Sitting above the rows of displays and computers sat the Chief-General Torlak. Beside him was Orlin, the former commander of the super station in geosynchronous orbit of their capital city, Artray.

Orlin commanded and organized the offense, while Torlak dealt with the defenses. They had a plethora of ships to defend against attack, and he wished he could supplement his forces from the border worlds. He knew if he did that, it would leave their borders wide open for an attack by the Union. As far as he was aware, the Border Fleets knew little of the conflict that arose in the heart of their empire, save for what speeches were sent to them via the official network. But that would have to be an item for later discussion.

It didn’t take long for their enemy to appear in orbit after wiping out his old fleet that he had sent to intercept them. They were able to interpolate the data provided to them by the icons identifying friend and foe. The command center watched the battle unfold, utilizing the live feeds provided to them from their late comrades. And instead of mourning for them, Torlak, and Orlin, took this chance to strategize a counter, with Orlin the first to speak.

“We have no doubt, made the enemy expend their weapons store drastically,” he stated, noting how long the battle lasted and utilizing a calculation to estimate shots fired from the enemy, “If we strike while they rest, I’m sure we can destroy them!”

It was a sound strategy for Torlak, and he considered it, but ultimately denied a secondary offensive, “We can't afford to divert any more ships from orbit. To do so could spell disaster for us. Recall all available fighters from the surface to aid in orbit defenses.”

“As you command, Chief-General,” replied Orlin.

To others, the call to re-task planetary fighters was an odd one, but many sided with Torlak on his decision. As their enemy is only known to be coming from space, it made sense to redirect fighters to Orbit, rather than wait on the surface. This boosted their totals for fighters, and that was the end of that.

“Prepare a quick response fleet, Orlin, for when the enemy enters Sella’s influence,” Ordered Torlak.

The purpose for the quick response fleet was simple; be the first fleet to engage the enemy, and relay all information relating to the enemy so that command can better adjust for aberrations in the enemy’s strategy. He had analyzed what little he could from their encounters, but one thing remained true.

“Orlin, relay to all capital ships that engage with the enemy this: Keep your ship moving, and keep out of range of their bow and broadsides,” mentioned the Chief-General.

“How should they approach, then?” questioned Orlin, as he prepared his message.

“My suggestion is to maintain a heading at forty-five degrees from the bow,” Torlak began, “The enemy employs a devastating weapon that runs the spine of their larger ships. It’s fixed, so the ship must maneuver to land a shot,” his explanation began to gather a crowd of the fledgling Chiefs who worked aboard the station.

“Many of their frigate class ships field a large array of cannons on their broadside. By using this heading, we can minimize damage to acceptable levels for ship shielding,” The crowd before him were awed by his tactical analysis and stratagem against an unknown enemy.

“What are they like?” spoke one Chief, his promotion scarf still fresh from its package. The question also garnered support from like-minded individuals, as many have never been in combat with the enemy.

Torlak looked at Orlin, who only shrugged, prompting him to answer, “They are a fierce race. Ruthless, calculating, and what we’ve seen so far, efficient.” He took a moment to gauge his audience before continuing.

“Their weapons are primitive in concept, but it is a medium that they have perfected. I have seen rounds from their ballistic cannons melt a ship’s hull. That’s right, melt. Not torn to shreds by high-explosives, but turned to molten slag, with a fire that persisted even in the void!”

Torlak grew passionate, yet ultimately fearful, of the Terran use of munitions. If anything, they revolutionized his view of ship weaponry. If they weren’t in their current predicament, then perhaps his military could have developed weapons as effect as the Terrans.

“If there's one thing I respect about them, it is their weapons technology. Which is why you don’t underestimate your opponent.”

They agreed with a collective shout of affirmation, then returned to their stations when they found their curiosity satisfied. Orlin, on the other hand, creeped beside Torlak who began to work on a defense plan, and spoke to him softly to keep curious eyes from listening in.

“Are the Terrans really as bad as Polas made them out to be? What exactly did they do?”

The question caught him off guard, but he matched his friend’s tone, and delivered his explanation in a low whisper, “I do not know, nor do I care,” he replied. His words stinging like a whip, “Just know what you ask is in defiance of the council. Perhaps, even the spirit of the Fathers.”

Orlin recoiled back to the sudden shift in demeanor of his fellow War Chief, “I only ask to better know our enemy.”

“It would be best if you drop it, old friend,” Torlak replied, “nothing good will come of this exchange. I did what, I thought, was best for our empire, and it was the council who deemed these beings as subject for extermination. I am ashamed of my defeat, and for that, they knock on our doorstep,” Torlak no longer minded his tone, and spoke his mind.

Orlin responded calmly, maintaining a saintly disposition, “Very well, Tor. What’s done is done. It appears they come to destroy our home, and I can’t let that happen. I will ensure that I operate as a Chief-Commander should and fend them off. Perhaps after, we can reconcile-”

Before Orlin could finish, alarms blared from a Chief on the lower level of where Torlak sat, and directed his attention to the large monitor at the front of the command center. The indicators of the enemy that were sighted in the Teela Belt were gone, and the cluster of red indicators formed towards the west, in the space above the plains west of the city. Now was not the time for him to rest, and as ordered, gave the order to sortie fighters to aid with the response fleet.

From the displays, he saw the enemy ships form in a way that the groups of Terran ships created a cubed formation, with their ships at the vertices of the imaginary cube. The distance was several hundred kilometers between each group, but allowed for them to send available troops from the nearest cluster. It was an odd formation, and one he had never seen before in all his time as a fleet commander.

“Chief-General!” called a crew member, “The response fleet had engaged perimeter forces, and are standing by for orders, and reporting enemy ships firing with broadsides.”

He expected the enemy to take out their ships with the spinal cannon, as was their usual tactic, but that was not the case here. And with a flare on the sensors, a small group of fighter sized ships departed from the center group. Crew analysts generated a predicted path which revealed his greatest fear,

“General, enemy transports are expected to land planet side, west of the city.”

“Direct fighters from the front to engage those ships. Don't let them touch down on the planet!” he ordered with fervor.

A flurry of fighters detached from the response fleet, as ordered, and flew towards their primary objective. A trail of exhaust exited the main vector nozzles, giving the ships an after-glow effect as they flew to their targets.

“When they’re in range, they are ordered to engage the enemy. Full weapon dispense is authorized. Leave none standing,” he ordered, with his command relayed as quickly as it was spoken.

Torlak watched on the grand display as the strike force of fighters closed on the enemy, most likely maxing out their thrust output at the cost of shields. He was once a pilot for fighters in his earlier days, and as he remembered, a fighter had to be able to juggle between three key systems; engines, shields, and weapons. Power cores for ships at the time were only capable of generating enough power to evenly grant the previously mentioned systems the minimum required power. So in a dogfight, shields, and weapons were chosen over engines while evasion favored shields and engines. This game was key with Union pilots, but his empire was barely a cut above most of their fighter pilots. A feat he prided himself in.

Smaller indicators began flashing, and a call from a chief on the lower row of monitors reported that the fighters had made contact with the enemy, but this time, more indicators flashed revealing an enemy approaching from their left flank.

“Chief-General, interceptors began firing against the transports but were intercepted by medium-class fighters,” reported the chief.

“How many did they send?”

“We hold the advantage, three-to-two,” they reported.

Torlak grumbled at the odds. From what the analysts had told him, a single Terran medium fighter could fend off two, if not three, small-class fighters on its own. It out matched them with armor and firepower, but for his ships, they had speed.

“Order the fighters to evade. They’re faster than the medium-class, and have them focus fire on vulnerable enemy ships.”

The chief nodded at his order and relayed them to the fighters currently en route. Not long after, another set of indicators rang, signaling that the fighters had engaged the enemy. In front of him, a moderately sized table was stationed, and with a press of a button, lit up to life and a close up of the battle generated before him.

It was a focused generation of the battle, but given a three-dimensional space. Using his fingers, he moved the battlefield to any orientation that suited him as he analyzed friend and foe alike. Aside from the glass surface, there was no real indication of depth beyond the holographic indicators that danced around each, save for a virtual graph that he manually input, giving the field of battle some form of depth.

The main display at the front of the command center remained the same, showing all locations of known enemy and friendly units. There were two other stations besides his own, but most of their ships were redirected to their capital. Because, should the enemy take over their space, then they could still defend the most vital city on the planet, the home of their Council.

“How are city defenses faring? Do we have enough ground troops to cover for the cannons?” asked Torlak, his questions answered by the most knowledgeable chief on the subject.

“We have a series of missile batteries along the walls, but to conserve power, we have them running at minimum until aerial sensors are tripped. As for ground troops, we have the inner city on patrol, and most of the residents have been evacuated.”

He was pleased with their explanation, but figured that troops should be on their way to the planet now if they don’t turn them into space debris. But, when he thought they had the edge was now quickly overturned with a new encounter.

As he saw, several Sellian fighters attempted to fire against the transports but were fended off by a greater force of Terran ships that fought desperately to defend the fighters. Their defense was enough to buy them enough time for a fresh batch of fighters to enter the fray. It was reported that they were small-class fighters, and their speed alone outmatched his just enough to sow discord and chaos among them. With many of his own fighters out of commission, and half of the original enemy intercept force also neutralized, the entry of more enemy fighters were enough to declare an early victory to the Terrans. He recoiled at the sight when his fighters dwindled one-by-one, until none were left.

With sensors detecting that all transports were still intact, he was ready to issue another wave of fighters immediately descend to the planet to engage them, alarms rang, causing him to pause his decision. It was in the opposite sector, a complete one-eighty degrees from the current field of battle. Reports from numerous War-Chiefs had begun flooding into his command center with calls to aid of the sudden arrival of enemy ships.

He was curious about their sudden appearance, since no notification was given of them entering or exiting sunlight travel. Another mystery to Terran technology that he sought to uncover. He issued a call from a Chief-Commander to give an immediate and prompt report.

“Chief-General!” the commander spoke.

“Commander Balon, what of the enemy?” he replied.

“I do not know, but the enemy appeared from nowhere! We kept a sensitive hand on the scanners, but their approach was too sudden. It was as if an IS Gate appeared before us then next thing we knew, the enemy appeared and began firing into our ships!”

“Orlin. Reroute fighters to support their sector. We must counter with an offensive. The time to drive off the enemy is now.”

He scanned the monitors nearest to him, as well as the ever-updating central display at the front of the room. A cluster of enemy ships were intermixed with his own, no doubt raining their hell fire against them, when he noticed the icons mixed with the enemy as familiar. They were icons given to all Sellian vessels when registered for the first time, and it was something hard-coded into the ship, should any Sellian turn against their own.

“Yorla…” he growled, “Get me a line with the traitor!”

A display to the left of the main display turned from black, to a female Sellian with light blue hair with black highlights tied into a high knot. Her skin was a fair pastel pink with a darker shade of markings.

“Heavy Cruiser Sword of Sellia, Chief-Commander Yorla…” he addressed her as she peered into his command center, “What is a traitor, like yourself, filing with the likes of the Terrans?”

“I have seen what our own have done to the Terrans,” she replied, “I thought we fought a war over this with the Union. Look at how far you’ve fallen, Torlak.”

Her tone as she spoke his grade stung through the air, causing many around him to look at his reaction, but did well to hide his discomfort. He had noticed on her person a change in headdress from her usual commander’s attire. It was more ornate than ones authorized for ship use, which garnered curiosity amidst his growing anger.

