“Escalate proportionally,” I order. “Target weapon systems only.”
Reaper ships pivot, returning fire with precision strikes that shred turret mounts and sever guidance arrays without annihilating entire hulls. The station’s outer perimeter flickers under the assault, defensive shields collapsing in staggered waves.
“Ground assault team ready,” Rethan says.
“I’m leading it,” I reply.
He meets my gaze. “You don’t have to.”
“I do.”
The assault shuttle rattles as it breaches atmosphere seal into the station’s docking ring. The interior of the craft smells of metal and old blood, of weapons primed and nerves coiled tight. Around me, my strike unit checks blades and pulse rifles in disciplined silence.
“Primary objective,” I say, meeting each of their eyes in turn, “is extraction. Secondary objective is survival of unit. We do not chase vengeance. We do not overextend.”
One of the younger warriors nods sharply. “And if we encounter Valen himself?”
“If you encounter him,” I reply, fastening my gauntlets, “you report his position. You do not break formation.”
The shuttle slams into docking alignment with a resonant clang.
“Go,” I say.
The hatch bursts open under controlled detonation, and the corridor beyond erupts in white light and automated alarms. The air inside the station is cooler, filtered and precise, carrying the sterile scent of Alliance infrastructure.
Alliance operatives flood the corridor immediately, armored and disciplined. Their pulse fire streaks toward us in tight formation.
“Advance,” I order, deflecting the first volley with the reinforced plating of my forearm guard.
We surge forward as a single unit, blades carving through armor seams, pulse rifles targeting weapon mounts and disabling joints. The clash of metal and energy reverberates through the narrow passage, every impact vibrating up my arms.
An operative lunges toward my flank; I catch his wrist mid-strike and twist until the joint snaps with a dull crack. He falls without a sound.
“Left corridor secured,” one of my warriors calls out over comm.
“Push inward,” I respond.
The deeper we move, the louder the station’s alarms escalate, shifting from localized breach warnings to full emergency lockdown protocol.
“Security drones deploying,” Rethan’s voice filters through my comm. “Automated countermeasures escalating.”
The ceiling panels split open, releasing compact drones that streak toward us in aggressive arcs. Their weapons discharge in rapid pulses.
“Disable,” I order.
We adjust formation, blades and targeted shots cutting drones from the air as sparks rain down across the corridor.
A blast door slams shut ahead of us with bone-shaking force.
“Alternate route,” one of my unit says.
“No,” I reply, stepping forward.
I drive my blade into the seam between the blast door panels and force the gap wider with raw leverage. The metal shrieks in protest, sparks spraying across my armor.
“Through,” I command.
We push deeper.
