The Long War - Chapter 12 (Patreon)

Shanxi High Orbit, Iota Persei System 

September 10th, 2149CE - System Alliance Calendar 

Captain Li Ming had once believed twelve hours was a long time.  

Twelve hours was enough to sleep, eat, curse at paperwork, insult at least three junior officers, review a squadron’s readiness reports, drink two cups of coffee strong enough to qualify as industrial solvent, and still have enough time left over to regret one’s career decisions. 

That had been before the Tesla. 

Now twelve hours felt like nothing. 

Twelve hours had vanished in a blur of alarms, emergency readiness drills, weapons inspections, evacuation telemetry, encrypted calls from Firebase Vanguard, orbital defense synchronization, and the quiet, soul-crushing knowledge that an alien fleet might arrive at any moment. 

At the same time, those same twelve hours felt like the longest stretch of her life. 

Li stood at the center of the Washington’s bridge, hands clasped behind her back, eyes fixed on the holographic tactical table. 

Shanxi rotated below them, blue and green and white, offensively beautiful for a world that might soon become a battlefield. New Taiyuan glittered on the night-side terminator, a constellation of human arrogance and hope carved into alien soil.  

Behind it floated the defensive network.  

If one was feeling charitable, it could be called incomplete.  

If one was feeling honest, it was a joke told by a cruel universe.  

Five Sentinel-class Orbital Defense Platforms guarded Shanxi’s high orbit. Not the heavy bastards stationed above Earth, Arcturus, Victory, or Thermopylae. Just standard Sentinels: one cruiser-grade MAC cannon, four Hercules Naval Coilguns, a scattering of point-defense lasers, and enough armor to survive a respectable beating but not enough to survive what Li suspected was coming.  

Beside them hung her squadron.  

The SSV Washington, flagship of Shanxi’s orbital defense. Ten Hasting-class frigates. The remains of a proper defensive force.  

The Cannae and White Mountain should have been there too. But they were not. That absence sat on the bridge like a physical weight. 

Li had known Commander Lorenza Tano for three years. Tano had been lazy in all the little ways that drove Li insane—late reports, untucked uniform collar, a habit of calling engineering decks “the basement” just to annoy her chief engineer. 

She had also died buying the Tesla time to escape. 

Peter Lin of the White Mountain had been quieter, more precise, the sort of officer who alphabetized his emergency checklists and probably arranged his sock drawer by strategic importance. 

He was gone too.  

Li had spent the last twelve hours avoiding grief because grief was inefficient and had terrible timing.  

“Coffee, Captain?” 

Li did not turn. 

“No.” 

Darius Wright paused beside her, mug in hand.  

“Combat stimulant?” 

“Already took one.” 

“Two?” 

“Do I look suicidal to you?” 

Darius opened his mouth. Li looked at him. He closed it again.  

Smart man.  

Her executive officer had not smiled much since the Tesla returned. That alone told her how bad the situation was. Darius usually treated danger like an excuse to annoy everyone more efficiently.  

Now his face was grim, eyes shadowed, uniform immaculate.  

Nobody liked a serious Darius Wright. It suggested the universe had done something unreasonable. 

Cherry’s avatar stood beside the tactical table. Normally she wore a faintly condescending smirk. Today there was no smirk. That frightened Li more than the stimulants buzzing beneath her skin. 

“Status,” Li ordered. 

Cherry raised one hand and unfolded the defensive grid in midair. 

“All ships report combat readiness. ODP synchronization at ninety-three percent. Remaining variance is due to Platform Three’s fire-control lag, which remains embarrassing but not fatal.” 

“Can it shoot straight?” 

“With enough enthusiasm.” 

“Cherry. Can it shoot straight?” 

The AGI sighed.  

“Acceptable.” 

Li nodded. That would have to do. 

“Evacuation traffic?” 

“Suspended from high orbit,” Darius said. “Last civilian convoy broke for low transfer ten minutes ago. General Williams pulled the rest underground.” 

Li’s jaw tightened. 

“How many got out?” 

“Not enough.” 

No one said anything after that. Because there was nothing useful to say. Li looked down at Shanxi again. Twelve million people. Five days until Kilimanjaro arrived. One old cruiser. Ten frigates. Five half-ready platforms.  

She flexed her fingers once, then stilled them. 

“Any signal from the relay?” 

Cherry’s eyes flicked toward the far edge of the tactical display. 

“Nothing yet.” 

Li almost laughed. 

Yet. Such a small word. Such a large knife. 

Then every alarm on the bridge screamed. The tactical table flared crimson. 

Cherry snapped upright. 

“Mass effect emergence! Multiple contacts! Relay vector!” 

The bridge froze for half a heartbeat. 

Then training took over. 

“Combat stations!” Darius barked. 

The crew moved. 

No panic. No wasted motion. Chairs locked into crash positions. Displays shifted from readiness mode to combat telemetry. Damage control teams confirmed sealed compartments. Weapons officers brought targeting systems online. 

Li stepped closer to the table. 

“How many?” 

Cherry did not answer immediately. 

That was the second most frightening thing she had done all day. 

“Cherry.” 

The AGI’s face had gone still. 

“Hundreds.” 

The word cut through the bridge. No one spoke. Darius stared at the display, jaw tight. Li felt the stimulant in her blood turn to ice. 

Hundreds. 

Of course. 

Because why should first contact begin with anything polite, like one ship and a misunderstanding? 

“Classify.” 

“Working on it.” 

Red icons bloomed near the Shanxi-Theta Relay. More and more. The tactical display expanded to accommodate them. 

Li watched the enemy fleet appear like a spreading wound in space. 

Cherry’s voice sharpened. 

“One hundred eighty corvette-size contacts. Seventeen frigate-size contacts. One Heavy frigate-size contact. Vessel profiles match Tesla telemetry with high confidence.” 

Li inhaled slowly. 

To human classification, the aliens had brought corvettes and frigates. Enough to drown her with sheer numbers. 

“Time to weapons range?” 

“They are not advancing directly,” Cherry said. “They are consolidating formation.” 

Li narrowed her eyes. 

“So their commander has a brain.” 

“How inconvenient.” 

“There’s the Cherry I know.” 

“Do not mistake sarcasm for optimism, Captain.” 

Li looked at the red swarm. 

“I never do.” 

Commodore Lantar Kyrus sat in the command seat of the THS Epyrus’s Fury as Relay 314 released his fleet into the unknown system. The transition ended in a wash of blue-white light. One by one, ships confirmed emergence. 

“Fleet status,” Kyrus ordered. 

Subcommander Decius stood at his station with the posture of an officer who knew he was being watched by every junior crewman on the bridge. 

