Cobalt Command Station.
Beyond the panoramic viewport—hundreds of lights flicker.
The Martian fleet flees the Terran armada, accelerating with each pulse.
Against the dim backdrop of starlight, silhouettes of warships stretch long and lean, poised to plunge once more into battle.
Inside the command hall—an oppressive silence.
Only the low hum of the station, and the faint clicks of shifting holograms,
like droplets falling directly onto the nerves.
The walls glow with restrained light.
President Marcus sits hunched forward, elbows on his knees.
Deep shadows pool beneath his eyes.
Before him shimmers the hologram of the fleet's route:
pulsing dots, crossing trajectories, collision markers blinking.
Everything draws closer.
Everything strains toward inevitability.
He drags a hand slowly down his face—as though trying to wipe away not fatigue, but fear itself.
When he speaks, his voice sounds muffled, as if coming from inside a helmet.
"We are accelerating too fast.
We will soon reach the edge.
After that—deceleration.
And then… battle."
He lifts his gaze.
Slowly. With effort. As if surfacing from some abyss inside himself.
"What do you propose?"
Ani does not answer at once.
She leans toward the projection—toward the thin red line that cuts across the stars.
"There is one idea," she says at last, her tone clear and cold.
"We still have supply transports. Overloaded with ergon.
If we were to mine them… and trigger a chain reaction…"
Her eyes rise.
Inside them: a horror calculated with precision.
Pain—but not personal. Geopolitical.
"…the explosion would be colossal.
Enough to inflict devastating damage.
Perhaps even force them to retreat.
It could be our chance."
Marcus jerks his head up.
His eyes flash with anger, confusion—and the shadow of panic.
"Do you even realize what you are suggesting?
If we sacrifice the ergon—everything collapses.
The Belt will freeze.
Mars will be left without power!"
"Not all," Ani answers softly.
Her voice is tender, almost intimate—
and therefore twice as terrifying.
"Only half. The rest will be enough to endure…
But the explosion," she pauses, "could change the entire game."
Marcus is silent.
No words come.
The air thickens—as though the decision itself already pulses in the walls.
"This is madness," he breathes.
And turns toward Admiral Tyler.
The admiral has stood in silence all this time.
"She is right," he says at last.
Short. Unwavering.
"But the transports are too fragile. They would be destroyed before reaching range."
He steps forward.
"Better to use three cruisers.
We will refit them for detonation.
Transfer part of the ergon.
Shield them with drones.
These ships will break through.
With fire.
All the way to the enemy's heart."
Marcus rises. Slowly.
His figure looms over the projection—like a verdict cast across the map of war.
"This will be a ram.
Living cruisers.
With full crews aboard.
We… would be sending them to die."
The room falls silent—like the stillness after a meteor strike.
The hologram flickers, throwing jagged shadows across their faces.
Then Tyler straightens.
"We are not sending them.
I will lead them myself.
Personally.
Until the last flare."
And in that instant, everything shifts.
Not the light. Not the sound.
The very fabric of space—
as though the universe itself accepts the choice.
Marcus steps closer.
Places both hands on the admiral's shoulders.
Looks him in the eye—not as a leader,
but as a man who has already said farewell to himself.
"I see in you a soldier…
and a human being.
Carry this out, Admiral.
We will remember.
We will remember everything.
In the name of the living."
"In the name of the living," Tyler echoes.
No hesitation. No fear.
"With your permission… I must gather my crews."
He turns and walks away.
His steps resound like the silence of a final mission.
They remain—just the two of them.
The projection flares back to life.
Red points converge.
The fleets crawl toward another collision.
And somewhere—
woven into this web of lines—
a fire begins to grow.
The countdown has begun.