“I have noticed a change in headdress. Even for someone in your position, I would hope to think that you would at least keep to ship customs. Surely, you haven’t forgotten where we’ve come from?”

She placed her hand on the headdress that he was referencing. She gave a small smile, causing many around Torlak, himself included, to wonder why she would cast away even the most basic of ship customs.

“You see, Torlak. I have gone against Terran might, I have seen what they can do first hand when brought with no other choice than to retaliate. They have shown me the truth of what many of our brethren are complicit in. Instead of firing upon us when they could, I was instead presented with a chance to live.”

Her face was shown reminiscing of the event, even amidst the chaos that rang beyond their hulls, but she continued, her story gripping many within the command center. She continued.

“And yes, it is true. I have aided the Terrans in their campaign against the Council.” The mention of the council irked him, as the mention was nothing but pure treason, “I’m sure you noticed.” She motioned to her headdress once more, “But I am engaged, and to the very people you made war against, a Terran. The man I am betrothed to, also leads this attack in your eastern sector. Know this,” her conviction was evident in her stern, yet commanding voice.

“I will aid the Terrans, and the Council will fall.”

The call was cut leaving Torlak, and all those present, in silence, with only the hum of electronics filling the air. Torlak was the first to break the heavy silence with an order. An order of execution.

“Chief-Commander Yorla shall pay for her crimes. As will all who follow her. Orlin,” he turned to the stoic commander, “I want a force to take her down and turned to dust!”

He then turned to the rest of the command center that had remained silent to the exchange with both the General and the traitor Commander.

“Know this: the Terrans have played tricks to force a once loyal warrior of Sellia and the War Council, and turned her away from the very people she swore to protect. I will not let the poison of Terran lies fill her head any longer, nor should you all. They are a plague, and it is our duty to drive them from our home!”

The regular clamor before the hail had returned and the usual command vigor resurfaced. His persuasion had worked, and he could see that the young Chiefs were working harder than they were before. For a moment, he felt what it was like to be Councilman Polas, thinking to himself that he might even take his office after this is over.

But for now, he waited for Orlin’s task force to take care of Yorla, as well as reorganizing the sector of the new enemy fleet. He hadn’t felt much emotion before, but his interaction with Yorla had created a feeling of discontent he didn’t think he had in himself. He would use that to fuel his growing hate of the Terrans.

“Now isn’t the time to wait. Organize with the other Stations to supplement our forces. Crush the enemy from both sides,” ordered the General.

“But that would leave the other stations defenseless,” spoke a nearby Chief.

“They have cover from the Surface Cannons. Right now, we need to overwhelm our enemy. I doubt they have the stores to fight much longer. Don’t forget to send some fighters for those ships that entered the planet.”

The Chief consigned to his reasoning, and made the request. The effect was almost immediate, as numerous ships from the other two stations began their journey to their aid. They still had some time before they could make contact, but by then, it would spell defeat for the Terran menace. A victory he ached for, as did many loyal to Sella.

“Soon,” he began, directing his voice to those working in the command center, “We shall reign victorious over the Terrans, and we will strike at their home!”

As Torlak ordered, Junior and Senior Chief alike, rushed to their duties to quell the sudden Terran advance. Many still kept their minds sane, knowing that they held numerical advantage, but even he could see that many were on the verge of breaking under the pressure. So, he thought it, his responsibility to reinforce their home field advantage.

“My fellow Chiefs,” he began, “Keep your wits about you. While it is true, facing an enemy as terrifying as the Union, we cannot be the ones to let Sel’yia, our home, fall.” He mentioned their home in its ancestral tongue, forcing all to cease in their motion.

This was the first time many have heard it spoken out of ceremony, and even at a young age, had always known that to speak it when not in ceremony, was blasphemous. It would carve a stain on your name, and your family’s name, were it to be spoken in vain. But Torlak did so with reason.

“Mistakes have been made with our enemy, which has forced us to turn heel and run. Never has the Sellian Armada fled from combat; not with the Union, not with the Runians, and not with the Terrans! I can see it. You are all scared.”

He gauged the room, finding several silently nodding to his statement. While true that Sellians have a history of cracking under the most intense of pressure, they have always fared. The result of this being their faith in their superior officer, their Chief.

While many exist to command over small units, Chiefs are essential to the Sellian hierarchy. They were always the most cool-headed under all pressure, which is why any Chief who can attain War Chief status, is always looked upon in reverence.

“Many of you are but only Chiefs, be they junior or senior, but a Chief nonetheless. If you fail now, then do you truly have the right to become a War Chief?” Some nodded no, while others remained focused on his words.

“Then let this be your trial. Show to the War Council, no… to the Fathers! That you have the workings of a War Chief! The Empire of Sellia rests upon, not just our shoulders, but upon the countless others who fight in orbit of our grand home. Do your duty, and do so with the intent to save Sellia in its darkest hour.”

He then sat himself upon his command throne, winded of his exchange, but after its conclusion, the tone of the command center shifted. It was now a room worthy of being at the forefront of the theater.

“Nice speech, Tor,” spoke Orlin, taking his spot beside the weary Torlak, “I’m sure they’ll be doing their best to assist those on the front.”

“We are the front,” replied Torlak, “I can see why I miss my War Chief days. Things were simpler. You blew up a Toskan ship that had the bright idea of trying to work in a colonized system, then you went home for a bit. But as a Captain, or Commander? Forget having a life beyond a ship.”

Orlin laughed, “I can see why you turned down the promotions so much! Must be the wife then. With a beauty like her, even I would turn down the promotions, but alas,” he motioned to his wrapped Chief-Commander’s scarf, “My wife see’s little of me, but let me tell you, when I return home, well, let's just say we always have another on the way.”

His description intrigued Torlak, prompting him to ask, “How many would that make then?” Torlak’s eyes widened when Orlin began counting after the first hand.

“I think we’re on our tenth, or is it eleven? The latest is supposed to be twins, so I can only guess.”

“Have you thought of names yet? And where does she stay?” questioned Torlak.

“We have Alimor and Reska. Those are what the missus chose, and she’s staying with her parents on Yaren, in the Rella System. Beautiful place, but damn near costs me an arm and a leg every time she goes shopping.”

Torlak's face melted at how Orlin spoke of his family, with not a care in the world, as if they weren’t already in the thick of it. But he didn’t mind. It did well to reset his mind on what mattered. Of course, his expression soured when Orlin changed the topic to his family.

“So, you and Aleska, are you two settling for only the two? How are they doing?”

Torlak struggled to find the words, but settled on telling him as much of the truth as possible, in light of his most recent visit.

“They are well, last I saw them. Torlin turns five at the end of the month, and Alesa recently turned nine. And,” he turned closer to his friend, “we might be having another on the way.”

Orlin shared his excitement at his revelation, but saw how quickly his face turned distraught after the mention.

“But, I had tried to visit them before you summoned me here. She had left a note saying that they were headed to a bunker with the guards that the council offered for her protection. Needless to say, they were not home when I arrived.”

“Guards? Why would a Chief-General’s spouse need guards, on Sella, no less.”

“I don’t know,” Torlak replied, “but the War Council was adamant I have some.”

Orlin grumbled at the statement, knowing that questioning their motives was akin to treason, as disregarding their spoken word was akin to shaming the Father’s of Sellia themselves.

“I’ll make sure we keep an eye out for them, Tor,” his friend acknowledged the assist, knowing well that it was done out of consolation, or to at least turn his mind away from the worry. After all, a war of the ages fought beyond their hull.

When Torlak had returned to the holo-graphic display before him, he found it to be near flooded with friendly icons. As he saw it, friendly forces were easily treading on the Terran perimeter with the sudden influx of fighter support. Even with their superior firepower, their lines were faltering.

“How are the bombers faring against the enemy, Orlin?” inquired the Chief-General.

“With the help of the fighters, they have been able to severely cripple a terran warship that was holding much of our forces at bay. They can still fire, but we have been able to damage most of their cannons,” replied Orlin as he continuously scoured his station for constant updates of the battlefield. His position was used as an intermediary between the larger contingent of forces and fed them to Torlak in quick and digestible bits of information for an appropriate decision that could very well cost the lives of fellow Sellians.

“Keep bombarding them, their ammo should run short and their shields are sure to give. I doubt they can hit anything small with those cannons.”

The battle continued like an elephant trying to fend off a hoard of locusts. The smaller fighters swarmed the enemy ships, diverting resources for the enemy’s targeting, while the heavier craft fired their payload into the hull of the enemy. The shields lasted for some time, but when hit with a mix of capital ship deck cannons, bombers, and the constant bombardment of smaller ordnance, their shields faltered, allowing for a more decisive strike on the enemy.

As Orlin reported, it was a ship whose size was on par with their heavier combat ships. Surrounding it were smaller ships a size or two larger than their heaviest fighter, on par with their corvettes. They acted as a shield for the larger ships, counteracting against missiles and smaller fighters, while the larger ship fired its broadside cannons against the Sellian ships of a smaller scale. From what he saw, one of their heavy ships could waste nearly four of his own of the same size. For him, it was madness, and the enemy had several who could finish a small system by themselves.

“The enemy in the western sector has ceased firing from its cannons, they’re turning from the battle!” reported Orlin. It was another heavy frigate sized ship, that also had with it a contingent of smaller escorts, but on his display, saw that they were heading toward the center cluster of ships while many of the escorts remained. Effectively leaving them for dead since they lost the protection of their guardian. Torlak felt a sense of triumph over the enemy as one of their lines fell to the renewed Sellian onslaught.

“Erase the ships that remained and begin sending ships through the broken flank-” before he could continue, a Junior Chief from further down the rows of computers, called out urgently to him, silencing the room with his call.

“Chief-General, the enemy ships. They’re on a collision course with Chief-Commander Hayen.”

“Put me through to him now,” commanded Torlak. This was a new tactic from the Terrans he had not seen from them. They always had the upper hand in battles thus far, but he had not seen them when they were on the back-peddle.

When the call finally answered, Torlak was met with an aged man, with dark purple skin and black markings. His hair was beginning to gray from his once luster black, and wore a headdress from an age older than himself.

“What news do you bring, Chief-General?” the aged Sellian spoke.

“Those ships, fire on them now!” Torlak screamed to the monitor, only prompting confusion from the experienced commander.

“What brings this on, young one? Clearly it is a suicide charge, perhaps one made from the retreat of their large guardian. See? They even deployed life pods-”

The call with the Commander ended abruptly, leaving only static before an overlay with ‘SIGNAL LOST’ was displayed in the center of the monitor.

On a separate monitor, the view was shifted from simple geometry to one filled with color, and even sound. What they had seen made all those present, lose a partition of their sanity, if the loss of their voice wasn’t enough. It was a series of large explosions, or at least what he thought were explosions, and among the debris of his ships were the enemy escorts. Still battered, with many lost during the charge, but still present amidst his slain comrades.

Anger arose in Torlak, as it did in Orlin, while the remainder of the command center stood stupefied at the sudden loss of a prominent fleet. He then turned his attention to a small cluster of the heavy sized frigates that sat in between the central cluster, and the battlefield it had fled. He ordered a magnification of the center most ship in the cluster of three. Its size was just a bit bigger than the two that flanked it, but the scans revealed that it was indeed the same ship that fled. When focus was rendered on the ship, its name became apparent, sharing the same likeness in ship names to the other Terran ships he had known thus far.