“All vessels accounted for, Commodore. No transit losses. Formation integrity at acceptable variance.” 

Good. 

Kyrus allowed himself no visible reaction. 

The 314 Patrol Fleet had gathered in full. Well, a patrol fleet only in the bureaucratic sense. In practice, Kyrus had stripped every nearby enforcement squadron, relay picket, and rapid-response detachment Desolas could legally bully into formation. 

One hundred and eighty Kraxus-class frigates. 

Seventeen Cipritine-class cruisers. 

One Aephus-class heavy cruiser, the Epyrus’s Fury itself. 

By any normal standard, an overwhelming force for law enforcement action. 

But the last day had murdered Kyrus’s fondness for normal standards. 

“Sensor report.” 

The operator responded almost immediately. 

“Mass effect concentrations detected from second planet. Significant orbital infrastructure. Multiple warship signatures.” 

Kyrus leaned forward slightly. 

“Numbers?” 

“Still resolving, sir.” 

Kyrus’s talons tapped once against the armrest. Once. Then stilled. 

“Chart course for the second planet. In-system FTL. Exit at one million kilometers from primary orbital concentration.” 

Several officers glanced up. Only Decius spoke. 

“One million, sir?” 

The question was careful. Respectful. Properly phrased. 

Kyrus approved of that. 

“Yes.” 

“Standard engagement doctrine would permit a closer emergence.” 

“Standard doctrine was not written for an enemy that can gut a cruiser with one spinal shot.” 

The bridge went quiet. Kyrus let the words sink in. Then he continued, voice level. 

“We are facing an unknown species with unknown doctrine, unknown industrial capacity, and proven heavy kinetic capability. I will not emerge into their effective firing envelope because someone prefers a tidier textbook formation.” 

Decius lowered his head. 

“Understood, Commodore.” 

“Proceed.” 

The helmsman obeyed. Space whitened again as the fleet entered brief in-system FTL. Kyrus used the seconds of transition to breathe. General Desolas Arterius was not on the bridge. Thank the spirit for small mercy. 

The general had transferred to his own command vessel before the jump, no doubt to better supervise what he considered a righteous enforcement action. No longer standing over Kyrus’s shoulder calling caution by uglier names. 

Cowardice. Timidity. Hesitation. 

Kyrus almost scoffed. 

A dead commander could be brave all he wanted. A living commander had obligations. 

The stars returned. 

The second planet filled the forward display. For a moment, even Kyrus forgot the tactical situation. It was a garden world. Blue oceans. White clouds. Green continents. A young colony’s lights glimmering across the night side. 

Not pirate space. Not a hidden military bastion. 

A colony. 

Kyrus felt something cold settle under his plates. Then the tactical overlay finished resolving. And every softer thought vanished. 

“By the spirit,” someone whispered. 

Kyrus did not reprimand them. 

He understood the reaction. 

Five orbital stations hung above the planet. No. Not stations. Guns. They were guns wearing stations as armor. Each one built around a mass accelerator cannon large enough to threaten capital ships. Not elegant Citadel defense stations. Not layered diplomatic-era architecture. These were weapons with habitats bolted on as an afterthought. 

Beside them waited the alien ships. 

Ten cruiser-sized vessels. The same type of ship that had destroyed the Edessan.  

One much larger warship at the center. 

The flagship. 

Kyrus stared. 

The vessel was over a thousand meters long. 

Angular. Brutal. Armored like a fortress. Weapon emplacements crawled across its hull. Not one but two spinal gun housing looked large enough to shame most Hierarchy dreadnoughts.  

The classification officer spoke slowly. 

“Commodore… by size and displacement, the central vessel qualifies as dreadnought-scale.” 

Kyrus said nothing. 

Another officer muttered, “Guarding a colony?” 

Decius looked equally unsettled. 

“The escorts classify as light cruisers by Citadel displacement standards.” 

Kyrus’s mandibles tightened. 

“Then where are their frigates?” 

No one answered. Because there was no good answer. A colony guarded by ten cruisers and a dreadnought made no sense. Unless this species classified ships differently. Unless all their ships were built absurdly heavy. Unless this was not a normal colony. Unless the single surviving vessel had warned them and this was all they could gather. 

Too many possibilities. None comforting. Kyrus forced the questions aside. 

“Formation.” 

The bridge snapped back to work. 

“Cruisers central rear. Frigates forward and lateral spread. No direct line charge. Maintain rotational vectors and prepare fighter launch.” 

Decius glanced at him. 

“You intend to avoid heavy engagement with the dreadnought?” 

“I intend to avoid letting it shoot us.” 

A few officers looked at the display again. 

No one argued. 

Kyrus continued. 

“Keep the fleet dispersed. Do not present clustered targets. Their spinal weapons require alignment. Make them rotate. Make them choose. We will bleed them from all angles.” 

It was not glorious. It was not elegant. But it was correct. 

And if there was one thing Kyrus valued more than glory, it was being alive long enough to win. 

Li watched the enemy fleet appear approximately one million kilometers out.  

“Cautious bastard,” she murmured. 

The red contacts reorganized with unnerving discipline. The smaller ships spread forward and outward, forming a wide attack lattice. The larger ships remained back, protected behind layers of movement and distance. 

Not charging. Not panicking. Not underestimating her. 

Damn it. 

Li had hoped for stupidity. Stupidity was easier to kill. 

“Cherry?”  

“Enemy formation suggests intent to saturate firing arcs while preserving heavier units outside direct MAC range.” 

“In plain language?” 

“They have noticed we hit very hard and would prefer not to be hit.” 

“Rude of them.” 

“Quite.” 

Li opened squadron-wide comms. Every ship commander appeared as small window along the display.  

Captain Javed Rahman of the Marathon.  

Commander Elise Okafor of the Trafalgar. 

Commander Han Seo-jun of the Incheon. 

The others. 

All of them waiting. All of them looking at her. Li felt the weight of that. Not fear but weight. The weight of the life of thousands placed on her every word and command.  

“Shanxi Defense Squadron,” she said, voice steady, “this is Washington Actual.” 

The bridge quieted around her. 

“The enemy has entered the system. Numbers are bad. I will not insult you by pretending otherwise.” 

Silence answered. 

“Behind us is Shanxi. Twelve million civilians. Families. Children. People who woke up yesterday believing first contact would be something out of a recruitment poster.” 

She glanced at the planet below. 

“They are counting on us to make sure today is not their last.” 

A pause. 

“And in front of us are the bastards who destroyed Cannae and White Mountain.” 

Something shifted across the bridge. Several faces hardened. 

Good. 

Let them be angry. Anger had uses when properly aimed. 

