Deep within the abyss, over a million kilometers from the main battleground,in the abyss of space, Corporal Marcus Chen gazed through the reinforced porthole at the scene before him, which resembled a scene from hell. It wasn't the fiery explosions of a movie, but the stark, cold reality of the vacuum of space: countless pieces of metal debris scattered in the darkness, reflecting starlight like shards of broken glass—a scene of chilling silence and desolation.
A humanoid silhouette tumbled slowly, drifting past the viewport. It had no helmet, its face long since ruptured by the low pressure of the vacuum, a ruin of flesh and blood. But the deep blue patch of fabric on its chest—the color of a Federation Navy uniform—stung Marcus’s eyes.
“Fuck,” the word caught in his throat, as if sucked away by the void.
No one on the bridge spoke. The low-frequency vibration of the engines echoed between the bulkheads, mixed with the hiss of the life support system. The 22-year-old navigator tried to slow his breathing. The air was thick with a tense silence.
“All hands, listen up,” the voice of the captain, Major Thomsen, came over the comms, weary but firm. “Prepare to enter fire control range. Check your gear.”
Marcus's palm rested on the metal control panel. The cold touch chilled him to the bone, but it was insignificant compared to the icy feeling in his heart. The Pioneer spacecraft's inertial damping system was silently operating, its 1GW proton-boron-11 fusion reactor powering an electromagnetic field that countered the 23.5G peak acceleration generated by the ship's lateral maneuver (a velocity change of +2.3 km/s). His Martian gene-mods allowed his bones and cardiovascular system to withstand high-g for short periods, but without this invisible protection, he would have been crushed into a pulp of flesh and blood long ago.
890,000 Kilometers from the Main Battlefield
The Vanguard stabbed toward the flank of the Imperial fleet at a velocity of 2,500 km/s. Forty-three ships of the Federation Defense Fleet, like a swarm of fearless hornets, swept across 1.05 million kilometers of space; in six minutes, they would be in main cannon range. Major Thomsen monitored the battlefield reports via quantum-comms (Q-COMMS), the low 0.12s latency making every command as crisp as a blade’s edge.
“Vanguard, this is Perseverance, actual,” Colonel Miller’s voice came through the static, steady as a rock. “Enemy ships are turning to engage. Estimate entry into weapons range in six minutes.”
Marcus scanned the young faces on the bridge—the 19-year-old weapons officer, the 22-year-old comms officer—their eyes held both fear and resolve. They all knew the coming battle would be a trial by fire and blood.
“All ships, execute swarm dispersal,” Miller’s command was so cold it was almost merciless. “Maintain 2,000-kilometer separation, random maneuver mode. Let the Imperial bastards deal with the headache.”
On the tactical display, 43 blue icons scattered abruptly, like a startled flock of birds, yet hiding a carefully calculated chaos. Each ship executed random burns of Δv 0.5–1.0 km/s, accumulating to +2.3 km/s to complete the flanking maneuver. Fusion nozzles spat out incandescent plasma, drawing elegant arcs against the black curtain of space.
[JANUS MESH] SYNC: OK｜Q-COMMS LAG: 0.12s｜FEC: LDPC(2048,1024)｜RETRY: 1–2[ENEMY FCS] PRECISION: DEGRADED → SWITCH: AREA SUPPRESS｜SPREAD: 0.7°｜KILL PROB @2e6 m: 0.12
Imperial Battleship Conqueror, Fire Control Center
“Damned Federals!” Major Radrich, the fire control officer, grit his teeth. The tactical screen was a mess of turbulence. Forty-three targets jumped like ghosts. Every time the fire control system locked onto a Federation ship, it would slide away on an unpredictable trajectory, rendering the ballistic solution instantly obsolete.
“Sir, the main battery can’t maintain a stable lock,” his deputy said in a low voice. “Recommend switching to area suppression fire.”
“Forget elegance, switch to shotgun mode,” Radrich nodded. The Imperial fleet began to fire wide-beam volleys, like trying to hit a fly with a shotgun—crude, but they had no other choice.
Terran Commonwealth, Epsilon Prime, Garipan — War Planning Department
In the command room, the air was as heavy as lead. Everyone held their breath, watching the holographic tactical array—the “living data-verse.” The blue icons represented the Epsilon Sector Defense Fleet, 43 light cruisers and obsolete destroyers weaving through the periphery of the massive Imperial formation.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“Sir,” the tech officer Leo’s voice was tinged with suppressed excitement, “they’ve used a chaotic swarm tactic and completely disrupted the Imperial cruisers’ fire control!”
On the screen, the weaker fleet, like a disturbed swarm of bees, scattered and then regrouped, their cunning tactics throwing the Imperial fleet's firepower deployment into chaos. The Draconia Empire's cruisers lost their ability to coordinate their attacks; by the time they could readjust their targets, the Federation fleet had already vanished into another sector of space. Janus Core, through Q-COMMS, synchronized the trajectory and status of every ship in real-time, maintaining distributed coordination even under the interference of a [SIG] EW BLOOM ↑, allowing the 43 ships to act as a single will.