“Graceful Wrath, huh,” he muttered, “Heh, how can one be graceful in their wrath against a foe?” he mulled over the meaning of its name, which seemed antithetical as a whole.

From what he could gather, the Graceful Wrath turned tail to feign retreat, and after regrouping with two small ships of similar design, rained fire on Chief-Commander Hayen and his forces.

“Those blasted cannons,” he said in defeat. The technology was foreign to him, even after already going against them before, if he could even say that he saw it. From what he remembered, during his conquest of Draxis, his fleet was attacked from above, with many of his ships falling victim to a single shot. The larger ships fell prey to large concentrations of shots from the mysterious weapon that seemed to plague all terran ships.

When he noticed the looks of his juniors before him, he gathered himself, issuing another set of orders, mainly to keep their minds off the sudden turn of events.

“Quick, send fighters to Hayen’s old position, finish off that flank. I doubt the enemy would waste a shot of their main cannon against an opponent a fraction of the size, and he was right; they didn’t fire. Instead, the only opposition the incoming fighters faced were the automated point defense system that did little to mitigate their advance. With a barrage of fighter ordnance, the enemy escort ships met their end. Shallow calls of celebration were made, knowing well that they lost more than the enemy did at that moment. But for Torlak, he found success elsewhere, that being with the attack on their far eastern flank against the traitor, Yorla.

A great deal of fighters began swarming the traitorous group, but many were held back from the destructive capability of the Terran vessels. Missiles were launched, with thin trails of smoke that followed, crashing into his fighters.

It didn’t help that the enemy force also had a well-armed detachment of fighters to disrupt the flow of combat. They were heavier, but just as maneuverable. It took several more fighters to take down a single medium-sized fighter. When compared to ships of his own, they were roughly the same size, but the mass from their scans identified that their ships had at least double the material for their size. He suspected that it was probably armor.

Torlak ordered for a strike team of capital ships, led by Commander Balon, to target Yorla, as he analyzed the screens before him as they executed his order. As they drew close, while also firing their main deck cannons, a ship came in between his strike force and the traitor’s ship. It was larger than some of the other ships that shared its silhouette.

It had an extra set of guns on its centrally placed outcrop, and boasted more armor around the engines and bow sections of the ship. The ship was identified as the TRSC Hell Hath No Fury; its translation still a mystery to him. He figured it was just another phrase lacking any true meaning, in essence, a waste of time and to find a translation that would matter to him. Its shields absorbed the plethora of plasma fire when the friendly ships ceased their attack, with one crewman noting that they had overheated their cannons.

“Then launch all their missiles! I will not let Yorla and her band of traitors remain in orbit!” Torlak ordered, his voice filled to the brim with anger.

The crewman did as they were told, and sensors indicated a rapid flurry of missiles being launched from the ships. He believed that even a wealth of missiles of that magnitude would devastate shields of the enemy’s capacity and prayed for Balon’s success. But before he could revel in its destruction, the indicators of the missiles began disappearing one after the other, with only a fraction actually connecting with the enemy.

“Chief-General,” spoke Balon, dejectedly, “Missile salvo was… unsuccessful,”

Torlak’s frustration peaked, but it was overshadowed by his confusion. A missile barrage of that size should have been impossible to counter. Mulling over the failed attack, a noticed several ships of the death squad and their shields plummet to zero, with their transponders disappearing shortly after.

“General! The enemy. We can’t see-” Balon’s transmission was cut abruptly, when his signal on the monitor disappeared, along with various others sharing a similar fate.

“W-What was that?!” inquired Orlin, “I didn’t get any readings of the enemy having fired missiles of their own.”

Torlak saw no indicators of a nearby enemy that could have intervened, so he relied on the eyes and ears of the fighters in the field, “Get with the fighters, and see if they can’t find out what took out that strike force.”

A crewman nodded and began issuing orders to the pilots. Torlak watched as their signals danced around the scrapyard of the forcibly resigned strike force, as they searched the area for the culprits.

It went without saying that the larger ship did them in, but that wasn’t was he was worried about. He was worried about who and what intercepted the missiles and took out the shields to the frigates he tasked to take out Yorla. But before he could get a report back, alarms blared, reducing the lighting of the room from the dingy blue, to a flashing red.

Before a report was generated among the crew, their station rocked, knocking those who were standing onto the ground.

“Status! What happened??” he demanded. A junior Chief was the first to speak, as they oversaw the station’s systems.

“Shields to the station have been hit! Eight-Two percent!” they reported, and the station rocked again, with the shields to the station lowering with every quake.

“What hit us then? An enemy ship?” he questioned, only to be met with denial from Orlin, as he shook his head to the sides.

“The surface cannons, they’ve been turned on us.”

“W-what? How!?” Torlak demanded knowing the answer was below him, “No…” he turned his attention to the rest of the crew who looked to him for instruction, “Prepare troops for the ground. The enemy has infiltrated the city!”

After the attack on the station, a large vessel made its way down into the atmosphere, towards the skies over the City of Artray. It was smaller than the enemy ship that carried fighters. It still had a wealth of defenses, but Torlak ordered for another small detachment of ships to intercept it, with the intent to reduce it to dust. When a visual scan was conducted, it revealed the ship as the TRSC Arm of Sol. He suspected the ship to be solely a troop transport of some kind, for its lack of hangar doors and an increased placement of armor around key components.

As his forces converged on their respective targets, alarms blared once more. This time, they indicated a presence near his station, centered within the mass of ships that stayed to defend it. His stomach turned at the thought of the approaching entity, and ordered all ships in the area to remain on guard. Cruisers, fighters, frigates, corvettes, all available in the region were notified, confused by their invisible enemy when he saw it.

He had pulled up a visual of the surrounding space that triggered the alarm, revealing the wealth of ships and a small icon identifying them as friendly. Then, a crewman in charge of the station’s scanners, revealed the anomaly, “Chief-General, the reading is large, similar to the IS Gate phenomena-”

He was cut off as Torlak ordered a sudden retreat of the ships in the area. But by then, it was too late, “Get them out of there! Now!”

But before his orders could be relayed, a large circular mass formed in the center of a large cruiser, bisecting it. And within it, a ship appeared, crashing into the bisected Sellian ship as if it were a leaf in the wind. The shields of the ship rippled for only a moment, before returning to its undisturbed state.

The ship was large. Larger than his previous carrier and much larger than their largest cruiser, which it had summarily used as a doormat. It was sleek and angular in design, contrary to the usual blocky design of the Terran ships, and boasted guns larger than the frigates and cruisers he had encountered thus far, with a plethora of cannons from the ships prior.

From the portal, smaller ships exited, and began firing into the Sellian ships with their main spinal cannon, along with its smaller counterparts placed on their outcrops, delivering a round that melted the hulls of their comrades. He, like many of his crew aboard the command center, remained frozen to the spectacle of slaughter that befell his people.

But before he could issue orders, the firing from the enemy stopped and a hail came through, originating from the large enemy ship. The voice was disembodied, and filled with hate at every tone it spoke.

The message rocked him to his core, as could also be seen in the other officers. Many had already fallen to their knees in prayer and others stood motionless, with their complexion as pale as a ghost. Orlin, too, remained silent at the appearance of the enemy, his eyes wide in fear.

Torlak knew what this spelled for his people, at least what he thought it would spell for them. Before he could reply, the voice spoke once more, demanding all those present to submit.

He was at a loss. His forces were demolished in the blink of an eye, with a ship of his own torn in half from a rupture in space. Only for others in the vicinity to be cut down shortly after the arrival of the behemoth’s escort, with ships no smaller than a heavy frigate. With the addition of the new forces, also brought with them a renewed stock of munitions that they seemed more than willing to expend. Torlak slouched in his chair, watching upon the numerous monitors of information as he decided upon their next course of action.

The central monitor at the forefront of the room still contained the obscurity that was Mórrígan, and its display of dots arranged in a circle that moved when it spoke, matching the disturbed portions of the ring with each tone. It continued to dance as the figure spoke.

The call was disconnected shortly after she ended her sentence, the room was stained in deep silence. Torlak could tell that chaos was on the verge of erupting, and so he took this lull in reaction as a chance to regain control of his command. The station rumbled once more, but the interval between shots had slowed. He wondered if ground teams had managed to seize partial control of the surface cannons, but the fact that they kept firing on them revealed otherwise. It was reported to him that the energy output has been lowered.

He wondered what the enemy’s tactic was in lowering the output of the attack, as their shield strength was much lower than previously reported.

“Shields, at thirty percent,” with another rumble against the station, the crewman reported, “twenty-six percent.”

With each lightened rumble, it forced Torlak to understand. The enemy was buying them time. Time to make peace with themselves, and time to mount any defense he could.

“Orlin, prepare the station troops for an attack. I want all hangar doors sealed, and I want all major pathways secured with a turret team. I want to make it impossible for the enemy to take a single inch of this station.”

Orlin nodded to his orders as Torlak began issuing to the chiefs below him, “See if we can’t increase shield regeneration; prepare to mobilize a concentrated surprise offensive; see if we can’t resupply the city with more troops, we need to retake those guns.”

His orders were rapid, but they were enough to force sense into the young officers. The room regained its busy clamor as orders were relayed and followed. He had felt a sense of normalcy return, albeit he wished they were under different circumstances.

Slowly, reports came from the station troops that they had secured the majority of entrances leading to the larger central access spaces. From there, they had set up numerous kill zones on key pathways, while also placing traps beside secondary entries. It was a lot of work in a short time, and he was grateful for their hard work. Knowing first hand how the Terrans operated, he had effectively signed the death warrants of his own men, and he was sure they knew that. But even as skilled as they are, he was certain that a wall of bullets and plasma fire would put any Terran soldier down.

With his defense on the station near completion, he turned to an officer who managed communications, “How does the capital fare for reinforcements?” he asked.

The comms officer communicated what he received over word from the ground. From his expression alone, Torlak knew it didn’t bode well.

“They are… not well. We have several Troupes trying to gain control of the northern cannon, but their marksman support keeps getting neutralized. It appears the enemy may also be well-versed in long ranged combat. We’re trying to locate the attacker.”

Torlak then shifted the subject to what was most important; the reason he fought in the first place, “And what of the Council? How are the defenses for the Council Chambers?”

The comms officer tapped away on their screen, mirroring it onto his holo-table before him, “It is where we have diverted the most troops. We have a Halen Armored Division patrolling the outer streets of the Chambers, and troops within buildings on the lookout for the enemy. Missile batteries along the perimeter of the city have also been deactivated, but,” the Sellian paused, forcing Torlak to urge the Chief to address the Glaring issue. “But, the enemy seemed to have launched a full offensive over the city; utilizing what is being reported as ‘Metal Coffins’. This is the first I’ve seen of such a tactic. Except, maybe for the Union.”

Torlak raised a hand against his speculation and rejected the notion, careful as not to allow any misconceptions of both the Terrans and the Union.

“Do not mistake the work of the Terrans as the quality to compare with the Union. I have seen first hand the way the Union deploys its forces. At least the union takes care to deploy their troops in heavily armored ships, but the Terrans, they deliver their troops to a degree that they could block out the sun. And each pod is a single warrior who is more capable than even Brallo’s men.”

The name of a fallen Idol rang throughout the room, causing several to look their way, but he continued, “That’s right. Those enemy troops you see that have fallen from the sky in coffins, were none other than the ones who have felled our greatest warrior.”

