Clash of Titans in the Void

Northern Fringe of Segmentum Ultima, Ketebrax System. Indra.

The klaxons wailed through the ship's corridors, their shrill cries echoing off the cold, unyielding bulkheads. "Technicians and fighter pilots to your assigned hangars! All crew to battle stations! Non-essential personnel report to the central hall of the first module! Docking release of the central module in sixteen minutes, thirty-two seconds! Repeat…"

Of course, I had no need for sirens or intercoms. But for the sake of the long-eared newcomers, one makes concessions. Speaking of which, the Eldar were already attempting to storm the fighter bays—some even in secret.

"Gareun, I must join the fight! It is unworthy to cower while you wage war!" one of them protested, his voice thick with indignation.

"No."

"But—"

"Listen, Meal'dan, beyond the moral and political implications, there's a technical one. You haven't completed your training."

"You have more fighters than pilots!"

"They'll be remotely operated. Enough. I have no time. Pass your trials, log your hours, then you may crave battle. Now, to the command deck—swiftly!"

By the time we arrived, the retinues of both ships had been reduced to cosmic dust. The miner clung to two dozen fighters; the pirate commanded two corvettes and a hundred small craft. Dozens of larger vessels and thousands of fighters from both sides had joined the ever-growing debris field. Upon entering the system, I dispatched drones to scour the wrecks. Prisoners and technology are never surplus.

A lull had settled over the battle. The prey had slipped past the hunter and now desperately clawed toward the system's edge. Yet even from this distance, their fate was sealed. Though the miner retained speed, its engines were crippled, and its bulk dragged it toward inevitable capture. The pirate was faster—two and a half times so, by my calculations. The good news? Compared to me, both were sluggish as void-whales.

Half an hour later, closing the gap, I finally beheld the ships in their full, grim majesty. Gothic lettering sprawled across their hulls, proclaiming their names: the transport Aurora Ferrum ("Steel Dawn") and its predator, Terminus Frigius ("Frigid End"). They were monstrosities of grandeur and grotesque utility—floating bastions of humanity's hubris. Even now, scarred by battle, shuttles flitted between their spires like carrion birds, lending the illusion of life to these city-sized hulks torn from some forsaken world. Upon the central cathedrals—nothing less could describe those monumental edifices—golden script chronicled their deeds: "Pacified," "Destroyed," "Served in the Fleet." Dates, medals, captains' names, and trade charters stretched back millennia. It was a testament to endurance, though it clashed with my own sense of time. Who am I to judge?

I entered the arena from "above," equidistant from both vessels. The Terminus had just completed its turn and was beginning to accelerate toward me.

The vox crackled with a monotonous plea: "Transport Aurora Ferrum of Clan Kapmun calls for aid! Rich rewards and the clan's gratitude to any who assist!"

To declare my allegiance—and to gauge the pirate's reaction—I responded. "This is Indra. We come to your aid. Hold fast."

Moments later, both corvettes peeled away toward the trader, while the Terminus adjusted course to meet me. The corvettes, far swifter than their lumbering master, would soon overtake the transport. Meanwhile, the Terminus and I spiraled toward each other in a deadly waltz. Before we closed to weapons range, the pirate unleashed its swarm of fighters—a grotesque spectacle, as though the ship had inhaled its brood only to spit them forth in my direction. At maximum thrust, they'd reach me in forty minutes. Eager to hasten the inevitable and test my mettle, I tightened my approach and released my own fighters to meet them: eighteen Nials, sixty-four Furies, ten N'ktar'ati shuttles, and three thousand micro-drones.

By now, the Eldar had gathered on the bridge. For their benefit, I staged a scene worthy of Ender's Game: I stood upon a raised dais, gazing intently into a holographic display, barking curt orders to the crew—who executed them before I finished speaking.

"La'mran, increase thrust to twelve, course six-fourteen-nine, three-twelve-one. Nerigon, main batteries to charge level two."

Beads of "sweat" trickled down the crew's faces. The Eldar watched, enthralled, while I smirked inwardly.

The enemy fighters advanced in a tight hexagonal grid, each ship spaced thirty to forty meters apart. It was a rigid formation—surprising and advantageous. As they entered my weapons' range, I pivoted to face them and fired a salvo of EMP shells. Three seconds later, the fighters, heedless of the threat, were engulfed in a storm of arcing lightning. Half their number became inert husks; the rest scattered into a looser, chaotic array.

The pirate's fighters dwarfed mine—fifty to eighty meters against my ten to twenty. Heavily armored, bristling with weaponry, and built to endure, they seemed insurmountable.

I arranged my forces into an elongated triangle pointed toward the foe, matching their speed. Piloted craft at the base, unmanned drones leading. The puppets were precious; my crew was small, each loss a wound, and replacements would raise questions.

