16. Draevik #3
I watch the icons on my HUD turn from amber to a solid, predatory red. My hand hovers over the final engagement trigger. The logic is clear. The target is acquired. As Warlord of the Sovereign Legion, I remind the Fringe that some ghosts still hold their blades.
"Engage," I command under my breath.
The ship screams as the first kinetic slug leaves the dorsal rail, creating a recoil of violent symphony.
Virex Prime shudders as the first kinetic slug clears the rail, a colossus of stone and momentum driven by a massive electromagnetic rumble.
On my HUD, the lead interceptor vanishes.
The scavenger craft simply ceases to be a cohesive object.
It shatters into a cloud of twinkling debris that continues to hurtle forward, a trail of scrap metal that serves as the only evidence of its existence.
Target eliminated, the ship confirms.
The fleet scatters. The arrogance that defines their approach evaporates the moment the void bites back.
They break formation, their engines flaring in a desperate scramble for distance.
My focus remains entirely on the slaughter.
I ignore the alarms. I ignore the high-pitched whine of the reactor as it cycles for the next discharge.
My hands move with the practiced, cold precision of a harvester, painting the remaining interceptors with lethal intent.
The geometry of the kill consumes me. I track the three interceptors as they dive into the sensor-shadows of the larger ships.
I recalibrate the ventral batteries, forcing the ship’s ancient servos to track targets moving at high velocity.
As Commander of the Sovereign Legion, tactical dominance consumes every corner of my awareness.
I watch the sparks of their engines, timing the exact moment their hulls will cross the optimal firing line.
Virex, cycle the secondary capacitors, I command. I want a full spread on the port-side flank. Wipe them out.
The kill-logic takes hold, demanding every scrap of processing power for the forward armament while the predator’s focus locks onto the throat of the fleet.The HUD shows a chaotic tapestry of red vectors and impact predictions.
I spot another interceptor catching a grazing shot from a secondary turret, its wing-assembly shearing off in a spray of sparks.
The grim satisfaction of the hunt fills me.
Victory begins to stretch across the void.
The external engagement demonstrates a masterpiece of Reaper warfare. Focus locks on the fleet’s destruction ahead, the tactile feedback of the ship’s hull blurring into the background static of the reactor’s roar.
Then, a rumble occurs.
It resembles a low-hertz shudder, separate from the recoil of the guns.
It travels up through the deck, an unceasing, grinding pressure, sharp as a needle piercing bone.
I check the tactical grid, but my eyes remain on the Carrion King as it flares its primary thrusters.
The intensity of the assault masks the silent shadows detaching from the larger vessels under the cover of the debris cloud.
The tremors intensify. It becomes a sharp, metallic screech that echoes through the hull itself.
I freeze. My fingers hover over the next engagement trigger. The armor’s sensors suddenly spike, red warning glyphs blooming across my vision, overriding the targeting reticles. The ship screams in my mind—a fragmented, panicked burst of data that severs my connection to the forward guns.
Commander, the ship sends the alert, turning from a consistent red to a frantic, strobing white. Impact confirmed. Sector Four.
I scan the internal sensor feed. My heartbeat strains against the chest plate of my armor.
While I was focused on the slaughter in the void, the boarding leeches used the wreckage of the first interceptor as a screen.
The debris cloud triggered the outer ring of proximity charges—I feel the detonations ripple through the hull, a chain of sharp, percussive shudders that spans the minefield of scrap metal and empty vacuum.
By the time the inner ring should have fired, the leeches were already inside the blast radius, too close for the fuses to discriminate between wreckage and hull.
They have reached us. They have turned my own kill into their shield.
The sound of tungsten-tipped harpoons biting into stone fills the bridge. It is an invasive, physical violation. Korr’s butchers latch onto our skin, their massive magnetic winches grinding as they pull themselves flush against the lateral breach.
I feel the intrusion as a sharp, agonizing puncture in my own flank. The harpoons are conduits. I identify the data spikes on my HUD as the scavengers deploy their parasitic code, exploiting the structural wound in our flank to bypass the external seals.
Commander, unauthorized data access detected at the lateral flank, the ship announces, its voice booming through the bridge speakers. External breach has been compromised. The fleet is starting to board. Hostile presence confirmed inside the hull.
The conflict is no longer in the stars. The butchers are in the corridors. They are inside.