“Commander Tano and Commander Lin died doing their duty. Their crews died buying the Tesla a way home. We are going to make that sacrifice matter.” 

She leaned closer to the comm pickup. 

“We hold orbit as long as we can. We protect the evacuation lanes. And if they want Shanxi, they will pay for every kilometer of vacuum with blood, metal, and regret.” 

Li looked from face to face. 

“We are the wall today. So stand like one.” 

She cut the channel before anyone could answer. There was no cheering, no theatrics, just silence. 

Then Commander Okafor’s voice came through on tactical band. 

“Trafalgar copies. Standing like a wall.” 

One by one, the others followed. 

Li allowed herself one breath. Then she looked at Cherry. 

“Raise shields. Charge MACs. Bring coilguns hot. Point-defense to automatic intercept.” 

“Done, done, already done, and obviously done.” 

“Cherry.” 

“Yes?” 

“If they have energy weapons, I want to know before they melt my ship.” 

“An understandable preference.” 

Li ignored that and watched the enemy close. 

=X= 

Kyrus opened fleet-wide comms as the alien formation remained steady before the planet. His officers appeared across the command display. 

Turian faces: disciplined, angry, eager, and afraid, though none would show it. 

“Officers and crew of the 314 Patrol Fleet,” Kyrus began. 

His voice carried through nearly two hundred ships. 

“We stand in unknown space before a species that has violated one of the oldest laws of galactic civilization. The activation of unmapped relays is forbidden because history has already taught us the cost of recklessness.” 

The Rachni hung unspoken behind every word. 

“We have lost comrades. The Edessan. Captain Gaitus. Many others. We will honor them not with rage, but with discipline.” 

Several commanders bowed their heads slightly. 

“We are turians. We are soldiers of the Hierarchy. We uphold the law not because it is easy, but because without law, civilization becomes memory.” 

His eyes hardened. 

“We will offer the humans one chance to surrender. If they refuse, we will neutralize their fleet, secure the colony, and ensure Relay 314 never again threatens the galaxy.” 

A pause. 

“Hold formation. Trust your officers. Trust your training. Do your duty.” 

He ended the transmission. Decius looked toward him. 

“Signal?” 

Kyrus watched the alien dreadnought. 

“Yes. Tightbeam. Include basic language packet. Demand surrender under Citadel relay enforcement statute.” 

“And if they refuse?” 

Kyrus already knew they would. 

“Then we proceed.” 

“Transmission,” Cherry said. 

Li’s eyes stayed on the tactical display. 

“Source?” 

“Enemy flagship. Tightbeam laser. Narrow aperture. Efficient. Rather polite, for people who arrived with hundreds of warships.” 

The bridge went silent again. 

Darius looked at Li.  

Li stared at the tactical display. 

The enemy had come in force. Hundreds of ships. After destroying two of hers. After chasing Tesla home. And now they wanted to talk. 

Of course they did. 

“Any danger in accepting?” 

Cherry’s mouth curved slightly. 

“There is always danger in accepting strange transmissions from hostile alien warships.” 

“Helpful.” 

“I strive for honesty.” 

“Liar.” 

“Cruel but fair.” 

Cherry’s fingers moved through holographic glyphs. 

“They included a language package.” 

Li blinked. 

“A first contact package?” 

“No. More like a legal indictment stapled to a dictionary.” 

Despite everything, Darius muttered, “That’s new.” 

Cherry continued. 

“They identify themselves as turians. Political authority: Turian Hierarchy, Citadel Council. The transmission references violation of relay activation law.” 

Li almost laughed. Almost. 

Even the aliens knew opening strange relays was stupid. 

Wonderful. 

Humanity’s first lesson from galactic civilization was apparently: you idiots should have followed your own protocol. 

“Can you translate?” 

Cherry’s digital eyes sharpened. 

“I already have.” 

“Of course you have.” 

“They are not especially subtle.” 

“Put them through.” 

The hologram appeared above the tactical table. 

Tall. Armored. Predatory. 

A face of plates and mandibles, dark hide marked with purple facial patterns that reminded Li of old tribal tattoos. His posture was rigid, formal, military down to the bones. 

The alien looked at her. Li looked back. For one strange second she felt the weight of history pressing down on the bridge. Humanity’s first true conversation with an alien military commander. Naturally, it was happening at gunpoint. 

Cherry’s translation flowed in real time. 

“I am Commodore Lantar Kyrus, commanding officer of the 314 Patrol Fleet of the Turian Hierarchy. You are in violation of Citadel law regarding the activation of dormant and unmapped mass relays. You have destroyed a vessel of the Turian Hierarchy. You will power down weapons, surrender command authority, and prepare to be boarded.” 

The bridge became very quiet. Li felt her face go cold. She answered evenly. 

“I am Captain Li Ming of the System Alliance. Commanding officer of the Shanxi Defense Squadron. Your forces destroyed two Alliance vessels and pursued an exploration ship into sovereign human territory. You are currently inside the Iota Persei system, under the jurisdiction of the System Alliance and the Shanxi colonial government. Withdraw beyond the relay immediately.” 

Cherry translated. 

The Turian's eyes narrowed. 

“You do not understand your position, Captain. Your claim of sovereignty does not supersede galactic law.” 

“And your galactic law does not supersede the twelve million human lives on that planet.” 

“You have endangered them by opening what should have remained closed.” 

“You endangered them when your ships opened fire.” 

A pause. 

The translation delay was almost nonexistent. Li saw the turian register that too. 

Good. Let him worry.  

Kyrus spoke again. 

“Captain Li Ming. I regret what has occurred. But further resistance will only increase casualties. Stand down.” 

There it was. Not mockery. Not cruelty. Almost sincerity. That made it worse. 

Li leaned forward slightly. 

“You have sixty seconds to reverse course.” 

Darius looked at her sharply. Cherry smiled faintly. Kyrus’s mandibles tightened. 

“Are you issuing an ultimatum, human?” 

“Yes.” 

“You are outnumbered.” 

“Yes.” 

“Then you understand this is irrational.” 

Li’s voice hardened. 

“No, Turian. It is very simple. Leave Shanxi or be fired upon.” 

She cut the transmission.  

For a moment nobody spoke. Then Darius exhaled. 

“That went well.” 

Li looked at him. He shrugged. 

“By first contact standards.” 

Cherry tilted her head. 

“Enemy fleet increasing lateral spread. They are generating firing solutions.” 

“Of course they are.” 

Li turned toward the tactical table. 

“Countdown?” 

“Forty-three seconds.” 

“Open squadron channel.” 

“All ships linked.” 

Li inhaled once. 

“Final weapons free authorization. Hold until my mark.” 

Across the display, Washington’s MAC capacitors climbed toward full charge. 

