The result was a perfect, lethal pincer. The sudden arrival of thousands more suited warriors—pouring not from the "alien" ships but from these common local vessels—shattered the enemy's morale instantly.
Panic, cold and infectious, rippled through the coalition. The commanders realised that if they didn't break out immediately, their window of survival would slam shut. Without a word of coordination, the temporary alliances crumbled. Every race and faction forfeited the objective and attempted a desperate, chaotic retreat.
If only one or two fleets had attempted to flee, they might have escaped the dragnet. But with thirty different armadas trying to turn tail simultaneously, they became their own worst enemies.
Massive dreadnoughts collided with escort frigates; flight paths intersected in a tangle of engine wakes and panicked navigation. They obstructed each other's paths so thoroughly that they became a stationary target—a wall of confused steel.