Torlak’s tone grew solemn at the mention. He replayed the video from that day, as the ship struggled to maintain a connection of visual acuity, he saw it, the warrior who killed their best warrior, Brallo.

He pulled a data chip from his person, and connected it to his station, allowing for him to manipulate its contents, and pulled up an item that he had just now remembered. It was a warrior donning much of the same black and gray blotched pattern worn beneath matted steel-gray and armor. Contrary to the wealth of soldiers of the same armor that bore white and red markings, the individual before him was donned with gold markings on his pauldrons, chest, and knees. Although, he surmised that it may just reflect their hierarchy in the field, as reported by troops on the ground, but noted the markings on the once purple glass visor. Most of the surface was carved, leaving only a set of eyes and a smile of jagged teeth.

“Him,” he voiced, causing many to look upon it in fear, “He was the warrior who delivered Brallo his final breath… Quick, deliver this to all the ground troops; I want him dead, and whoever does, will be made Chief-Captain, at minimum.”

They nodded their heads to his order, and began disseminating the photo to all available ground forces. He figured that if this person was present on Draxis, then the probability that they would be in Artray was just as likely. If he couldn’t best the Terrans in naval combat, then his next bet would be to take out what he figured was a prominent tactical element. He was certain it would sow chaos among their own and deal a devastating blow to leadership and ground combat. But first, they needed to find him.

Torlak then returned his attention to the tactical display at the forefront of the room, and still, the new addition of Terran ships wove their being among his own fleet, intermixing with one another like an unholy amalgamation. And so far, station shields showed no signs of replenishing faster than they were depleted, leaving him with only one real option, to face the oncoming boarding, and to hold out long enough to secure a victory, no matter how small.

“Once we’re boarded, order all ships to attack,” his words were heavy to those who listened, but they understood what needed to be done. Currently, both Sellian and Terran ships were interwoven with each other, as battle had ceased with the appearance of the behemoth. They drifted so close to each other that a well-coordinated attack could put many enemy ships out of commission; it was a situation he had been waiting for.

“Make sure our signal is encrypted before you message them. This needs to be precise, and swift, at least until we get the remaining ships from the Torkin System.” They gave a collective hurrah as confirmation, boosting morale for the others within their vicinity.

After several more shots to the station, a crewman reported that their shields were reduced to zero, and since then, shots from the surface to orbit cannons ceased firing, leaving them ultimately vulnerable.

“Reporting, Chief-General, we’ve detected explosions of where the cannons were stationed. The enemy seems to have destroyed them,” voiced a nearby Chief. The field now belonged to the Terrans, and the best he could try to do is stall for time.

“Reroute our forces and reorganize for defensive measures. And get me in contact with the Malariv Ground Troupe,” the name sparked spurs of confusion among the nearby Sellians.

The name was not known by many, and they were right to question its existence, “I don’t think I’ve heard of a Troupe by that name,” voice another Sellian. This time, it was a female Chief in charge of troop placements and relaying of orders.

“And you’d be right,” began Torlak, “The Malariv Troupe is not known by many, unlike Brallo’s Troupe, but are just as deadly.” Torlak continued, describing their armor as donning of ancient black garbs, dark gray armor on the torso, thigh, and shoulders, with a red sash around their waist. They stuck with the standardized amber colored visor, but the helmet was accented with glacial blue markings, to honor the Father that the Troupe is named after, with the top portion of the helmet colored teal.

“And with their name, it is as you expect. They are named after Father Malariv, one of the founders of the Sellian Empire,” he spoke the name in reverence.

Torlak then continued, “When you think of Brallo’s Troupe, you know him as the heart of Sellian ground combat. Bested only, by the Terran mentioned prior. But Malariv, they are the monsters at night you teach your children so that they don’t stay out late. And they may be just the force we need to counter the enemy offensive. And with missile batteries offline, authorize the use of fighters for the airspace.” The female Chief acknowledged his orders and began relaying them to the appropriate chain of command.

In the time it took for him to issue those orders, Orlin spoke to Torlak, reporting on the latest in Terran movements, “All fronts are at a standstill, and the Battlecruiser has sent a small strike group of ships to the station.”

“What kind of ships approach?” Beckoned Torlak.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“Troop carriers. Heavily armored, with no doubt lacking a wealth of warriors,” reported Orlin.

As his tactical display revealed, a small group of enemy ships wove through the minefield of ships that were his own, but knew if they fired now, it would ruin their ambush. From his analysis, their intended target was the larger hangar bay, which made sense for ships of their size. However, he had previously ordered for all hangar doors to be sealed, so he questioned how they were going to force themselves in. He had expected them to brute force their way in, opting to blow open the hangar doors, but they didn’t do that.

Sensors reported no external hull ruptures, until a Chief addressed Torlak and Orlin, “Reporting multiple access to docking collars. We can’t override it.”

Torlak replied, “Notify nearby teams of where the sensors were triggered, and to prepare for combat.”

“Of course, Chief-General,” replied the junior Chief. Torlak then ordered for visuals to be brought up of areas where his kin mobilized.

Many wore the standard troupe outfit, but the station guards had their armor colored, light gray, with their armor a dark blue. Those in the room looked on as the station guards maneuvered themselves towards the enemy when they came to a doorway. It was one of the long halls that led to one of the docking collars, with enclosed rooms throughout the hall. They led nowhere, with the main pathway being the only way for the enemy to progress through the hall of death.

Torlak didn't have access to view the hall itself, only the open area where his troops gathered. Beside the hall was also a set of doors that led directly towards the hangar, with the hall leading to the docking ring beside it. The open area was a commissary with balconies normally reserved for restaurants, and flora decorated the large open air location. Not long after the Terran infiltration, shots of those watching the entrance began ringing out as flashes of light from their barrel as their bodies jolted from the recoil. Those that stood behind the group on risers and balconies awaited the enemy, if they were able to push through.

His fear, however, came true when the initial battle line fell. One soldier was clipped in the shoulder, tossing his body to the side from the force of the shot. Subsequently, before he had time to hit the ground and recover, several more shots landed on his torso and head, evidenced by bursts of material from the head and chest that were seen from the monitor. When the body landed, it remained motionless, with a small pool of green liquid forming below the body as it was dragged to cover. That was their first casualty.

Torlak, Orlin, and others in the room grimaced at the scene. It was a near instance, and the lifelessness of the body forced many below him to question their own existence. It wasn’t often that they saw someone, full of life in one moment then without the next. It was a harsh reality that many had not faced before, since most of their time is looking at colored dots on a screen with a name above them disappearing during combat. But for them, it was their first time seeing a visual of such an act. The trooper that had dragged his downed teammate tried desperately to revive his comrade, and many looked on hoping for the soldier to take a gasp of fresh air, except that time never came.

Not long after their first casualty, more followed with his troopers falling to the enemy from the hallway. He was curious as to what had allowed them to progress with what he believed to be heavy defenses, until an explosion came from the entrance. It came from a small canister that generated a flash of light with a loud concussive explosion to pair with it. It was intense enough that many of the troopers placed their hands to their ears, whether if they donned a helmet or not.

That was when the Terran soldiers appeared from the doorway, but instead of a body waiting to be cut down, they had with them a shield, similar to the ancient warriors of his people. Except instead of the dynamic and decorated shields of times past, they were a rectangle, and made of a dull gray material that covered the head, torso, and thighs. The portion of the shield near the head was angled to allow for the wielder to utilize a fire arm while still in cover. Signs of bullets riddled the exterior of the shield, but its integrity held to the onslaught of gunfire from the teams mounted on the restaurant balconies.

Torlak watched as the turret teams tried to watch out for their comrades by the entrance, and the enemy took this opportunity to fire an under barrel attachment to the hesitant turret team which exploded, leaving the two dead. This gave the enemy breathing room as they executed the barely recovering hallway teams, and the enemy shields placed themselves in such a way that proved for the balcony teams difficult to make decisive shots against their enemy. He hoped they had explosives to rid the enemy of their barrier, but found that they had no such ordnance as they continued to fall to the encroaching enemy.

“Notify all teams to wield explosive ordnance, the enemy is employing shields, so we need to counteract it,” ordered Torlak, with his order being relayed to the numerous Chiefs in charge of their teams.

Multiple calls began to alarm the room of several more Terran groups assaulting the station, with sounds of gunfire bleeding through their comms and with the scenes playing out throughout the station as they cycled the camera feeds. His station was now a war zone with rapid gunfire and explosions exchanged between parties. He grew anxious about his predicament as they closed in. But with their own soldiers now aboard the station, he enacted his plan.

“Notify all ships, begin firing and focus fire on the larger ships first. Target their cannons once you burn their shields with plasma cannons,” he said demandingly.

Torlak had noticed that firing missiles and regular shells did little against the Terran shields, but noticed how much damage their shields took when bombarded with plasma, then finished off with a regular cannon and missile barrage. Although, he felt he was too late to utilize this realization to its fullest. His next best idea was perhaps to send information to surviving fleets who wish to fight on, and to the Union, for their inevitable clash with the Terrans.

At his order, his ships began firing into the ships that made up most of their casualties, the frigates, and cruisers, and bombarded their shields with overcharged plasma shots. They flickered greatly, but a second volley finished the job, leaving the enemy first enemy frigate vulnerable to a concentration of shots from the Sellian ships that surrounded it. Of course, this attack also spelled the end for many crews, with many ships suffering destruction at the hand of a single salvo of an entire broadside. His heart sank with each fallen ship but knew that they couldn’t go down without fighting.

When He had resigned to his seat, and watched as the battles raged out in space and within the interior of his station, he received a call that was directed from a Chief that he had ordered previously. It was of the Chief-Commander of the Malariv Troupe, and its leader was now on the other line.

“Ahh, Chief-General, I was hoping you would call. To what do I owe the pleasure?” a Sellian with a dark blue complexion and graying hair peered at him from the screen, his hair tied in a traditional knot with a head dress sharing a dark red hue, similar in color to the sash over his waist with a glacial blue set of beads woven through the fabric that matched with his facial markings.

“Mariv,” Torlak began, “I have a mission for you, and it needs to be done before day’s end. Think you can manage?”

Mariv gave a smile that yearned for a fight, “Of course. My troupe is already en route to the city, and we will be meeting with a local Chief in charge of defenses.” Torlak appreciated his timeliness, but wished he did so earlier.

“I have sent to you a photo of a warrior I want dead,” he said, referencing the photo of the golden marked warrior with purple hued eyes and a mouth that smiled like it was laughing.

Mariv grew curious of the photo he received, urging Torlak to explain, “That’s the warrior who felled Brallo and his Troupe. He’s a threat and all caution should be made when dealing with him. I can only guess that their targets are the Council.”

Mariv’s demeanor had changed, as if pondering the request, “Very well. I can’t exactly deny the orders of a General.” He gave a hollow laugh, “I’ll see what I can do, but I will not jeopardize my troopers if the objective is already lost. If it's the Council they want, fine, but I’ll do it for Brallo.”

His cooperation went smoother than Torlak anticipated, but offered leniency with his order, “I ask only for the death of the warrior with gold brands and a demon’s face, not for you to try your hand at the entire force. Just…him.”

Mariv nodded with understanding, and gave a departing gesture before cutting the call, “Until next time, Torlak. May the Father’s watch over you.”

