Silent.
Every inch of that metal held a memory.
Every corridor—a story.
Now it's just fire.
"Give me backup comms," Ragnar barks.
The words hit like steel.
A mini-transceiver is passed to him.
He clips it behind his ear.
A soft light confirms activation.
"Attention!"
His voice rings across all surviving ships.
"I'm alive. I'm still in command."
They have to hear it.
They have to know:
The admiral still stands.
To the very end.
Ragnar turns to the battlefield display.
Flames. Chaos. Battle.
And the target.
"Assault ships—break through!
Your objective is the Martian control station.
We're boarding it."
"What about the platforms, Admiral?" comes a voice across another channel.
"Keep firing.
Keep the gaps in the drone network open.
Wait for us to return with victory."
The engines of the assault ships begin to roar—
the sound swelling like a rising storm.
A swarm of war machines launches—
a pack of predators unleashed into the black.
At the spearhead—Ragnar and Captain Veronica.
Their eyes don't blink.
Their hearts beat in unison.
Their goal—the enemy's heart.
Space burns.
And the battle continues.