The ODPs aligned. 

The Hastings frigates tightened around her. 

A defensive shell of steel and stubbornness. 

Li looked at Shanxi below, then at the red swarm ahead. 

“Thirty seconds,” Cherry said. 

Kyrus stared at the empty communication display. 

For several seconds, he said nothing. 

The human captain’s face remained in his mind. 

Li Ming. 

A female, if translation markers were accurate. 

Disturbingly close in appearance to Asari in basic facial structure, though with hair, smaller eyes, and softer skin tones. 

But there had been nothing soft in her expression: anger, resolve, discipline. 

A soldier. 

Kyrus regretted that. 

Not because she was female. That meant nothing. Not because she was alien. That mattered only in the abstract. He regretted it because she was clearly competent, and competent enemies got people killed. 

“Their translation speed is remarkable,” Decius said quietly. 

Kyrus nodded. 

In minutes, they had taken a basic primer and enabled fluent real-time Palavenese exchange. Either their computational systems were exceptional, or their officers routinely trusted dangerously adaptive VI systems. 

Both possibilities were concerning. 

The formation ahead shifted slightly. The human ships tightened around the dreadnought. The orbital platforms brought their massive guns to bear. 

No panic. No confusion. They were preparing to fight. 

Kyrus felt the absurdity of the situation press down around him. 

Yesterday he had commanded a patrol fleet guarding a dormant relay. 

Today he was about to engage a new species over a colony world neither side had known the other existed beside. 

Law had led them here. Duty kept him here. But reason whispered that the galaxy had become very stupid very quickly. 

He buried the thought. Emotion was allowed. Doubt was allowed. Hesitation was not. 

“Fleet status,” he ordered. 

“All units advancing. Fighter wings ready. Disruptor torpedo load confirmed.” 

The dreadnought remained central. 

That was the key. 

Without the dreadnought, the human formation would lose cohesion. The smaller cruisers—light cruisers, by any sane classification—were dangerous, but not decisive alone. 

The dreadnought had to be neutralized. 

But not by his cruisers. 

Kyrus had no intention of discovering what a thousand-meter human spinal cannon could do to the Epyrus’s Fury. 

Three-hundred-kilogram slugs from their smaller vessels had already killed the Edessan. The dreadnought’s main gun could be worse. Much worse. 

No. 

He would not trade his cruisers for one dreadnought in a straight line like some glory-drunk cadet. He would use fighters. Disruptor torpedoes. Massed frigate pressure. 

Angles and saturation. Make the humans turn. Make them shield. Make them choose. 

“Frigate screens advance in layered attack formation,” Kyrus said. “No individual heroics. Cruisers remain outside projected spinal range. Fighter wings launch on my command. Target priority remains the central capital ship.” 

Decius saluted. 

“Yes, Commodore.” 

Kyrus looked at the planet beyond the enemy fleet. 

A colony. 

A civilian colony. 

He wondered if the human captain was thinking the same thing. Probably. That made what came next worse. 

“Advance.” 

Cherry’s voice dropped half an octave. 

“Enemy fighters launching.” 

The tactical table filled with smaller red sparks spilling from the enemy frigate-scale vessels. 

Dozens. Then a hundred. 

Li watched them spread like insects from a disturbed nest. 

Darius leaned over his station. 

“Enemy corvettes increasing acceleration.” 

Li’s mouth went dry. 

This was it. No more speeches. No more diplomacy. No more pretending the universe might suddenly develop mercy. 

“Squadron, Formation Lantern,” she ordered. “Washington holds center. Frigates close screen. ODPs slave to Washington fire-control. No one breaks formation unless I tell you.” 

Acknowledgments came in rapid sequence. Her ships moved. Old ships. Good crews. People she had bullied, trained, cursed, and shaped. People she was now about to spend. 

Li looked at Shanxi one last time. 

Then at the red swarm closing across the void. 

“One hundred thousand kilometers,” Cherry reported. 

Just outside ideal MAC range. 

The enemy knew. Of course they knew. Li inhaled slowly. 

“Charge spinal MACs.” 

Darius looked at her. 

“Captain—” 

“They were warned.” 

Cherry’s head tilted. 

“Energy spike will confirm hostile intent from their perspective.” 

“They came here with two hundred ships, Cherry.” 

“Point conceded.” 

Li’s voice hardened. 

“All ships, fire as targets enter range. ODPs prepare synchronized volley.” 

The bridge tightened. 

Every officer seemed to hold one collective breath. 

Li watched the range tick downward. 

Ninety-eight thousand. 

Ninety-six. 

Ninety-four. 

The enemy fighters spread wider. The red formation opened like claws. Cherry’s voice cut through the silence. 

“Enemy attack vectors are resolving. They are moving to envelop.” 

Li nodded once. 

“Then let’s introduce ourselves properly.” 

She raised her hand. 

The range crossed ninety thousand kilometers. 

“Open fire.” 

Shanxi High Orbit, Iota Persei System 

September 10th, 2649GST 

Galactic Standard Time  

The first human volley tore open the void. 

For one brilliant second, the planet’s orbit became a geometry of light: white-hot MAC trails, coilgun streams, and missile exhausts stitching across the blackness of the void. 

Then the Turian formation began to die. 

THS Septinus vanished first. 

One moment the frigate was banking hard along the outer attack vector, engines burning blue-white as it tried to cut across the human firing line. The next, a MAC slug from one of the stations hit amidships and turned seven thousand tons of military hardware into an expanding smear of molten alloy, atmosphere, and bodies. 

THS Quinruns lasted half a second longer. 

THS Caetis tried to roll beneath the incoming fire and almost made it. 

Almost. 

A human MAC round punched through its bow and exited through the drive section. Its eezo core flared, stuttered, then ruptured in a blossom of blue fire. 

THS Furivea, Ditiria, Secvius, Flacia, and Titus followed in sequence, their icons blinking from blue to black on the tactical display of the Epyrus’s Fury. 

Commodore Lantar Kyrus watched them die without moving. 

Eight ships. 

Eight crews. 

One thousand two hundred turians.  

Gone in the opening exchange. 

Sorrow tightened beneath his keel plate. He allowed himself one breath to feel it. Only one. 

Then he crushed it down. 

“Status,” he ordered. 

His voice did not rise. 

That mattered. 

If the commodore panicked, the fleet would feel it. 

Decius stood beside the tactical table, eyes moving rapidly across the casualty reports. 

“Eight frigates destroyed. Four damaged. Human opening volley achieved approximately forty-seven percent direct-hit efficiency despite evasive maneuvers.” 

Someone hissed softly. Kyrus understood the reaction. Forty-seven percent at this range against maneuvering frigates was obscene. Not impossible. But obscene. 