Torlak then returned to his focus to the larger threat before him; the fleets of ships surrounding the orbit of his home, and the troops within his station. He had now left the city to the charge of their respective Chief-Commanders while he would focus his immediate threats.

With the changes in combat, his ships were faring better than before, as many had already dealt with many of the smaller Terran escort ships, with less damage to the larger ships. But even in the midst of battle, he noticed that the largest enemy ship had not yet fired its guns, instead taking the brunt of damage by allocating its enormous energy output to shields. No matter how much they pelted it, it was too well defended to breach, so he had ordered all efforts to focus on the surrounding ships. Of course, its lingering presence stuck fear into Torlak, and he waited for the beast to wake.

Even though he changed tactics for how to now challenge the Terran ships, his Sellian brethren were still diminishing from the newly arrived fleet. None had fired into the station, with maybe a stray round, but over all, the station was not a target, or he would already be dust.

His worry was now at an all-time high as his forces dwindled, both in the void and in the station. Cycling through the video feeds of the station, he had now noticed a dramatic decrease in station guards and found mostly the Terran fighters roaming about. And this time, instead of the gray and black armored warriors, there was now a presence of a green colored warrior roaming alongside their darkened comrades. They didn’t wear full helmets either, instead opting for a helmet with no facial visors or protection, except for perhaps a pair of colored glasses over their eyes, which varied from orange and black.

Cycling further on the feeds, Torlak came across a wealth of Sellian troopers in bindings, organized in rows and several columns. Guards were posted around the spacious room, preventing many the urge to fight back. Fortunately, there were still various fronts on the station defending valiantly against the enemy, holding back what seemed to be larger groups of enemy soldiers. Unfortunately, their fronts were too far from his section of the station, and looking through the feeds, noticed that many along the route to the command center were either nothing but motionless bodies, or prisoners. There were just more of the former than of the latter.

Before he could realize how far that had gone, he heard shots from behind the door to the command center. His time was up, and now was the time to take out as many as possible.

“My warriors! To arms!” he ordered, directing their attention to the doors to their rear. Many grabbed reserved weapons placed on a rack near the doors, and the internal security formed the first line of defense. A quality he appreciated with the ground forces, unlike many of the cowering fleet crew.

He cycled the cameras, now focusing on the area just outside. Soldiers with shields flanked the sides of the opening, with more soldiers stacked behind them in proximity. A tactic he was new to, but forced it to the back of his mind. He then noticed an individual tinkering with the door’s access panel, but with a shake of his head, silently notified his superior that the doors couldn’t be unlocked manually.

‘Well, of course, we secured power to those panels,’ he thought to himself. He made sure to secure power so that an individual couldn’t manually force override the doors open. It was a failsafe he hoped would stall them in time for a team to engage the intruders, but that wouldn’t come to pass. Instead, the same individual that fiddled with the door panel now moved to a point in the door between where the shield users faced, prompting Torlak a bout of confusion.

He placed two gray mats that folded out into a medium-sized rectangle which were placed vertically beside each other. When he was done, a line was fed from each as they retreated to the end of a stack of soldiers.

When it looked like the individual pressed a device in their hands, the two devices on the doors began to light up, tracing the rectangle in its entirety. From what he was able to observe, the light from the feed now translated to his side of the door, with a glowing yellow and orange line forming a rectangle. Before he could observe them more, the feed was cut, and only static played, leaving only him and his crew to face the doors as the molten frame neared completion.

He grew with anticipation, as did the others, to the upcoming breech. It grew silent with only the beeps and hums of monitors to fill the air, aside from the tool piercing their door. Orlin readied his rifle, and Torlak did so with a handgun. When the yellow frame was completed, there was a brief lull in his hearing, and with it silence. Several seconds went by, and a security guards' curiosity grew, prompting them to approach the door. In opposition to Torlak’s call to return, the guard approached the door with his rifle at the ready.

Before Torlak could recall the soldier, an explosion came from the door, covering the entrance with smoke and debris, leaving the soldier riddled with holes from pieces of the door that barely left anything recognizable of the trooper. However, even with minimal sight, they saw no silhouette in the doorway, causing them not to fire. To him, that was their biggest mistake because as several of the guards rounded the entrance, several gray canisters were tossed into the room almost en masse.

One landed right between himself and Orlin, who looked down at the item in curiosity. It was an elongated cylinder filled with holes along the central tube with a blue stripe rounding the center. But before he or Orlin could do anything, the wealth of canisters exploded, blinding him and all others within the vicinity, along with a deafening ringing that pierced their ears. With how sensitive their ears are, the effect was that much more devastating.

As Torlak tried to regain his bearing, he felt a pressure on his wrists as they were placed behind him, and felt a shock to the back of his knees, forcing him to the ground. When his eyes began recovering, he looked to see that the room was filled with Terrans as they began putting his brethren in bindings. Those not entirely affected by the canisters tried to fight, firing shots from their weapon before being put down themselves, until none were left to resist. His ears were ringing, but Torlak was brought to the forefront of the group to the improvised doorway, where he was met with an individual who was clothed differently than the surrounding soldiers.

He wore a gray dominated outfit, with dark blue accents along the creases of the uniform, and the symbol of a bird wrapping its talons on a wreath with a star above its head was stitched on his chest. There were four stripes stitched on the cuff of the sleeves and three silver stars were placed on his collar. His hair was black with graying sides, and his skin was lightly tanned and aged from years of service, and his amber colored eyes pierced his own.

Torlak struggled to talk, fighting off the effects from earlier, but felt his hearing recovering as voices from around him made their way to his ears, with a light ringing persisting.

“Is this him?” the aged man spoke to the black and gray warrior.

“Yes sir. With the data from earlier systems and the assistance of Minerva, this is the one and only,” replied the soldier.

The man before him grabbed his chin, moving his side from side to side to inspect it, “Well, would you look at that,” the man said, prompting a soldier to humor his superior’s inquiry. “You don’t see eyes like these very often, wouldn’t you say?”

The soldier in question nodded and gave a short reply, “No Sir. First I’ve seen them. You?”

“With an honorary Sellian in service to 7th Fleet. His eyes are similar, sharing the same yellow ring on the edges of the pupil, and those slits, just like a cat’s,” the man said, disregarding Torlak’s obvious discomfort. When he tried to speak, his head was thrown to the side with disregard, as if bored with his new fancy.

“I don’t think I gave you permission to speak, Torlak,” said the man. His authority was heavy, and it weighed on him like a thousand planets. He then realized the position he and his kin were in. They had lost, and he was captured.

As he remained on his knees, he then overheard the man speak into thin air, with none of the soldiers beside him paying mind to his conversation.

“Well, how is the situation in the city? Hmm, I see. Very well. Scour the city for the targets, and bring them in, alive. Carry on then.”

The man then turned his attention to Torlak, who slumped in his posture, with little energy to keep himself up.

“Well, let’s take you in, shall we?”

With a rough nudge, he moved at their demand. With each step, it felt like the cuffs on him grew tighter. As he looked around, plumes of smoke rose high into the open-aired space, with bodies of his fellow guards lying beside one another, littered about the ground like children’s toys. It saddened him, knowing his battle to be lost, but held hope out on ground teams to deliver a counter to the Terrans. He had already forsaken a naval victory, but a blow to a prominent, and dangerous, ground soldier was a tactical move that he had hoped for. He just wished Mariv would deliver the news soon, and with that, hopefully demoralize some of their troops to take out as many as possible.

“Where do you intend to take us?” spoke Torlak. He did so with prevalent disdain, but still yearned for an explanation, if they allowed.

The man before stopped to face the defeated Sellian, with the guards beside him regaining a stance that said they were ready to make him into nothing but a memory if he so much as breathed wrong.

“Well, if it were up to me, I would have let my men execute you the moment they breached those doors,” he paused. “But orders from my superiors dictate that I take you in, alive. Along with any other that might hold potential information,” he said, darting his eyes to Orlin, then to the others captured from the command room.

Torlak shook his head trying to clear it of a subtle ringing that didn’t want to go away and met the gaze of the amber-eyed Officer before him. “And do what with us? Torture? Public execution? Enslavement?” he added with vitriol, to which the man before him shook his head to the sides.

“I could only wish. No, you will stand trial where you will be charged for your crimes against humanity. But not just you, but your council as well. I can assure you that we will have them in our custody by the end of day. Even if we have to level the city to root them out.” The man turned and began to walk, urging his guards to deliver a shove in the form of an abrasive elbow to his back.

As the group made their way through the large interior of the station, Torlak and his colleagues were met with more of the carnage that befell his station. But this time, instead of only his own men laying face down on the floor, he saw several soldiers belonging to the Terrans, and he felt a certain level of satisfaction at their demise. It was to the point that he almost wanted to laugh, but held his tongue. Instead, it was Orlin who spoke and began to berate their captor’s fallen comrades.

“Ha! So you Terran Vek’Ta really can die! Truly a shame they cannot bear witness to their victory. Blessed be the Father-” a swift attack from his nearest guard delivered his silence by use of the butt of his weapon, causing Orlin to bleed from the cut created from the hit.

“Shut up,” ordered the guard in a cold tone, emotion devoid from his words. However, for as little casualties the Terrans had, his own were multiplied by nearly six to every one Terran dead. As he saw more evidence of that the more they walked through the station.

Occasionally, they would come across a detached limb that he recognized as Sellian, not just from the color of the skin, but of the green colored blood that pooled beneath it. The same was also true for some of the enemy corpses, but he also noticed among the survivors, several that had lost their limbs being actively treated. It went without saying that they writhed at the pain, with some tolerating it better than others, which was bizarre for him to witness.

For as long as he knew, especially with studies done by medical professionals, all Sellians were trained, or at least taught, that the loss of a limb should be avoided at all costs. He tried to remember the specifics on what exactly caused it, but how they put it, is that when a limb was lost, their body over compensated the flow of blood, causing them to bleed out relatively quick. That, paired with the psychological trauma of losing a limb, further induced their hearts to beat rapidly, to the point that in just seconds, they would die from the blood loss. Supposedly it was a mechanism ingrained since time immemorial, but with advances in safety, it was cause for little concern.

Their little journey took several minutes as they continued through the station, and soon entered one of the numerous hangars. Many of the catwalks and scaffolding were void of fighters, a sight he never thought he would see. But this time, instead of the numerous bodies of the station guards, there were formations of his people bound in rows on their knees. The formations were situated on the sides of a large ship, almost the size of a corvette, with the rear ramp facing them. As they walked to the ramp, other smaller ships landed before the rows of captives.

The ship was rectangular, with four squared thrusters on the corners of the frame and a large ramp in the rear. As the doors opened, it revealed a moderately sized cargo bay that they used to shuffle the captives into. When each compartment was full, it lifted off and departed into space. By the time he reached the corvette, more of his captured brethren were taken into the hangar space.

Before him, a sizable hanger was present in the rear of the large ship. A small shuttle was parked in the center of the gray interior, as soldiers in green and black littered the space, going to and from the ramp of the ship. As far as he could tell, there were no other prisoners being led on board, so that meant that this ship was to be their transport.

However, before they could be boarded, his current group was disbanded at the order of the guards. This left only Orlin, and himself, causing Orlin to give a dry laugh.