The enemy opened fire first. Gunboats flashed with cannonade, frigates loosed missile swarms, while pure fighters held their silence. In response, I stretched my formation downward, splitting the tip into a forked tongue that seemed to envelop their ranks. Their shots sailed wide, and their missiles fell prey to my drones. My turn. The micro-drones descended like locusts. Laser flares and shells tore through them, obliterating dozens at a time. Under this cover, the Nials advanced, methodically picking off their laser-armed counterparts. With superior maneuverability, accuracy, and rate of fire, the enemy's laser fighters posed the greatest threat—and one by one, they vanished in bursts of flame. In retaliation, their frigates launched crystalline payloads. The resulting detonations shielded them from my energy weapons with a glittering haze. Forward went the shuttles and micro-drones, armed with rapid-fire void cannons—high velocity, low damage. The void rounds couldn't pierce armor but ravaged external systems. The enemy was blinded and deafened.

Yet as I savored this triumph, the pirate sprang a trap. The fighters I'd crippled with EMP, drifting inertly toward the fray, suddenly reignited. How? My sensors had shown their electronics fried. Now these revenants clawed into my ranks. Foolishly, I'd committed all micro-drones forward, leaving my fighters exposed. A grievous error. Though their shells still missed, their lasers and missiles began to claim my forces. It was a death throe—without cohesion or strategy, they were swiftly dispatched.

Fifteen enemy craft remained, battered but intact. I attempted capture. The first fighter's crew, deaf to reason, tried to counter-board. Failing that, they detonated themselves, taking a Nial with them—and, worse, a puppet. The next two followed suit. Though I sent unmanned craft, the loss stung. For the rest, I showed no mercy: hull breaches, explosive decompression, shock pulses for certainty. The half-dead survivors were collected and dispatched to the brig on the habitat module, along with tech samples.

While the fighter battle raged, the pirate corvettes reached their quarry and began pummeling the trader's engines, their barrage scattering its few, feeble gunboats. I sent half my fighters to intervene. They wouldn't arrive in time to save the engines, but they'd provide some cover.

Ahead loomed the pirate's crown jewel. I pray I am not Ahab to this leviathan.

The Terminus bore down upon me, its prow aimed like a spear. Massive tubes flanked its hull—surely potent laser batteries. I had no desire to test their wrath. Accelerating, I slipped into the blind spot between its forward and broadside guns. Perfect positioning: I could strike; it could not. Speed matched, course aligned, I rotated and fired. A salvo of void capsules surged from my main caliber. The energy shells crossed the gap in an instant, ignored the shields, and struck the pirate's hull just behind the prow armor. As the impact blooms faded, I cursed. Twenty-five centimeters. That was all I'd carved from its hide. What manner of armor is this?

Fine—terrible, but fine. I'd find another way. Climbing "higher," I stayed in the blind zone. EMP bursts and main caliber fire raked the focusing crystals of its laser batteries. Success! The enemy's deadliest weapons were silenced. The corsair retaliated at once: four massive rails unfurled from its core like the blades of a great knife. Arcs of energy danced along their edges, and the ship pivoted with shocking agility—far swifter than before. The void glittered with shed plating and debris, but that was secondary. What mattered was the broadside now facing me, bristling with guns. And those guns spoke. A storm of thousands of shells, of every caliber, hurtled toward me. I executed an evasive maneuver, and the lethal hail passed harmlessly by. Increasing distance, I sought the dead zone once more. But the corsair matched my every turn with ease. It rolled to present its other broadside and fired again. Another random dodge—its shells were slow; it couldn't touch me.

Then, disaster. I found myself ensnared in a web of fire. The salvo formed a chalice-shaped trap, inescapable. How did they predict me? Panic clawed at my mind. No, no, no, damn it. NO!

— Central matrix damage registered: 17%. Repair priority: 84%.

— Matrix acceleration threshold exceeded. Error.

— Trajectory analysis: evasion probability 0%. Calculating intercept options. Plotting minimal damage path.

— New tactical option: overload external gravitic drives. Recalculating.

— Initiating sequence.

— Twelve impacts registered. Shield overloaded. Three penetrations. Starboard hangar damaged.

— Maximum thrust, disengage from target.

— Ship status: no critical damage. Repair priority: 43%. Commencing central matrix restoration.

— Matrix restored. Rebooting.

Heavens, that was terrifying. Truly, fear is a mortal peril. I nearly lost myself, nearly became a mere machine. Yet the efficiency of thought… gratifying. What was not gratifying was the enemy's prowess. Nine hits, and my shield collapsed. I'd risk no more.

I unleashed a barrage of EMP shots at the corsair's "blades." Chaotic lightning danced along their lengths, sending the ship into an uncontrolled spin. That would stall it for a time. Time to retreat—my pea-shooters couldn't dent that armor. Hmm. Dent.

— Ho'dran, load all mining rigs into escape pods. We're going to do some active resource extraction.

I wasn't sure if it would work, but I'd watch from a safe distance. Course set for the enemy corvettes.

The corvettes proved no match. Both were already mauled by fighters, and my EMP salvos were their death knell. Mindful of the revenant fighters, I sent drones into their breaches and overloaded their reactors for good measure.

Meanwhile, two hundred pods laden with mining rigs, under suicidal drone escort, landed upon the Terminus Frigius. Straight from their capsules, the machines burrowed—first through armor, then bulkheads, shredding vital systems. Entire sections flickered and died; explosions bloomed, corpses vented through rents. A handful of civilian tools wrought more havoc than I and the trader combined. Something is deeply wrong with this universe.