“Their fire-control is better than projected,” Decius added. 

“No,” Kyrus said. “Their fire-control is exactly as good as we should have assumed after they killed the Edessan.” 

Decius accepted the correction with a sharp nod. 

The alien formation remained tight around the central dreadnought. Five orbital platforms continued to fire, each cannon cycling with industrial brutality. Their rate of fire was slower than Turian weapons, but every shot carried enough kinetic energy to make the tactical officers flinch. 

Kyrus studied the human defense grid. It was crude. Heavy. Overbuilt. And effective. 

“Range?” 

“Frigate screens entering optimal engagement envelope.” 

“Good.” Kyrus leaned forward slightly. The first volley belonged to the human. The next minute belonged to Turian engines. 

“All forward elements: concentrate fire on defense stations One and Two. Saturation pattern. Do not waste shots on the dreadnought.” 

The order rippled across the fleet. 

A hundred and seventy-eight Turian frigates fired as one. 

Their mass accelerator rounds crossed the distance like a storm of silver needles. Compared to the monstrous human slugs, each individual shot was smaller, cleaner, and more refined. 

But there were simply so many of them. The shields of Station One flared blue-white. Then brighter. Then violently red at the edges. 

The platform’s barrier collapsed under the combined assault, and the next wave struck bare armor. Plates buckled. Radiators shattered. A section of the outer habitation ring peeled away, venting atmosphere in a glittering cloud. 

Its central MAC fired once more before the barrel assembly cracked under internal damage. 

Station Two followed moments later. 

Its shield failed. Its hull split. Its massive spinal cannon died, locked at an awkward angle as secondary armaments continued firing defiantly from wounded mounts. 

No single Turian round would have killed the station. Not ten. Not fifty. But one hundred and seventy ships firing in disciplined sequence turned defense into arithmetic. 

Kyrus watched the scans as the unshielded platforms bled heat and debris. 

“Armor analysis,” he snapped. 

“Confirming now,” a sensor officer replied. “Hull composition resembles recovered alien cruiser material. Titanium-tungsten molecular reinforcement. Thickness approaching one meter in primary sections.” 

One meter. 

On an orbital gun platform. Kyrus’s mandibles tightened. No wonder they had taken so much to kill. 

“They build everything like bunkers,” Decius muttered. 

“Then we treat everything like a bunker,” Kyrus said. “Spread the fleet. Begin envelopment. Make them defend every angle.” 

The red formation opened wider. 

Around Shanxi, the 314 Patrol Fleet began to surround the human wall. 

The bridge of the Washington was no longer quiet. 

It had become a living thing made of shouted orders, alarms, damage reports, and controlled fear. 

“Sentinel One mission-killed!” 

“Sentinel Two reports primary cannon offline!” 

“Enemy corvette elements spreading to dorsal and ventral approach vectors!” 

“They’re trying to wrap around us,” Darius said sharply from beside the tactical table. 

“I can see that,” Li Ming snapped. 

Her voice was loud now. Not panicked. Never panicked. But sharp enough to cut steel. 

“Formation Lantern, tighten! All frigates collapse to inner shell. Cover blind spots. No one chases targets!” 

Acknowledgments came fast. 

The formation contracted around the Washington. The surviving frigates moved in close, tucking into overlapping arcs where their barriers and armor could reinforce one another. 

It sacrificed coverage. It preserved survival. For now. 

“Spinal MAC solution?” Li demanded. 

“Negative,” Cherry replied. “Enemy corvettes are inside practical spinal tracking range. They are deliberately knife-fighting.” 

“Of course they are.” 

The massive spinal gun that made Washington terrifying at long range was nearly useless now. The Turians had gotten too close and too spread out. 

Smart bastards. 

“Reroute fire-control priority,” Li ordered. “Hercules coilguns and Sentry autocannons take lead. Shield-breaker rounds for anything inside ten thousand kilometers. Missile pods on confirmed attack runs only.” 

Washington answered. 

Along the cruiser’s flanks, Hercules Naval Coilguns rotated in armored housings, their barrels glowing as they spat armor-piercing slugs into the swarm. Smaller Sentry autocannons joined them, firing shield-breaker rounds designed to rupture kinetic barriers with localized electromagnetic bursts. 

A Turian corvette took three Sentry bursts across its nose, its barrier flashing erratically. A Hercules slug hit a heartbeat later and cored the ship from bow to stern. 

“Kill confirmed,” Cherry said. 

“Good. Do that again.” 

“I am attempting to arrange it socially.” 

Li shot her a look. 

Cherry’s face remained severe, but there was the faintest trace of her old smirk. 

Good. 

If Cherry could still be irritating, the universe had not completely ended. 

“Can you get into their systems?” Li asked. 

Cherry’s eyes went distant. 

“I am attempting polite entry.” 

“Translation?” 

“They have many ships, decentralized systems, unfamiliar architecture, and annoyingly disciplined security protocols. Their flagship remains too far and too isolated for intrusion. And I don’t have direct physical access to their system, obviously.” 

“Can you do anything useful?” 

Cherry’s eyes gleamed. 

“I can attach a piggyback payload to several stray communication bursts. A viral architecture. It will not grant full control, but it may disrupt firing solutions, corrupt sensor feeds, and generally make them question the emotional stability of their computers.” 

“Can they detect it?” 

“Eventually. If they are clever.” 

Li grimaced. 

“Do it. But keep it asleep.” 

Cherry tilted her head. 

“You want me to plant a knife and wait?” 

“I want you to plant a knife and smile.” 

The AGI’s expression warmed. 

“How delightfully improper.” 

 Kyrus saw the human formation tighten. 

“They are withdrawing into the dreadnought’s defensive envelope,” Decius reported. 

“No,” Kyrus said. “They are accepting encirclement in exchange for mutual protection.” 

“An error?” 

“A choice.” 

The distinction mattered. 

The human captain understood her situation. Her ships could not outrun his. They could not outmaneuver his. Their advantage lay in armor, barriers, and brutal close-range fire. 

So, she had formed a shell. 

A very angry, very brutal shell. 

Kyrus watched two more Turian frigates die trying to press too aggressively into that shell. 

“Order the first fighter wing forward.” 

Decius relayed the command. 

Across the Turian formation, cruiser hangars opened. 

Dozens of strike craft poured into space, small and fast, each carrying disruptor torpedoes designed to bypass conventional kinetic barriers and tear through hulls with unstable mass effect shear. 

The weapons had killed pirates, batarians, krogan holdouts, and more than one Terminus warlord who believed their battleship solved all problems. 

Kyrus intended to test whether the humans believed the same. 