“Feel’s like we’re of the Council, huh?” he said. Torlak responded with a dry laugh of his own before following in the steps of the officer before him. At the end of the ship’s hangar in the center, was a set of double doors that opened when a guard pressed his hand against a glass panel. It opened with a hiss revealing a semi-long hallway that extended barely wider than the doors he entered through. Lining the hall were several doors, with another set of doors at the end, which mirrored the ones he just entered from. It was dimly lit, with lights generated from corners of the hall.

Before they entered any further, the man before them stopped, with the first set of doors flanking his sides. Above them, the word ‘B R I G’ was highlighted above. Before he could ask what it was, he and Orlin were shuffled into their own set of doors. Orlin tried to voice his discomfort but was quickly silenced as the doors shut behind him. The same was true for Torlak, and after his doors closed, he was then shuffled into another compartment, this time, a wall of thick glass separated him from the other half of the room. Within his room, was a thin bed, a sink, and an exposed toilet which added to his unease. It was wholly unremarkable, but it was also better than he was expecting. His cuffs were removed which he massaged, trying to settle the acute pain he accumulated during his transport. When he turned around, a guard sat on a chair beside the door and the man from before stood across from him in a chair of his own.

His amber eyes pierced his own where he stood and beckoned him to sit, to which he used the comfort of the bed as his chair. The man removed his head cover, revealing a well-groomed man, with graying sides of his black hair. The man then spoke into the air, with his voice translating through the speakers of the cell. The voice feedback sounded like it was overlaid with radio static, which added more to his isolation.

“For the record, state your name and rank,” spoke the aged man.

Torlak was reluctant at first, but gave in to the request, “I am War Chief-General Torlak Talesk. Commander of all Sellian Fleets, and your captive.” His voice sounded almost broken, but knew it satisfied the request.

“Then, to whom do I speak?” he asked. “Surely, you must be some one of great renown, are you not?”

The man before him spoke in response, “You may address me as Vice Admiral Wolf. Commander of the Terran Republic’s 7th Fleet, and the one who bested your navy,” he said, in a condescending tone befitting the victor.

There was a pause between the two, and Torlak didn’t feel the need to generate conversation with his captor. If anything, he found it his best bet to remain silent. However, this turned out to be untrue with the next words of his enemy.

“Tell me, Torlak. Do you have a family?” the words rang in his mind, and anger swelled in him, but he decided to remain quiet.

“Because I do. A daughter, in fact.” He reached into his overcoat, pulling from it a photo on a laminate piece of material. It shined from the overhead light, as he revealed the photo to Torlak. He stood from his bed seat and made his way to the glass for a better look.

The photo was of a family, the man before him, beside a similarly aged woman on the left. To the right was a young female with black hair fashioned into a bun, with the hair sprouting from it like a water fountain. She looked to be no older than in her early to mid-twenties. He put it away when he continued to speak.

“You see, she recently graduated from the Fleet Officer’s Academy at the top of her class. That’s quite hard, you know. Because you’re competing with the best of the best across all systems under the TRSC. And you know what getting top of your class gets you?” Torlak shook his head, revealing that he didn't know what was obvious to the man before him.

“It’s the prestige of commanding your own ship straight out from the academy. But you have to meet certain requirements. Especially in the field of naval combat.”

Torlak wondered where this was leading, as he was beginning to get frustrated from the lack of purpose and substance in his questioning.

“Anyone can graduate top of the class and pick up captain, but to be able to skip even that to the rank of Commander, well, it’s unheard of, save for a handful throughout history, but I digress. You see, you can be the perfect student, one hundred on every test and perfect scores on every mock battle, but the only thing locking you out of being a commander straight out of the academy is a final test. A test against seasoned veterans known for their naval prowess. A test where nearly all disadvantages are placed on you as a captain of a ship, where the only goal is to win. Pretty steep, right?” The Sellian only nodded as Wolf continued his monologue.

“You’re also put against an invading force of at least five Commanding Officers, and to best them. Win that, and they make you a Captain of your own ship. Might even get to break in a brand-new ship of the line straight from the docks.”

By now Torlak grew annoyed, wondering where this was all leading toward, and his impatience showed. But the tone of Wolf changed, his expression reminiscent of a demon.

“And my daughter just decimated your defenses. And your home is as good as ours. But don’t worry about your family. They’re safe.” At the second mention of his family, his anger was renewed, and his body involuntarily slammed against the glass in a fit of rage.

“Where are they, Ac’tari!” but Wolf stood motionless, with his expression unchanging and unfazed. Meanwhile, the soldier who was once seated was now in an alert posture, ready to charge into the room and deliver, no doubt, a swift justice upon him.

“Don’t worry about them, they’re safe. Would you like to see?” Wolf said in a calm tone. Torlak showed no signs of lessening his rage until Wolf motioned for the guard. The guard revealed a small data pad, and with a tap on the screen, his captor navigated to a video. It was a room unlike his, with furnishings of a small table and couch. His wife sat on the couch holding a pad similar to the one Wolf held before him and the kids played with toys never before seen.

“This is a live feed from one of our living rooms aboard a ship that’s long gone from here. But I’m showing you this to tell you, I already won. But you want to know what’s worse?” Wolf then changed the feed to a recording, from much earlier. This time, it was from a helmet camera of a soldier in black and gray seating his wife in a chair. And the closer he looked, he recognized the scenery. When the realization dawned on him, he grew furious but was cut off by Wolf before he could speak.

“That’s right. We were in your home. We knew where you lived, but that’s not even the worst part.” Wolf fast forwarded the video and played the audio, the sound making its way into his cell. He saw the man who sat before his wife, maskless. It was the same man who felled Brallo, and now that same man was in his home with his wife and kids. He wanted to scream and yell, but knew nothing would come of it. Instead, he just listened.

When it came to the part of the guards protecting his family, he grew attentive to her words, hearing her voice seemed like years had gone by. He was reminiscent now more than ever, but his expressions shifted at her realization, which ended with her in tears. Before he could reach out to the device, he was blocked by the glass barrier he had momentarily forgotten.

“That… that can’t be true. The council! They would never do this,” pleaded Torlak as he tried to rationalize their supposed decision.

“I almost forgot, but we found this on one of the bodies of the soldiers who guarded your family. If I remember right, I think it was a War chief.”

He turned to the entrance of the room before turning to the guard, “My work here is done, and I must be off, so I'm taking the shuttle. I’ll ensure you have an escort at least until you reach the rendezvous with the Senate Guards. From there, you’ll handle a transfer.” The soldier rendered a salute and departed with the officer as his escort. When the door closed leaving Torlak alone, the audio recording began to play.

>Source Module: Sellian Transcript Disk<

>Sender: Councilman Polas<

>Receiver: War Chief Morkas<

>Playing Audio<

>… Morkas. You are to be attached to Aleska Talesk as her guard. But it shall not be for her protection. Should War Chief-General Torlak fail in his mission and fall in battle or desert his duties, you are free to do what you wish with her. But not before! I suggest you get rid of her, but it matters to me not what is done. The same goes for the children. This will be punishment for his bloodline for letting down not just the Fathers, but all Sellians. By order of the Head War Chief Kallim.<

>End of Message<

Torlak was at a loss. He had used them plenty before, but a Transcript Disk was used with the utmost secrecy, when one couldn’t risk data being intercepted. For them to use that only added to his grief. The council he had trusted had betrayed him. Gone behind his back, and should he fail, a fate worse than death would befall his children and wife. A scenario he would never wish upon them.

Now, he couldn’t tell if he could be angry or grateful at the Terrans for their sudden involvement, by effectively saving his family from a fate unknown. He felt defeated, and did so as expressed by the sudden collapse of his legs. He struggled to pick himself up, thinking back to days prior and to the man who sat before his wife. At first, he wanted a warrior dead, and even ordered a kill request on the man who also saved Aleska, his beloved. He was torn, as his principles and loyalties were sent asunder.

He then thought to himself. He had lost the war, but in the process, he was saved from the torment of a possible future of his family were it not for his enemies, and with that, he felt consolation. And in a small part of his mind, he hoped for the Terran’s success. It was all he could offer.

When he returned, the guard before him was now alone, leaving only the two. He had retrieved the Transcript Disk, placing it in a secured drawer of where he was situated, and pulled out a personalized data pad, where he began scrolling through it. Blurred images of movement were reflected off the darkened purple glass visor the trooper donned.

Countless times, Torlak tried to gain their attention, but was met with silence, unaware that his internal intercoms were disabled, leaving him in a vacuum of his own world. He pulled an arm up to hit it, only for it to make a dull thump, barely audible to him, and most likely not even on the radar of his posted guard to worry about.

Defeat. He was now a prisoner, where not even one of the lowest in rank would regard him. He was nothing to the enemy, except perhaps as an abomination. He would try multiple more times to try to get the attention of the guard, but was again regarded lightly, or just ignored. After a time, he simply decided to stop, and returned to his bed, at the mercy of his enemy.

Several cycles would go by, where he would rest, then wake up. With no time indicators of any sort, he knew not when he was, and being restrained to a brig, he knew not where. The same luminescent lights that flickered overhead were luckily turned off after some time, with him picking up on its intervals to give an idea of how long he might have been out in space. So far, he had only rested for twelve of those cycles, with much more to be expected. However, he was thankful to his captors for the food they offered him, being made of lightly disposable trays and utensils. After every meal, he was also subjected to searches of his bed space and on his person who got rather invasive.

It was a new procedure that not even they enforced with their prisoners, and even found an opportunity to question the Terran methods.

“Why is there such a need for a deep, and rather frank, search of my body? Do you not have scanners for this sort of thing?” he asked.

An officer, sporting a vacuum rated flight suit and absent helmet, spoke, “It’s so no prisoners get the chance to change the guard. I don’t know about you, but Human prisoners can get very creative when trying to break out of confinement. This is just a precaution. Besides, sensors are broken,” they gave a small smile in a condescending fashion which irked Torlak.

“Then humanity truly is a broken species, if you have need of such barbaric procedure,” returned Torlak, this time with a sneer.

“It’s no trouble, really. Luckily, we’re not so over burdened by criminals to the degree of the past, per se. We still have a decent number of pirates who think they can do whatever they want, whenever they want. But they don’t usually get the chance to surrender,” the officer smirked, hinting at their supposed demise.

“Hmph,” exhaled Torlak, “I was under the impression the Terrans were the compassionate ones, but your race seems similar to mine. Eliminate first, deal with the consequences later.”

This time, the guard searching him removed himself from Torlak and waited beside the officer, “We’ve learned long ago. Winning the hearts and minds of the larger public does wonders against the enemy, but we also know when to simply ‘shoot first and ask questions later.’ I’m fairly certain our nave made sure of that,” spoke the officer.

Torlak raised his hands in defeat, “very well, I concede. You Terrans have certainly proven your worth in battle, but I can only wonder; how would you fare against the Union?” The mention piqued the ears of the officer, and retreated behind the glass cage, but this time, enabled the voice intercom system.

“So I’ve heard. A collection of races under a banner of the lesser races, yet they were superior in space-faring capabilities. So, to make up for their lack of ground combat, they enslaved races most suitable for it. Does that sum it up?” said the Officer.

Torlak nodded, “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Then, by that account, the fact that your race seceded from them and succeeded, I can only speculate that your technologies are equally rivaled. So, no, I'm not particularly fearful of such an enemy,” replied the Officer. He then stood up, dusting off his suit to look neat as he prepared to exit the room with one of the guards in two. “Perhaps we’ll also get insight from your friend. It’s been a pleasure,” the officer waved, and the door closed, leaving the trooper at his desk and Torlak in his bed.

