The battle station Aspida comes to life.
The crew erupts—
cheers, slaps on the back, fists raised high.
Victory hums through the corridors like the pulse of a living thing.
"Did you see that?!"
"Victory is ours!"
The holograms flicker, throbbing like a heartbeat.
On the battle map: dozens of red markers—
Martian cruisers faltering, confused.
Mercury's first strike had been overwhelming.
Inside the command chamber: Vicar and Jamal.
They shake hands.
Brief smiles. Rarely sincere.
We did it.
Or almost.
But this—right now—
is the most dangerous time.
The moment when everyone starts to believe the battle is already won.
Jamal's eyes no longer smile.
They harden—cold glass, pure calculation.
"Enough!"
His voice slaps the air—sharp, sudden.
The room falls silent.
"Don't relax now. Back to your stations. Move!"
Electric tension jolts through every console.
Operators sit up straight.
Screens go cold and sharp.
All movement narrows to a single thought:
The next shot might decide everything.
Jamal points to the countdown timer.
"Ten minutes to next discharge."
The numbers blink in venomous red.
07:00... 06:59...
They don't realize: these aren't just digits.
They're a threshold.
It's us—or them.
"Condensers charging normally. All systems stable,"
says Engineer Alex—calm, unshaken, like a monk in the eye of a storm.
"Status reports," Jamal orders.
"Station One—green."
"Station Two—green."
"Station Three—operational."
On and on—flawless, mechanical.
"Good," Jamal nods.
"Prepare all systems for firing. Five minutes to next volley."
Beside him, Vicar stays silent.
But his eyes are locked on the Martian fleet.
Red lines shifting.
"General," an operator calls out.
"The enemy is changing formation.
Cruisers are aligning into a single plane.
Drone coverage increasing.
Looks like they're prepping a concentrated barrage."
Jamal doesn't answer at once.
He stares into the map as if reading an ancient chessboard.
"Then we hit them first."
03:00... 02:59...
"Three minutes," he says—
not a command.
A sentence.
"All hands—ready."
The control room holds its breath.
Only the low hum of condensers.
Only the glow of stars burning outside.
Aspida prepares for its decisive blow.
Jamal turns to Vicar.
His expression—tight anticipation.
Lips curled like a headsman's smile.
"This next shot will take out more cruisers—
and their command station with them.
That's their nerve center.
Once it's gone, they'll run like beaten dogs."
Vicar says nothing.
He stares at the screen, unblinking.
Yes. The plan is perfect.
Perfect enough to be terrifying.
"One minute," says Jamal, gesturing at the flashing countdown.
And then—
Impact.
The universe seems to shudder.
The hull groans.
Lights flicker.
A distant rumble tears through the station like a planetary heartbeat cracking.
And then—chaos.
"ALERT! ALERT!"
Sirens howl.
Red lights flood the corridors.
System warnings shriek.
Interfaces glitch and die.
The air thickens with panic, crushed into steel walls.
Operators bolt from their seats.
Someone screams.
Others dash for the hatches.
But the station's protocols are faster.
Protective suits clamp down over the android crew like snapping jaws.
The floor breaks open.
Hatches split.
Evacuation capsules eject from beneath the consoles—
pulling their operators free like shells from a breach.
Salvos of survival, launched one after another—
into the black void.
No one is a hero now.
There's only one goal: survive.
If luck allows.
The capsules vanish into the shafts,
flung into the abyss like a scream into silence.
Within a minute—
the command deck is empty.
Only the whine of destabilization remains.
Only the death-rattle of Aspida's core.
Outside: a sea of stars.
Dozens of glowing dots streak through the dark—
escape pods like fireflies.
Each one fleeing from a dying giant.
Among them—Vicar and Jamal.
Silent.
Speechless.
They watch the station—
their triumph, their crown, their Aspida.
It begins to glow from within—
as if consumed by its own rage.
Fractures.
Lightning.
Light.
And then—detonation.
A burst of raw energy rips the station apart.
Metal liquefies.
Beams twist and scream.
Chunks of the once-mighty hull—turrets, antennae, panels—
scatter into space like burning wreckage across a cosmic ocean.
This isn't just defeat.
This is the collapse of an idea.
The fall of superiority.
Behind the drifting debris—
the Sun.
Unbothered.
Blinding.
Like a god—equal to all, loyal to none.
Vicar clenches his fist.
He says nothing.
This silence—
isn't grief.
It isn't fury.
It's… finality.
Something has ended.
And now,
something else begins.