“Fighter wings are away.” 

“Target the dreadnought,” Kyrus ordered. “Strike through the gap between the lower cruisers. Frigate elements maintain pressure on outer escorts.” 

The attack vectors shifted. 

Kyrus saw it immediately. 

A slight imbalance on the human left flank. One escort taking too much fire. A name appeared beside the human icon, translated from intercepted markings. 

SSV Marathon. 

“Focus on that cruiser,” Kyrus said. “Break the shell.” 

 “The Marathon is taking concentrated fire!” 

The report hit the Washington’s bridge like a slap. 

Li turned toward the tactical table. 

The Marathon burned at the left edge of the formation, her barriers flickering under a storm of Turian fire. The Hastings-class frigate rolled hard, trying to keep fresh armor toward the enemy, but there were too many angles now. 

“Order Rahman to fall back behind Washington!” 

“Marathon reports drive damage,” Darius said. “She can’t clear the lane!” 

Li’s hands curled into fists. 

“Cherry, give him cover!” 

“I am already walking every point-defense turret I can spare across his vector.” 

The Washington’s lasers stabbed outward, cutting apart incoming missiles and striking at fighter craft as they began their run. 

Too many. There were too many.  

Marathon fired until the end. 

Her coilguns killed one Turian frigate and crippled another before the first disruptor torpedo hit. 

The weapon did not explode like a normal missile. 

Space around the Marathon’s midsection bent. Twisted. The ship’s kinetic barrier did nothing. Armor buckled inward as if a giant invisible hand had squeezed the hull. A second torpedo struck near the engines. Then a third. 

The Marathon broke. 

For a moment her spine held, stubborn Alliance engineering refusing to accept physics’ resignation letter. 

Then her reactor section split open. 

The ship became light. 

“Marathon lost,” Darius said, voice rough. “Escape pods launching. Some made it.” 

Some. Li hated that word. 

“Gap in formation!” Cherry snapped. “Enemy fighters exploiting.” 

“Point-defense, full autonomous! Light them up!” 

The Washington’s Guardian lasers came alive, sweeping across the incoming strike craft. Fighters vanished in bright pinpricks. Others jinked violently, shedding decoys and heat. 

Many died but enough survived. 

“Brace!” 

The torpedoes struck Washington. 

The bridge lurched hard enough to throw one crewman against his harness. 

Yellow light flared across the tactical display. 

Washington’s EM armor engaged. 

Unlike the blue shimmer of kinetic barriers, the electromagnetic armor burned gold-white, shaped fields locking down space-time distortions before they could tear into armor. 

The first torpedo died against the field. 

The second partially penetrated, carving a shallow wound through outer plating. 

The third detonated against the starboard bow and made the entire cruiser ring like a struck bell. 

“Damage?” 

“Outer armor scoring. Section Three deformation. No internal breach,” Cherry said, then added with offended dignity, “That was deeply unpleasant.” 

Li exhaled. 

“EM armor held.” 

“For now.” 

 Kyrus stared at the human dreadnought. 

The disruptor torpedoes should have bypassed its barrier. 

They had not. 

Instead the ship had flared gold. Not blue. Gold. 

“What was that?” Decius demanded. 

“Unknown shield system,” the sensor officer said quickly. “Not standard kinetic barrier. Mass effect signature abnormal. Electromagnetic field density extremely high.” 

Kyrus’s mind moved fast. 

Disruptor torpedoes worked by inducing violent localized mass effect shear. If the humans had created a system that countered that shear with electromagnetic stabilization… 

No. 

Not humans. His thoughts slid automatically into the familiar assumption. Prothean-derived. It had to be. A young species did not simply invent armor that ignored disruptor torpedoes. 

“Fighter wing damage?” 

“Severe, but attack delivered. Dreadnought remains combat effective.” 

Kyrus did not waste time being angry. Anger could come later. 

“Second and third fighter wings launch.” 

Decius blinked. 

“Against the dreadnought again?” 

“No. Target the escorts.” 

Understanding dawned on his face. 

“If only the central vessel carried this shielding—” 

“Then we kill everything that does not.” 

Decius straightened. 

“Yes, Commodore.” 

Kyrus pointed at the human formation. 

“Their smaller cruisers rely on conventional barriers. Disruptor torpedoes bypass them. Strip away the shell. Leave the dreadnought isolated.” 

The order went out. 

Fighters surged forward again. 

 The next ten minutes became slaughter. 

Not one-sided. Not clean. Not quick. Slaughter rarely was. 

The Washington killed ship after ship. Its coilguns tore through Turian frigates. Its autocannons shredded fighters that came too close. Missiles erupted across the void in overlapping waves. 

But the Turians kept coming. They did not break. They adapted. 

Every time Li found an angle, they shifted. Every time one attack vector died, two more opened. Their commander was using numbers not as a club, but as a net. 

And the net was tightening. 

“Fujigawa destroyed,” Cherry said. 

Li’s throat tightened. 

“Pods?” 

“Confirmed launch. Survival unknown.” 

A heartbeat later. 

“Changping has taken multiple torpedo hits. Reactor containment failing.” 

On the display, another blue icon died. Then another. Stalingrad and Orléans. One took a concentrated fire from dozens of corvettes. The other broke into two after another torpedo hit its midsection. 

Li stared at the tactical table. Four frigates remained. Two ODPs still firing. 

Washington at the center, wounded but alive. 

The formation was not collapsing. It had already collapsed. Everyone on the bridge knew it. 

Darius looked at her, waiting. The weapons officer looked at her, waiting. Even Cherry, for once, said nothing. Li felt Adam Williams’s voice in her memory. 

‘Run when dying stops being useful.’ 

Her duty was Shanxi. Her duty was also humanity. If she stayed, she could buy minutes. If she left, she could deliver the data. Fleet composition. Weapon behavior. Fighter doctrine. Torpedo reading. Shield vulnerabilities. Turian response patterns. Everything Hackett needed. Everything Arcturus needed. 

Li looked down at Shanxi. At the world she was about to abandon to its fate. Her chest hurt. 

Then another Turian corvette died under Washington’s guns, and the vindictive part of her—the part that remembered Cannae, White Mountain, Marathon, Fujigawa, Changping, Stalingrad, Orléans—refused to simply run. 

Not cleanly. Not politely. 

“Cherry.” 

“Yes, Captain?” 

“Can you calculate a tactical slipspace wake?” 

For the first time in Li Ming’s career, Cherry looked genuinely dumbfounded. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“You heard me.” 

“Unfortunately, yes.” 

“Can you do it?” 

Cherry stared at her. 

“Captain, that maneuver exists in a theoretical appendix written by Victor Fedorov after what I strongly suspect was excessive caffeine consumption.” 