Not much was said after the officer left, and his guard made little effort to make any amount of conversation. There were times, however, when the soldier before him would disassemble his service weapon and clean it, but made sure to keep his sidearm holstered on his thigh ready to draw.

From his observation, the weapon was vastly different in construction to the common service weapon of his infantry Troupes. It was separated into two large portions, the lower, still connected to what looked like a collapsible stock and magazine well, with was furnished with a moderate gray construction accented with reinforced black sections. There was a straight metal guard below the trigger system that connected to the magazine.

The second part was smaller, but made up the upper half of the weapon system, which also included a large cylindrical attachment integrated into the upper barrel shroud. A vertical adjustable grip was also attached near the front of the bottom of the weapon through a system of milled bumps he had a hard time seeing, with another attachment attached to the bottom of the large cylinder. A small object was adorned on the top portion of the upper system which he suspected to be an optical sight of some sort. A red diagonal mark was also painted on the shroud, in addition to a similarly colored mark on the magazine.

He had seen other forms of Terran weaponry, like one with a lightly colored upper shroud, longer barrel, and red tab seen among the larger mass of troops seen prior in video and surveillance.

Torlak was intrigued, if anything, at the diversity of weaponry employed by the Terrans, and wished to know more. He had nothing else to do, so he found it would be better to try to speak on common ground on any subject if it meant it would pass the time.

“Tell me, Terran Warrior. What do you call that device?” he asked, pointing to the disassembled weapon. At first, the guard glared at him, but Torlak added that he only wished to pass the time, offering his knowledge of their weapons employed. “The Sellian infantry really only utilized three types of weapons. A main rifle and a service handgun, but we occasionally employ advanced ballistics for more… targeted operations,” explained Torlak.

The guard before him paused for a moment, no doubt analyzing his person, before he spoke, “It’s what you would call a short-barreled rifle. Designed for use in covert operations but deals with a round capable of stopping most in their tracks.” He inserted a darkened cylinder into the upper portion which rang as the metals of the weapon came into contact as he inserted the upper portion to the lower. A ‘click’ was sounded, merging the two portions together into its completed form.

“It won’t provide details, but just know, this platform has seen hell, and prevailed each time,” a sense of pride was apparent in his voice as he caressed the rifle, looking at it for any discrepancies. “Shorthand, it's called the ‘Series Four’, but to a Raider, simply the ‘Badger’.”

It was a term he was unfamiliar with, but after some clarification, he was told that it was an unrelenting predator that clearly fought above its weight. It was a comparison he thought to be fitting for the enemy that bested many of his ground units.

“But I don’t see the appeal. Sure, you quiet the noise it discharges, but what makes it so different?” asked Torlak.

The Raider looked at him again, pondering his line of questioning, but ultimately decided against it, “Nice try. But try again next time.” The raider returned to his personal data pad, and muted Torlak’s cell. He tried to call out but to no avail, he was now resigned to silence. Torlak felt genuine in their conversation, but now thought that he had pried too much. However, he did thank the time, now that the lights had dimmed, and a single red light took its place. He now took it as his sign to rest, with his guard remaining vigilant, albeit, mostly bored.

However, Torlak never got a full rest. A sudden jolt woke him, causing him to look left and right of the room. His eyes were still blurry, and the single red light did little to help his eyes adjust. When his vision cleared, he noticed that the guard was on alert, checking his gear and a finger on the side of his helmet, as if transmitting to an unknown party; likely to other guards, or perhaps the Officer prior.

The ship rocked again, tossing Torlak off-balance. The guard did little to look his way, moving his head with frantic animation. Torlak surmised that he was asking for details, or perhaps a situational report, but without audio, he could only guess.

Dull thumps and sounds barely made it past his reinforced glass, leaving him still largely unaware of exactly what was happening, until his guard opened his door and he saw a glimpse of the central hallway.

Flashes of light zipped past the door in a bright blue, with the guard narrowly dodging them and recoiling back into the room. The door remained open as he placed his body within the door, allowing for only a small portion of his body to be exposed as he fired his weapon towards the rear of the ship. From the direction of the small-sized hangar he came aboard from, shots of plasma hit close to the door, bursting just beyond the door frame until ultimately landing on the guard.

He recoiled back, falling into the room, with the door shutting shortly after his fall. From where he stood, scars of burns were present on his right shoulder armor, forearm armor plating, and across his right torso and helmet.

He saw that the trooper writhed in pain, but withstood it by clenching his fists and applied a quick acting salve. On the upper chest, inboard of the right shoulder, was exposed with charred skin and red liquid, which he now knew to be their blood. But even then, the sounds of gunfire were muffled, adding more to the fact that Torlak remained in an isolated bubble.

The helmet of the Raider was also in smoke, and it was removed with haste, revealing a short black-haired male with faded sides. His skin was a light brown and his eyes reflected pale black iris’. So far, he only knew many of the raiders from my helmet alone, with very little having their helmet off, but as he looked at the man, he noticed him to be fairly young, perhaps barely older than 18 cycles.

Instead of paying him any mind, the Raider readied a stance, with his body squared to the door, and his back covering the center portion of the glass barrier, covering Torlak in his entirety. He momentarily swapped a magazine from his chest rig, dumping the other one just below him and waited.

When the door opened, he aimed, with a face stern in conviction and utmost caution as he analyzed everything within his sights, as if the molecules of air and dust were also under scrutiny. Torlak peeked around his guard’s shoulder into the hallway, and saw a bloodbath. Both human and… unknown. They wore suits foreign to his knowledge, and were unlike any Sellian Ground Troupe to date. Which brought him to a rooted conclusion, The Union.

The Raider before him had no cover to pull from, and the table he used prior was bolted to the surface. As bland as it was, it was fine for a detention center, but terrible for defense. As he peered into the hallway, a large dark figure lurked, causing the Raider to fire several rounds into the creature, missing most, but landing a shot that ricocheted off a carapace, causing a spark. A low howl rumbled through the air, causing little disturbance to Torlak, but caused the Raider to try to shield his ears. The creature waited for that moment and the dark mass assaulted the room, toward the Raider.

It was scaled on the back, with a softer underbelly, and bore clothing around the waist that wrapped over their left shoulder. They were also adorned with a small amount of decorative metals woven into the cloth. It was something he had never wished to face ever again, but it stood before him, a Runian.

It had rushed the Raider head first, opening its maw and catching the Raider’s left arm. The top portion of his gauntlet repelled the top row of teeth, but the bottom was much less protected, as the teeth of the beast tore into his flesh. Its tail waved around the room wildly, eventually hitting the control responsible for audio and the scene before him came alive.

“AAAAAARGH!!!” The Raider screamed as the creature thrashed its head about. The soldier was clasped on the sides by the hands of the Runian, as it tore into the man's arm, but with his reflexes and apparent sheer will. He forced his right arm to aim his weapon into the side of the occupied beast, firing all rounds he still had in his magazine. The sound pierced Torlak’s cell with sharp high-pitched thumps, landing into the side of the Runian. Noticing this late, it tried to retaliate by swatting away the Human’s rifle, and did so with ease, watching as the bent frame of the weapon slammed into wall to his right, its movements now slightly sluggish. It had torn the forearm off as the two tried wrestling for its control, with the Runian winning the bout, but its victory was short-lived by a last ditch effort of the human.

“DIE YOU FUCKER! HOW ‘BOUT THIS!!!” The Raider drew his holstered sidecar, which was situated on his right thigh. The Runian had now moved toward the trooper’s neck, but his neck plating rejected most of the initial attack, with some of the teeth causing minor scratches. It hissed and growled as it tried to tear into him, but his guard had other plans.

The Raider oriented the sidearm under the jaw of the Runian as it renewed its attack on the neck when several loud pops rang out, and the body of the large beast fell limp. It towered over the Human, and when it fell, toppled him with it. Blood was quickly forming beneath him, and before he could turn any attention to the doorway, four suited individuals stormed the small room. The Raider struggled to aim his sidearm, but found that it was stuck beneath body of the large reptile. He looked at them in a dazed state, but his form was quickly dispatched with a shot to his head by way of an overloaded plasma charge.

The round that had eliminated him was plasma in origin, and its effect left nothing but an arm and a headless body. It slumped, with spurts of red liquid sprouting from the neck, as well as the slowed drip from the arm. He had perished, but with him, he had taken a Runian with him in single combat. A feat not many could have claimed, but it was unfortunate he couldn’t live to tell the tale.

The four individuals moved around the body to the entrance of the door, tapping away at a pad on the wall that provided access. It wasn’t complex, and allowed for a quick release function with a badge that they took from the Raider, flashing it against the device. With a hiss, the door swung open, and the smell of iron assaulted his nose.

The warrior before him stood slightly taller than himself, with triangle-like protrusions atop their helmet. They also had their tails sealed within their self-contained suit, giving the look of a thick smooth tail. A Vixian.

“Chief-General,” spoke the warrior, his voice that of a young male, “Mistress Neela sends her regards, and wishes for your council.”

Torlak grew confused at the mention. ‘Neela’ was a title of the one in charge of all Union Military, but it was also synonymous as a name. He was sure she went by another name, but her title became her name when she became the Flag and Legion Mistress of Neela.

“For what purpose does the Union, no, Neela, want with a failed General of Sellia?” he asked. He was cautious of their intentions, but seeing how he was not gunned down, indicated otherwise.

“As I stated earlier, she wishes for your council. We must leave now before more of the enemy appear,” replied the Vixian. “But to think a single Terran can hold their own against a Runian, of all things…” mumbled the warrior as he departed from the cell.

He weighed his options heavily; on one hand, he could try to remain in Terran custody, urging his supposed saviors to leave before reinforcements arrive, which would likely result in his own death. On the other hand, he would be free of the Terrans, and would instead likely be sent into service of the Union. A fate he had never envisioned for himself. However, among those two, he chose the latter, and departed from his cell, following the Vixian.

As he passed the expired Runian, whose eyes had faded and laid upon the violently dismembered Terran warrior, he spoke, “How many warriors have you dispatched for this?”

The warrior was quiet at first, “Almost two squads. We couldn’t risk sending more than a single ship this far out,” replied the Vixian. “However, we were fortunate to find this ship out of Inter-Space when we did. Mistress Neela will be pleased.”

Torlak was silent to their comment, as they progressed through the door and into the hallway, he saw with more clarity the carnage that had befallen the Terrans and the Vixians alike. The Terrans were fewer in force compared to their enemy, who had a ratio of nearly one-to-three. But the Vixian presence now meant that they had come out victorious.

Many of the Raiders had burn marks on their fabric that did the most damage to limbs than to the armored portions on the arms, chest, and shins. Burn through were seen on the lower torso and waist of the soldiers, with their insides spilling out onto the floor, with the remaining Union force removing what bodies they could from the area. As he passed them, the Vixian leading Torlak to the hangar of the ship would pause momentarily, offering a silent prayer to his fallen comrades.

“Were it not for superior numbers, I’m afraid we would have lost to this group. Tell me, Chief-General, who are these warriors?” said the Vixian as he also offered a prayer to a slain Terran.

“This group calls themselves the Raiders. The Terran’s best of the best in terms of ground combat,” replied Torlak.

“Is that so? I would have expected them to wield Plasma, not kinetics, like those failed weapons of your people,” said the Vixian with a snide tone.

