New Handover – Global Scope, Earth Date March 30, 2434
The fires still burned across New Handover, choking the once-pristine skies with plumes of ash. The hum of Zoranian dreadnaughts in low orbit was a constant presence, their massive forms casting ominous shadows over the planet’s shattered cities.
But the invaders’ lines were no longer as steadfast as they had been.
Across the ruined landscapes, Zoranian soldiers hesitated at their posts. Patrols moved slower, their movements uncertain. In the command centers, officers whispered in hushed tones, their spines lowered in unease as reports trickled in. Reports that painted a picture far different from the one they had been given.
The fires still burned across New Handover, choking the once-pristine skies with plumes of ash. The hum of Zoranian dreadnaughts in low orbit was a constant presence, their massive forms casting ominous shadows over the planet’s shattered cities.
But the invaders’ lines were no longer as steadfast as they had been.
Across the ruined landscapes, Zoranian soldiers hesitated at their posts. Patrols moved slower, their movements uncertain. In the command centers, officers whispered in hushed tones, their spines lowered in unease as reports trickled in—reports that painted a picture far different from the one they had been given.
Meridian District
In the heart of the city, a Zoranian mechanized unit came to an abrupt halt. The towering walker, its cannons still smoking from a recent barrage, stood motionless before the crumbled remains of what had once been a school. The building’s name was etched onto a plaque, written in multiple languages:
“New Handover Institute of Galactic Medicine.”
The walker’s pilot, a veteran named Ga’rev, stared at the display inside his cockpit. His claws hovered over the controls, his spines twitching in discomfort. The mission briefing had been clear: New Handover was a hub for humanity’s war machine, a critical target for their invasion. But what he saw on his scanners was not a weapons factory.
It was a morgue.
Ga’rev’s cameras scanned the rubble, picking out broken medical equipment, shattered research consoles, and bodies—so many bodies. Zoranian, human, Ursinian, and more.
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
He hesitated, his claws trembling.
“They were doctors,” he muttered to himself, his voice cracking. “Not soldiers.”
Behind him, a squad of infantry arrived, their rifles raised. One of them stepped forward, his spines flaring in agitation. “Ga’rev, why have you stopped? Admiral Ra’nok ordered this sector cleared.”
Ga’rev turned in his cockpit, his golden eyes locking onto the soldier. “Cleared of what? Dead children?”
The infantryman faltered, his spines lowering. He glanced at the rubble around them, his weapon dipping slightly. “They said this was a weapons hub,” he said weakly. “They told us-”
“They lied,” Ga’rev snapped, his voice rising. “Look around you. Does this look like a battlefield, or a massacre?”
Global Scope
The cracks in the Zoranian war effort grew wider with each passing day. Soldiers refused to fire their weapons. Pilots abandoned their posts. Entire dreadnaught crews defected, their ships turning away from the planetary bombardment to evacuate civilians instead.
In the northern hemisphere, a battalion of mechanized units broke formation, their walkers shielding fleeing civilians from the advance of their own army. On the outskirts of Meridian, a Zoranian officer named Ka’riv led a group of defectors in protecting a convoy of refugees, their shields raised against Zoranian artillery.
The communications channels buzzed with chaos.
“This is dreadnaught Va’tesh. We refuse to continue the bombardment. This planet is not a threat!”
“Units 14 through 17 have disengaged from combat operations. We are evacuating civilians.”
“Admiral Ra’nok, morale is collapsing. Half our division is refusing orders. What are your instructions?”
Zoranian High Command
Above the planet, the Zoranian fleet’s command ships seethed with unrest. Inside the Va’Rok’ta, Admiral Ra’Nok paced the bridge, his claws digging into the polished floor. The reports from the surface were relentless: defections, insubordination, mutiny.
“This is insufferable,” Ra’Nok snarled, slamming his fist against the console. “These traitors will be dealt with. Prepare to deploy loyalist units to quell the rebellion.”
One of his officers hesitated, her spines flattening. “Commander, if we turn our forces on our own, we risk losing the entire front. The troops are already questioning the mission.”
Ra’Nok rounded on her, his golden eyes blazing. “Then remind them what’s at stake! Humanity must be crushed. If we fail here, their resolve will only strengthen. Do you want them to come for our worlds next?”
The officer didn’t reply, her gaze drifting to the holographic display of New Handover. It showed not a battlefield, but a graveyard… a planet scarred by war, its people paying the price for a conflict they had never asked for.
A Shattered Front
By the end of the week, the Zoranian occupation was a shadow of its former strength. For every loyalist unit that continued the campaign, another broke away, their weapons turned inward or cast aside. Entire dreadnaughts vanished from the fleet, their crews defecting en masse.
The once-proud Zoranian war machine had become a fractured force, its soldiers divided by the weight of the truth.
New Handover had survived.
But the scars of its survival would remain.