“Can you calculate it?” 

“Technically.” 

“Good.” 

“Good? No. Not good. This is the opposite of good. This is taking a chainsaw to space-time and asking four smaller ships to surf the blood spray.” 

Li pointed at the tactical display. 

“We need to break contact. We need to hurt them first. And we need to get the data out.” 

Cherry stared at her for one more second. 

Then her expression sharpened. 

“The Chronos II Engine will require five minutes to charge for a tactical rupture large enough to create a stable wake. The remaining frigates must tuck directly behind Washington’s transition vector and match thrust precisely.” 

“If they miss?” 

“They become exotic radiation smeared across several dimensions.” 

Li opened squadron comms. 

“Remaining ships, this is Washington Actual. Prepare for Wake maneuver. Form behind my vector. Match burn exactly. No deviation. And prepare slipspace capacitors for emergency random-vector jumps after exit.” 

For a second, there was only silence. 

Then Commander Okafor’s voice came through. 

“Uh, Trafalgar copies. That is insane, Captain.” 

“Objection noted.” 

“We’re doing it anyway?” 

“Yes.” 

A pause. 

“Understood.” 

Li looked at Cherry. 

“Wake the virus.” 

Cherry smiled. This time it was vicious. 

“With pleasure.” 

 Kyrus knew victory was his. 

The human formation had been broken. More than half of their ships were gone. Their orbital platforms were dying. The dreadnought remained dangerous, but alone it could not hold orbit forever. 

Then the human ships moved. 

Not toward Shanxi. Not toward the relay. 

Behind the remains of the last two defense platforms. 

“Are they retreating?” Decius asked. 

“No,” Kyrus said slowly. 

Every instinct he possessed went cold. 

The humans had no escape vector. His fleet blocked orbital lanes. His ships controlled the approach corridors. If they attempted standard FTL, mass effect buildup would be obvious and easily interdicted. 

Then the alarms began. 

Not tactical alarms. 

Electronic warfare alarms. 

“Commodore!” The communications officer shouted. “Firewall breach!” 

Kyrus turned sharply. 

“Source?” 

“Unknown. Malicious code spreading through fleet communication relays!” 

Decius looked toward the tactical table. “Affected ships?” 

The officer’s face darkened. 

“All of them.” 

Kyrus went very still. 

Impossible. No. Not impossible. Unknown. 

“How?” 

“It was dormant, sir. Embedded in routine signal traffic. It activated simultaneously across the fleet.” 

On the display, targeting solutions began flickering. Sensor ghosts appeared. Frigate elements reported false contacts. Several ships lost synchronized fire-control for precious seconds. 

Fluid. Adaptive. Too fast for normal code. Too clever for ordinary electronic warfare. Kyrus felt the pieces fall into place with a coldness that reached his bones. 

Their translation speed. Their real-time coordination. Their target solution. 

“AI,” he whispered. 

The word silenced the bridge. 

Decius stared at him. 

“Sir?” 

“They are using artificial intelligence.” His voice came out with surprising harshness. 

For a moment, no one spoke. 

The Geth haunted every navy in Citadel space. 

The quarians had created servants who rebelled and lost their homeworld for it. Billions had paid for their arrogance. The Citadel had written laws in the ashes of that lesson. 

And these humans had placed AI aboard warships. A communication window opened. General Desolas Arterius appeared, his expression burning with grim triumph. 

“You see it now, Commodore?” 

Kyrus disliked the satisfaction in his voice. 

“They use forbidden technology. They open dormant relays. They build warships with Prothean secrets and arm thinking machines. This is not merely a military threat. It is a civilizational infection.” 

Kyrus said nothing. He hated the phrasing. He hated that part of him agreed. 

AI could not be allowed unrestricted reign in combat networks. If the humans had normalized it—if every ship carried one— 

The danger was larger than just one colony. Larger than one battle. 

“Countermeasures,” Kyrus ordered. “Sever nonessential fleet links. Local fire-control only. Continue attack.” 

Decius hesitated. 

“That will reduce coordination.” 

“I know.” 

“It will increase casualties.” 

“I know.” 

The words came harder this time. 

“Do it.” 

Then another alarm screamed. 

“Electromagnetic radiation detected!” 

Kyrus snapped toward the display. Ahead of the human dreadnought, space tore open. Not a mass effect distortion. Not relay transit. 

A wound in reality itself. 

Dark blue light unfolded in an impossible spiral. Radiation spiked. Gravity readings screamed nonsense. The human dreadnought accelerated toward the rupture, four surviving cruisers tucked dangerously close behind it. 

“What is that?” Decius whispered. 

Kyrus had no answer. The human ships vanished into the vortex. Then the wound collapsed. For one frozen second, the bridge did not move. 

Then another officer shouted. 

“Electromagnetic radiation! Aft vector!” 

Kyrus’s eyes widened. 

No. Impossible. 

“Evasive maneuvers! Now!” 

And the Epyrus’s Fury shook violently. 

 Li Ming had heard about slipspace wake once. 

Her grandfather had told her the story when she was sixteen and pretending not to be impressed by anything adults said. 

Victor Fedorov, apparently, had once claimed that a smaller vessel could ride the spatial disturbance left behind when a larger ship tore into slipspace. If timed perfectly, the smaller ship could “surf” the wake without opening a full independent transition. 

Li had asked if anyone had tried it. Her grandfather had snorted. 

‘No little tiger. Sensible people enjoy not becoming radiation stains.’ 

Now the Washington re-entered realspace behind the Turian formation, and Li decided sensible people were overrated. 

The bridge flashed with emergency lights. Every surface screamed warnings. Cherry was screaming too. Not literally. Almost. 

“I would like it entered into the record that this was a stupid idea!” 

“Did it work?” 

“We are not smeared across eleven dimensions, so apparently!” 

“Good. Broadside!” 

Darius was already shouting. “All starboard batteries ready!” 

The tactical display cleared. The Turian rear formation filled the screen. Their frigates had remained safely behind the engagement line, outside human MAC range. They were no longer safe. 

“All weapons,” Li shouted, “FIRE!” 

The Washington unleashed hell. 

Broadside coilguns hammered the nearest Turian cruiser. Missiles followed, ripping into exposed engine vanes. The first cruiser tried to turn and instead took a MAC round through its aft section, its drive flaring before the ship tore itself apart. 

The four surviving Hastings frigates fired as they emerged from the wake. Their volleys struck the unsuspecting Turian rear elements from behind, smashing through lighter frigates that had been facing the wrong direction. 

For a few glorious seconds, the Turians bled. 

Then Kyrus recovered. 