“You underestimate them. Look,” Torlak directed the warrior’s attention to the fallen Raiders, “See that white pattern on the shoulder? These were newly joined soldiers, save for him,” he directed the attention to a Raider with red markings that laid face down near Orlin’s doors, whom the person in question was kicking.

“They were most likely the one in charge of the white marked soldiers here. So you fought nothing but cubs, and Orlin!” he addressed sharply, “Quit cursing the dead. It’s unsightly,” ordered Torlak.

“They deserve it! Especially this one!” he replied, kicking more into the helmeted soldier.

“For what reason?” asked Torlak. The kicks from Orlin ceased, and his breath was ragged from the assault.

“This ‘Raider’ threatened my family! Suggesting that they would rather glass Sellia in an attempt to retaliate for the slaves taken beyond Dema. What a fool! As if a Sellian would resort to that! Polas was right, nothing but Terran lies!” retorted Orlin. He spat at the fallen Raider and left for the hangar after Torlak.

Torlak wanted to refute his claim, but found it better to let him express his emotions than shatter them. Then again, they were in the presence of the Union, masters of the act of slavery, of whom they were now guests.

“Where do you plan to take us?” asked Torlak. His group had entered through the rear doors leading to the hangar and found no ship. Instead, two circular entrances were melted through the hull of the hangar doors. On one of the entrances, the Vixian warriors were loading bodies of their fallen comrades into the entrance.

“We’ll take the right, fewer bodies,” said his escort. By now, most of the remaining Union forces were gathered in the hangar, as one of the bodies they tried to load up was of the Runian.

Torlak paused shortly after boarding the tube, which extended to a door on the other end. However, he felt the lack of a presence shortly after arriving at the hangar and turned. His stomach dropped at his companion’s predicament.

A Raider sporting red markings held Orlin from behind in a binding posture with his right hand behind Orlin, indicating a weapon. Orlin’s hands were raised above his head and fear was apparent on his face as he stammered trying to speak.

By now, the other Vixians loading the bodies had noticed the change in atmosphere and raised their weapons at Orlin and his captor. Before they could shoot, the Raider spoke, addressing not just the unknown force, but to Torlak himself.

“Did you plan this?! Torlak!” his anger filled voice reverberated throughout the hangar. “First Dema, then Draxis, now this! And who are they!?” he directed a motion with the use of his chin to the Vixians loading the other tube. “They’re not Sellians, so who are they?!” Orlin’s face stiffened, no doubt from the pressure of a weapon held to his back.

“No, they’re-” before who could finish, his Vixian guard stood before him, using his body as a shield as he readied his weapon and took aim at the Raider.

“It may be best for you to enter the ship, Chief-General,” suggested the warrior. But Torlak wanted to be there, not for his own sake, but for Orlin.

“Refrain from attacking, we need not risk any more casualties from what you have already suffered,” he then turned to the Raider bearing red. “If my experience has told me anything, a warrior of his caliber would make short work of your men if on the offensive.” Do not press any further, and let us depart!” pleaded Torlak.

The Vixian before him pondered his words and spoke, still holding his rifle to the Raider, “If what you say is true, then would it not be best to end him here? If he is as dangerous, then I find it best to eliminate such a threat now, rather than deal with them later.”

“C’mon! I’m ready to die! Are you?!” The Raider yelled once more, urging the other warriors on their guard, but waited for their orders, holding short of their trigger.

The Vixian in charge shook his head at Torlak's request, “I cannot do that. The enemy can’t know we were here.” He squeezed his trigger, but before he could do that, a sharp pop rang out from the Raider.

A small firearm, similar to what his guard wielded, was situated past the head of Orlin, with his shoulder as support when he fired, catching the Vixian in the arm. It yelped momentarily, before hitting an emergency lock, causing the doors to close.

Muffled pops were faintly heard through the door when the warrior spoke to the pilot of the ship, “Quick, disembark! And prepare to blow the enemy ship! All troops, we’re leaving now!”

Knowing they were leaving, Torlak grabbed hold of the Vixian and dragged him to the other end into the main troop compartment where many of the bodies were placed in systemic fashion. Those of the other tube used the walls beside the entrance as cover as those from the hangar entered the tube with haste, ultimately leaving Orlin and the Runian corpse aboard the ship.

Seeing how frantic they were shooting through the opening, Torlak advised they cease and seal the doors. One of the troopers looked at him confused, addressing his concern.

“There’s no need. What can a lone human of this caliber do?” he fired several more shots through the tube’s corridor, hitting nothing, but did so to repel any sudden advancements of the enemy.

“Perhaps not for the lowest trained, but a Warrior just as he, marked in red, has seen combat. I’ve seen the ways in which a white banded Raider fights compared to a red bearer. It is like night and day, and this Raider is no doubt skilled enough to and fierce enough to attempt taking this ship for their own!” Torlak added pleadingly. His eyes reflected truth in them, and the warrior headed his words, accessing the panel to seal both doors of the corridor.

“I shall heed your words, Chief-General, were it not for Neela ordering your rescue. But I still doubt your claim of these warriors,” said the Vixian fledgling, as indicated by his largely simple gear and ornamental markings.

“Then I pray upon the Father’s you do not come into contact with a warrior bearing gold,” said Torlak as he ordered other troopers to tend to their captain. “Did you manage to finish the warrior? And what of my compatriot, Orlin?”

“They live. The warrior retreated beyond the doors to the hangar, but shortly came out with a weapon that fired quietly, but did a number to some of my fighters. They took Jak’ti, as he was last to enter,” said the warrior, offering a silent prayer as seen with the captain before entering the hangar.

The ship soon rocked as they departed from the Terran vessel. And instead of firing into it, they simply departed. Torlak moved towards the bridge, as the guards allowed him, and saw the great expanse of space. They had already entered sub-light travel towards the edge of the system but stopped halfway. The buzz of the bridge grew and alarms blared and rang, but instead of alarms indicating an enemy, it was the process of travel.

A small tear in space cracked open in front of them, in a whirl of white, greens, and blue. It was unlike anything he had seen, not of the Terrans, but similar, and unlike the opening of an Inter-Systems Gate.

Torlak heard the calls of the navigators as they prepared for travel, “Sub-Space Entry active. Entering now. Chief-General, you also have a call for you in a private room, if you will.”

The ship slowly entered the portal as he was directed to a small room, fit enough for around six people. There were circles that created a half-moon before a larger central circle. It was similar to him standing before the Council, except the lesser beings stood before the larger platform.

The room darkened, and the light of the central platform shined, bringing its likeness to life. Its form was enlarged, towering over him. It was female, with long extravagant clothing that was woven with intricate floral patterns, with her fur-laden chest laid almost bare, and she donned a headdress that matched her outfit. It was Neela.

He felt compelled to kneel before her, and did so instinctively, “Raise your head, Torlak,” she said gracefully.

“May I ask why you have sought for me?” he asked, peering upon her from below as she looked down on him.

“The fall of Sellia was inevitable, I’m afraid,” she spoke with nonchalant disregard, prompting him to question her words, which she understood and added more to her context. “Truth be told, the Sellians are not the first to come across the Terrans. A small sect of independent Runians had come across Terran space, engaging in small skirmishes. But were repelled since. Said something about warriors wielding blades and shields of metal, besting them in forms of armed combat. Truthfully, I can’t tell if they are lying, since they don’t like keeping records, but I digress. We’ve known of them, but have stayed our hand, unlike you and your council,” she added. Torlak hung his head at the mention of his greatest failure.

“But do not worry. I’m sure we can come to an understanding, and you can use your failure to win back your home,” she said.

“What… do you mean?” asked Torlak.

“Exactly what I said. It won’t be long before Artray, and all of Sellia, falls. Your council will be the sole arbitrators in its downfall, but we are extending a hand to you, to fight with us. You’ve fought them in depth compared to many of my own, so I hope we can rely on you for an advantage,” said Neela.

Torlak took to her words. He was saved from captivity so he was now in their debt. But this also gave him a second chance to not only take to the Terrans in the future, but to save those possibly taken into custody by their military.

He sighed, “Very well. It’s not like I have much of a choice, now, do I?” She simply shook her head, ‘No’, to his reply. “I understand, but may I make a request?”

“Speak,” she said curtly.

“Is it possible to aid in the search for my family?” asked Torlak. She had a look of ponder upon her face before answering.

“I shall see to it. But do not expect much. The enemy employs a frightening stealth capability, so be patient,” said Neela. “We shall meet soon.”

“Of course, Mistress,” said Torlak. The visage of the Mistress had now dissipated, leaving him alone in the room. “Perhaps, this is for the best,” he muttered, before returning to the bridge of the ship as they traversed the stars…

… Heavy breathing was sounded behind the doors that led into the rear hanger. He had equipped a Badger rifle from a fallen Raider, and began firing into the group on the left-hand circular entrance. One had struggled to embark, its movements panicking and its back was open. He fired three shots into the spine of the enemy. It jolted for a moment before falling limp. He continued firing into the entrance until it closed, revealing a door with small panes of reinforced glass which his bullets impacted, leaving only a web of cracks near the impact point.

The ship rocked for a moment, before the holes that the enemy occupied removed themselves, revealing the hangar to the vacuum of space. He retreated into the hall where his brothers had fallen, sealing the door. He rested against the door with his back against it when he received a call from the bridge.

“Sergeant! Are you safe? What of the captives?” spoke to the officer.

“The enemy made off with the big one. I put the other back in his cage,” replied the Raider.

“Very well. We had momentary power and radar showed a ship, but it's gone now, what happened?” The raider tried to explain but was cut off by the officer, “Never mind, I’m coming down there!”

“That might not be the best idea,” he spoke, but with no feedback indicated he was ignored, or it didn’t get through. At the end of the hall, the elevator doors opened, and accompanying the officer were two crewmen who wielded the standard model Sidearm. Their faces recoiled at the sight before them in disgust, as much of the floor was covered with blood, ammo, and the bodies of his men, of which there were eight.

“W-what happened here?!” said the officer as he gagged at the smell and sight.

The raider stood up from his position, deep in thought of the event that had just transpired. He was angered by the loss of his men, just as much as he was sad for their loss of life.

“They came out of nowhere, took us out during night watch. Did you see nothing on radar?” The sergeant spoke frankly, directing some of his anger toward the officer but tried to minimize his output.

“N-no. Nothing came up on our scanners. Only after they broke through did we see them, but we lost power to the elevator. We had just restored power, but they were gone before we could lock with missiles and guns,” explained the officer. There was nothing they could do now, except wait for reinforcements and organize the dead. An act he never could get used to.

When reinforcements had arrived, they were notified of the attack and loss of Raiders as a result. They took to repairs and prepared funeral processions for after the conflict, so his men were enclosed in closed caskets. But more than anything, he needed the word to get out, and so, he prepared a statement.

>Report<

>To: FLEETCOM; RAIDCOM<

>This is Sergeant Trisco, of 4th ODR Battalion, Viper Company, Kilo Platoon, Alpha Squad. The TRSC Lonely Transit has been assaulted by an unknown enemy group. Their description matches nothing of the Sellian Ground Troupes briefed prior. Unknown combatants with an unknown affiliation have also retaken prisoner General Torlak. The destination is also unknown. The captain of the ship is organizing all black box data, as well as my own helmet feed. Lost some good men here, so I'm looking to fix that.<

>End of Report<