At the same time, the First Combined Fleet’s decisive battle reached its climax. After losing 40% of their combat power, their mixed-class group tore open the Imperial battle line. An Imperial carrier was turned to scrap under concentrated fire, its fusion core detonation spewing high-velocity debris and an electromagnetic pulse like a grotesque firework, which crippled the command systems of the flagship hidden within the formation.
The Imperial fleet’s morale collapsed. Without unified command, the battered battleships began to retreat—the Federation’s “unreasonable” fighting style had shattered their elegance, caught between swarm algorithms and raw courage.
The battle reports instantly streamed back to the command center. Good news came from the ground as well; several of the besieged cities had successfully broken out, and the offensive in the Garrow Hill sector was visibly weakening.
Jack had been staring at the hologram array for so long that his eyes felt like sandpaper. He had barely slept all night. The continuous coffee had made his throat dry, and his voice was unconsciously hoarse when he spoke. The hum of the air purifier, the drip of the coffee machine, Leo's rapid typing on the keyboard, and the soft murmurs of the staff in the control center—all these sounds blended together to create a kind of background noise.
[BATTLESPACE TELEMETRY] UPDATE 17:23:45SECTOR DEFENSE FLEET: 31 SHIPS ACTIVE｜6 LOST CONTACTUFS IRON HAMMER: HULL 73%｜REACTOR: NOMINAL｜CREW 847UFS STALWART: SHIELD BREACH｜MAIN BATTERY: 67%[CASUALTY ESTIMATE] 1,247 KIA｜892 MIA｜RISING
Every number was a face frozen in his mind. Jack knew this, but he forced himself to switch back to a technician’s brain—failure rates, loss ratios, overload points. He also knew that as the “coward” of thirteen escapes, he was relatively safe in the command room; this subtle sense of relief made his chest burn. He suppressed the feeling: shame was a luxury he couldn’t afford right now.
“Jack,” General Carrick approached, his face like granite. “The Defense Fleet’s swarm tactic exceeded expectations. How much longer can they hold out?”
Jack glanced at the attrition curve and the degree of formation disruption, his voice slightly hoarse. “At the current loss rate, about twelve minutes. But they’ve already torn the Imperial formation to shreds. The First Combined Fleet—they have a chance to break through.”
Carrick showed no sign of celebration. He walked to the hologram array, his eyes nailed to the burning starscape. “Gentlemen, the Defense Fleet bought us time with their lives, and the First Fleet has opened a breach. But this is just the beginning. The enemy’s main force is still intact, the threat is not eliminated. I am now ordering every research office to submit a new operational plan within sixty minutes, to capitalize on our current advantage and expand our gains. No one is leaving.”
The command center, like a machine wound tight again, returned to full power. The generals pulled Nya aside for an emergency closed-door meeting.
Jack caught her eye across the crowd—clear and steady, like a single star in the fires of war. The plans, the reports, the positions in his mind were instantly wiped clean. A primitive and selfish thought surfaced: I have to talk to her, now.
He moved through the bustling crowd, heading straight for the general’s office, but was blocked by the confidential secretary, Yuna. Her expression was all business. “The generals are handling an urgent matter, Lieutenant. There’s no time to see you.”
“It’s urgent, I’ll only be a minute,” he said, trying to keep his breathing even, his hoarse voice laced with exhaustion.
Yuna frowned, about to block him again, but Jack had already turned and jogged back to his quarters, rummaging through a pile of junk to find the “Star of Obsidian.”
When he returned to the office door, he ran right into Nya, who was coming out with a file. Their eyes met. He didn't know what to say. Nya smiled faintly. “I’ll be out in a minute, we can talk then.”
“Right, I’ll wait for you out here,” he nodded, trying to restrain the eagerness in his tone.
Nya went back inside. Jack paced back and forth outside the door, his voice dry as he said to Yuna, “I won’t interfere with their work.”
“Lieutenant Jack, this is not a place to wait for a date,” Yuna said coldly. “Please have some self-respect.”
He couldn’t be bothered to argue. He pinned the “Star of Obsidian” to his chest. Yuna’s expression shifted from annoyance to shock.
“Come in,” Carrick’s voice came from inside. Jack pushed the door open. Several generals and Nya were gathered around the desk. Seeing him, Nya almost couldn’t keep a straight face—she saw the jet-black medal on his chest at a glance.
(The Star of Obsidian: the Federation’s highest medal for top-secret contributions, with fewer than ten living recipients on the active-duty roster.)
The generals, including Carrick, snapped to their feet and saluted Jack.
Nya was completely stunned: how could this medal, a name that only existed in legends, be on the chest of this shameless scoundrel?
Carrick lowered his hand, a rare smile on his face. “Lieutenant Jack, you’re just in time. We have a mission for you.”
“Yes, General,” he answered steadily, a hint of cunning in his hoarse voice, as he subtly shifted half a step closer to Nya.
(HUD: CAST LOT // LONG THROW // SEED A9C // RESULT: PROCEED)
