“They are hedging,” I reply without looking at him.
“They are surviving,” Rethan corrects.
I do not argue. Survival is the Badlands’ oldest reflex.
The holotable displays Alliance perimeter defenses layered in defensive geometry—sensor webs, patrol arcs, rapid-response clusters stationed near the broadcast node that intelligence flagged as Elara’s likely holding location. The station itselfrotates in slow orbit around a pale gas giant, its reflective plating gleaming in tight, efficient symmetry.
“She goes live in minutes,” Rethan says.
“I know,” I answer.
“Full consensus would strengthen us.”
“Full consensus would delay us,” I reply.
Rethan studies me for a moment, then nods once, sharp and resigned. “You’re committing with only loyal strike units.”
“Yes.”
“Fast assault craft only.”
“Yes.”
“And if the clans fracture further?”
“Then they fracture under action, not hesitation,” I say evenly.
The strike leader’s voice cuts across the comm. “Captain, perimeter lock achieved. Awaiting breach authorization.”
I lean forward slightly over the projection. “Initiate non-lethal disruption protocols first,” I say. “Scramble targeting arrays. Blind long-range sensors. No kill strikes unless confirmed hostile lethal intent.”
Rethan glances at me. “You still extend restraint.”
“I extend choice,” I reply.
The fleet surges forward in coordinated arcs. Reaper assault craft move like predatory silhouettes against the glittering shield perimeter, deploying signal scramblers that distort Alliance tracking grids into shimmering static.
On the projection, Alliance patrol formations jitter as interference ripples across their systems.
“Perimeter disoriented,” the strike leader reports. “We have a narrow corridor.”
“Hold lethal fire,” I repeat.
The corridor opens in fractured geometry as Reaper craft slip through sensor blind spots. The station looms larger now, its defensive turrets rotating in mechanical vigilance.
“Alliance response spike,” Rethan warns.
I watch as a formation of Alliance interceptors angles toward our flanking squadron. Their fire pattern shifts—warning pulses at first, measured and disabling.
“Kill orders not yet confirmed,” the strike leader says.
“Maintain non-lethal,” I respond.
A sudden flash blossoms on the projection as one of our forward craft explodes under a concentrated Alliance barrage.
“Kill authorization confirmed,” the strike leader says sharply. “They escalated.”
The air in the war room tightens.