“Damn,” Li muttered despite herself. “Bird-face is good.” 

“Enemy flagship maneuvering,” Cherry snapped. “They are turning faster than expected.” 

“Remaining frigates, execute random-vector slipspace jumps. Now.” 

Okafor’s voice snapped back. “What about Washington?” 

“We’ll follow.” 

“That is not the answer, Captain.” 

“It is the answer you’re getting. Go.” 

One by one, the surviving Hastings ships opened smaller slipspace ruptures and vanished. Li watched them go with fierce relief. Then only Washington remained. 

“How long until recharge?” 

Cherry’s expression was sour enough to curdle milk. 

“Five minutes.” 

Li stared at her. 

“You said two earlier.” 

“That was before you forced the ship to commit crimes against physics.” 

“Can we survive five?” 

Cherry looked toward the red swarm turning toward them. 

“No.” 

“Three?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Then make it three.” 

The Epyrus’s Fury shook hard enough to throw Kyrus against the restraint of his command seat. 

“Rear shields collapsing!” Decius shouted. “Hull breach on decks nine through twelve! Two cruisers destroyed, one crippled!” 

Kyrus gripped the armrest, fury burning through shock. 

They had been behind him.  

Behind him. 

The humans had vanished from his forward arc and reappeared at his fleet’s throat. Now the smaller vessels were escaping into those impossible wounds in space. Only the dreadnought remained. 

“Turn us around!” Kyrus roared. “All ships, destroy that spirit-damned dreadnought!” 

Decius was already relaying orders. 

“All vessels, converge fire! Frigate elements pursue! Cruisers engage at will!” His fleet obeyed. 

Frigates swung back. Cruisers brought main guns to bear. Fighters redirected. 

The human ship kept firing. 

Its golden shield flared again and again as Turian fire slammed into it. Blue kinetic impacts sparked against armor. Disruptor torpedoes detonated in violent gravitational bursts. The human ship endured like a fortress refusing to acknowledge siegecraft. 

A MAC round from the dreadnought struck a Turian frigate amidships and turned it into a white fireball. 

Another shot reduced a damaged frigate to expanding scrap. 

Kyrus watched it take hit after hit. Its golden shield flared like a dying star. Turian rounds hammered into its armor. Fighter torpedoes struck and broke against the strange electromagnetic field. 

It refused to die. 

Spirit of Palaven, the thing refused to die. 

“Thirty seconds!” Cherry shouted. 

The bridge bucked violently. 

Li caught the tactical rail with one hand. 

“Keep firing!” 

Washington’s first MAC fired. 

A Turian frigate vanished. 

“Twenty-five!” 

The second MAC fired. 

A smaller ship broke apart into spinning fragments. 

“Twenty!” 

The Hercules batteries cycled again. Missiles streaked from battered launch tubes. Point-defense lasers, meant for fighters, joined the killing simply because there were too many targets and too little time. 

“Fifteen!” 

Cherry’s voice sharpened. “Shield sections three, five, and eleven down!” 

“Rotate armor facing!” 

“Trying!” 

The ship lurched again. 

A console exploded near the rear bridge stations. Someone screamed. Medical crew moved before Li could even turn. 

“Ten!” 

“Hull breach section five!” Darius shouted. “Emergency forcefields holding!” 

“Seven!” 

Another impact threw everyone sideways. 

“Five!” 

Li looked once at Shanxi on the tactical display. Not the planet itself but the icon on her holomap. The blue-green sphere behind enemy lines. 

“Four!” 

General Williams, you stubborn old bastard. 

“Three!” 

Hold. 

“Two!” 

Please hold. 

“One!” 

Space opened and the Washington fell into blue darkness. 

Silence returned to the bridge of the Epyrus’s Fury slowly. Not real silence. Alarms still sounded. Damage reports still came in. Officers still shouted. 

But to Kyrus, it all seemed distant. He sank back into his command seat and stared at the place where the human dreadnought had been. 

Gone. 

Not through the relay. Not by mass effect FTL. 

Gone. 

The evidence assembled itself in his mind with terrible clarity. The strange mass readings. The lack of sufficient eezo core signatures. The absurd armor. The way their ships carried mass like they did not need to pay the normal price for it.  

They had another method of FTL. 

The humans were not bound to relays. The realization chilled him more than the casualties.  

Desolas was speaking over the comm. Something about tracking. Something about contamination. Something about AI. 

Kyrus barely heard him. 

His fleet had won the field. Shanxi's orbit belonged to the Hierarchy.  

But the enemy had escaped. With their impossible ship. With their impossible FTL. Kyrus covered his face with one hand and exhaled through clenched mandibles. 

“Shit...” 

 Washington re-emerged light-years from Shanxi. 

Not gracefully. 

The cruiser tumbled out of slipspace bleeding atmosphere, heat, and radiation ghosts. 

For three seconds, the bridge had no gravity. 

Then the emergency systems caught and slammed everyone back into their seats. 

Li tasted blood. 

“Status,” she rasped. 

Cherry appeared beside the tactical table, hair slightly disheveled in a purely cosmetic display of outrage. 

“We are alive.” 

“Useful detail.” 

“Barely.” 

“Better detail.” 

“Slipspace drive is offline. EM armor offline. Half the starboard batteries are slag. Forward MAC one is offline. Main reactor stable but very offended. Hull breaches contained. Casualty reports incoming.” 

Li closed her eyes. But they were alive. 

The surviving frigates had scattered to random coordinates. The data package was intact. Shanxi was behind them. 

Shanxi. 

Her hands tightened. General Williams was still down there. Millions were still down there. She had left them. 

No. 

She had obeyed orders. She had preserved the data. She had preserved what remained of her squadron. 

Those facts helped. But they did not comfort. 

“Cherry,” Li said quietly. 

“Yes, Captain?” 

“Prepare the full combat package. Every sensor record, every weapon reading, every telemetry scrap. Compress and encrypt. Send it to Commodore Hackett. Then Arcturus. Then Third Fleet Command.” 

Cherry’s expression softened by half a degree. 

“Already compiling.” 

Li looked toward the empty tactical display where Shanxi should have been. 

She was not a religious woman. Not really. But for one moment, Captain Li Ming closed her eyes and prayed anyway. For Williams. For Shanxi. For the people trapped beneath alien guns. Then she opened her eyes. 

“Send the package.” 

Cherry nodded. 

And across the dark between stars, carrying the shape of humanity’s first true war with the galaxy, the message began to fly. 

A/N: This is the first time I have ever written a space battle scene. I hope you all enjoy it. Any feedback is appreciated. 

Anyway, chapter 13 will be posted on August 1st. Thank you all for your supported for this story and myself. Hope you all wonderful people the best.