I force my mind into the ship's neural lattice, managing the safety protocols and pushing through the lag of a thousand years. I demandVirex Primeremember its nature. I demand it shed the skin of a derelict and become the predator again.
Wake up, I command, pouring my own turbulent energy into the link.
A power surge ripples through the ship. The deck plates beneath me glisten with a sudden, violent light as the weapons arrays draw a massive spike of energy from the primary reactor. The bridge releases a high-pitched, electric whine that leaves a coppery taste in my mouth. I feel the turrets move. Outside, the massive barrels rotate with a lengthy, grinding grace, shaking off the dust of centuries. They lock into place with a series of heavy, metallic clacks that I feel in the base of my spine.
Targeting reticles bloom across my HUD. They wait as hungry, empty circles, ready to fill with the heat signatures of Korr’s fleet.
I stand beneath the red alert lights on the bridge, my shadow stretched long and jagged behind me. The armor’s sensors pick up the distant, high-frequency ping of Korr’s scanners. It displays a crude, invasive touch—a human instrument probing the skin of my ship, looking for weaknesses, looking for a way in.
It feels like a violation. It feels like a hand reaching for something that is mine.
My grip tightens on the command console, the metal groaning and deforming under the pressure of my gauntlets. The armor amplifies my strength, translating my fury into physical force. Every defensive shutter is locked. Every turret is primed. Every internal corridor between the bridge and the Sanctum sits as a maze of sealed bulkheads and stasis-field choke points.
I have isolated her. I have prepared the "teeth." I have turned my home back into a fortress.
Now, I wait for them to make the mistake of touching me. I watch the distance counter on my HUD drop—fourteen hours, thirteen, twelve. With every passing second,Virex Primegrows colder and more focused. The man who sat on the dais is gone. Only the Commander remains, and the Commander is ready to eliminate everything that dares to look at his ship with greed.
The scavenger fleet grows larger on the tactical display, their signatures sharpening into distinct threats as they cross the threshold of the outer rim. I remain planted on the bridge, a monolith of black alloy and light, watching the digital countdown continue its steadfast descent.
The hours grind past. I remain standing. Along our mental wire, I sense pacing the Sanctum—restless, furious, alive—and I let the thud of her footsteps mark the time the HUD counts down in silence. Ten hours. Eight. Five. The fleet sharpens from sparks into shapes, and the shapes resolve into the ugly, bolted architecture of vessels built for butchery.
The bridge converts into a tomb of red light and freezing air. I pace the command platform, each footfall a heavy, measured thud that the ship echoes in its floorboards. The forward viewport holds the entire world while I stalk the confines of this self-designed cage like a predator. Miles of obsidian and bolstered bulkheads separate this deck from the Obsidian Sanctum, a mountain of physical barriers between the void and the woman I have cached in the ship’s heart. Even with the distance, the neural link tethers her presence to my mind.Virex Primefeeds me her biometrics in an unwavering, secondary stream—a flickering announcement that remains constant.
I tighten the grip on my internal sensors, forcing the feed to the periphery. I must focus on the math of the slaughter.
Virex, give me a full spectral analysis of the lead vessel,I command.
The HUD responds instantly, overlaying the largest spark in the cluster with a lattice of red data points. Bolted-on plating and exposed conduits deform the ship into a bloated, asymmetrical nightmare. This human heavy lifter, missing the cargo hold, features oversized thrusters and a forward-mounted boarding ram.
Lead vessel identified as 'The Carrion King';the ship’s voice rumbles in my mind.Structural integrity is inconsistent. Primary hull is reinforced with industrial-grade titanium. Energy shielding consists of magnetic bubbles. Weaponry includes four forward-facing plasma cannons and a centralized harpoon deployment system.
I feel a flare of cold disdain. This ship belongs to a butcher. It is built to grapple with the stationary and the broken, to latch onto a hull and tear into the soft interior. Korr has spent his life fighting those he deems inferior. He approachesVirex Primewith the arrogance of a man who believes he has already won. He knows we are breathing in here; he simply assumes our breath hides away as a finite resource he can harvest at his leisure.
Analyze the remaining signatures,I order.
The grid expands. Around theCarrion King, the remaining fleet orbits in a tight, predatory formation. Four are fast-attack interceptors—light, fragile, and built for harassment and pinning down engines. The other three are "leech" ships—boarding craft specifically designed to weld onto a hull and vent the atmosphere.
Eight ships. Fewer than fifty souls in total, all of them coming for a prize they fail to comprehend. But my tactical assessment notes a critical variable: their armaments. They carry heavy pulse-rifles retrofitted with illegal, high-yield plasma accelerators—tech that has evolved immensely in my thousand-year absence. A scavenger's standard sidearm could never scratch my plating, but these new-wave weapons are builtto shear through capital-ship bulkheads. Even a god of war must respect the evolution of the blade.
I reposition myself on the deck, adjusting my stance so my armored bulk remains a physical barrier between the forward viewport and the rear of the bridge. Embracing the instinct, the shield holds firm, forming the final line that must be crossed to reach the Sanctum.
Commander, the interceptors are accelerating,Virex Primewarns.They are attempting a pincer maneuver to bracket our lateral flanks. They aim to probe the breach.
"Let them come," I growl. My vocal amplifier turns the words into a clear and deep hammering that makes the air on the bridge shimmer. "They want to find the wound. They want to see if the Reaper still kills."
I reach into the tactical interface, my fingers moving with a fluid, lethal grace. I begin painting targets. I ignore the automated systems; those are for lesser threats. I want the satisfaction of the kill-logic being mine. I designate the three boarding leeches as primary targets. They are the ones who carry the boarding parties. They are the ones who would attempt to touch the corridors Nyra walks.
Virex, prime the dorsal kinetic batteries. Calculate the lead-time for a high-velocity slug at five thousand kilometers. I want the first boarding craft erased the moment they realize our turrets can move.
Calculations complete, Commander. Port-side battery is locked. Ventral batteries are maintaining fire-lanes for the interceptors.
The ship is humming now—a deep, heavy block of sound that goes through my armor. The reactor is screaming at eighty percent capacity. Ozone and the shields’ static charge cling to everything on the bridge. I feelVirex Prime’s hunger. Afterdrifting derelict for too long, it resumes the mantle of a warship and craves the recoil of those metal teeth.
Darting ahead of the main fleet with brilliant, ugly white engine flares, the interceptors probe the perimeter. They are waiting for a reaction, for a sensor ping, for a flicker of life.
I remain silent. I keep the ship dark. I want them to get closer. I want them to feel the comfort of their own arrogance until the very moment the void opens up to swallow them.
I analyze the movement of the fleet. The human interceptors move in an unpredictable, erratic pattern—a scavenger’s tactic. They stay in the sensor-shadow of our own structural protrusions, aiming for a blind spot in the secondary batteries. They are vultures, looking for a way to crawl into the vents while the larger ships draw the eye.