In a sky torn apart by war, the ISS Blades of Hannibal began its freefall toward Minésante.
The metal screamed. It groaned, twisted under impact, every weld crying like a wounded beast. The hull, polished by the shocks of battle, still reflected the unreal beauty of the planet below — the canopy of deep emerald, the pale green sky, the turquoise ribbons of water.
"Oh, that water…" breathed Sergeant Sahlovy, overwhelmed.
"But hang on, damn it!" he shouted at his daughter, who'd been thrown against the wall by another jolt.
Since the moment the Blades of Hannibal had been struck, no one had managed to regain control.
"Useless engineers! Do something for once!" barked Lingpa, the chief of maintenance, as the escape pods stubbornly refused to respond.
Across the comms, chaos reigned. Static, screams, and orders tangled together.
"FS-Ambiorix, this is OMS-Drolafar! Damage report!"
"This is General Castro, Ambiorix! We're going down! Goddammit, we're going down!"
"At Commander Peter Cole's request, ISS-Juror reports—dozens of corporate destroyers in orbit. The whole fleet's fucked. We're going down."
"This is Drolafar. No rescue possible. Continue ground combat. Command transferred to General Castro."
Then, silence.
No more signals for now.
Before them, the magnificent surface of Minésante rushed closer at terrifying speed.
"This is Thélo Le Goff, ship rifleman aboard Blades of Hannibal! Estimated crash coordinates: 457899.04 – 5476.1 – 12336.54! Send us the damn drop zone, for God's sake!"
"This is Le Goff from Blades of Hannibal! What happened to the Juror? Tell Cole to answer, damn it!"
"Lieutenant Hamamoto here. Juror has touched down. Trying to reestablish contact."
The young man fell silent. Tears welled in his eyes as he stared at the dead radio. Around him, the metal groaned, twisted, disintegrating.
And then—nothing.
Silence.
Black sand. The golden light of late afternoon. The dense, enchanted forest beyond.
Sergeant Sahlovy held his daughter in his arms.
Lingpa, pale, clung to a trembling bulkhead.
Thélo, face streaked with tears, clutched the radio like a talisman.
This sky is too calm, he thought.
This is no place to die.
Then came the final crash.
The last one.
The world went dark.
First came silence. Cold, metallic silence, with a taste of iron.
Then came pain — a sharp stab in his shoulder — and dust, in his mouth, his eyes, his lungs.
The radio still crackled, drowning in half-broken voices:
"Juror exploded on impact. Ninety percent of modules detached."
"Drolafar completed its jump. Ambiorix achieved a rough landing."
"Blades of Hannibal… right wing torn off, lodged on a ridge. No pods launched."
A high-pitched ringing filled his head.
Thélo opened his eyes.
Soft light filtered through the wreck, green and amber, strangely warm. Cables hung loose. Bodies lay still.
He tried to move — a tightness at his waist reminded him of his harness. The seat dampers had done their job. Somehow, he was alive.
"Anyone? Anyone still here?" he murmured, his throat dry.
No response.
He unbuckled and fell hard onto the tilted floor. Checked himself: a sore shoulder, a few bruises. Nothing fatal.
Around him, black sand had seeped in through the cracks. Water dripped. Sparks hissed.
Beside him, Sergeant Sahlovy clutched the cracked helmet of his daughter. Blood leaked from her mouth and ears.
The father was still breathing — thrown against a wall that had broken under the impact, softening his fall.
His daughter hadn't been as lucky.
Thélo looked away.
Through the torn hull, the sea sang — calm, beautiful, indifferent.
He crawled to the radio.
"This is Le Goff, third-class rifleman, survivor of the Blades of Hannibal. Coordinates unknown."
No answer.
"Le Goff here, requesting orders. General Castro? Commander Cole? Please respond."
Nothing.
"Survivor of the Blades of Hannibal calling anyone on this damn line — request immediate contact!"
Only silence.
Thélo refused to believe he was alone. The silence wasn't death, he told himself. Just interference.
From the fragments of messages, it seemed General Castro had survived. The wreck of the Ambiorix had landed somewhere along the coast.
He sat by the radio, staring at the green light filtering through the hull, and waited.
The moans grew louder. Moving might worsen their injuries. He had to wait for someone to wake up.
So this is Minésante, he thought.
A planet that swallows everything.
A rasp behind him.
Sahlovy moved.
The strangely warm glow of the wreck helped Thélo think.
He sat there, lost in thought, unsure what to do.
Across the room, the sergeant coughed, then screamed — a cry that tore through the silence.
"Néris! Damn it, NÉRIS!"
The old man sobbed, shaking the lifeless body of his daughter. Thélo stayed frozen, avoiding eye contact.
"Red death… my daughter, find me in the next world…" the father whispered, pressing his sidearm to his temple.
Thélo lunged, striking the gun away.
"Sergeant! If you do this, I'm dead too — and the rest of our men with us!"
"You're already dead, rifleman. Don't you see?
This world, these garrisons, our mission — all of it's doomed. And so are we."
"Explain yourself, sergeant, I don't get it. We've taken beatings in orbit before, haven't we?"
"You idiot! The shock rattled your head. Do you even understand what's happening? Damn it! The Strata are finished — finished!"
"Just orbital defense walls — that's standard for the Imperial army—"
"Just orbital defense walls? On a geological research world?
The Empire's most advanced tech deployed on a random rock?
Do you know what that means?"
"That this site is more than we thought. So what? Command's probably already planned evacuation.
If that damn radio worked, we could—"
"How do you think command will react when they learn the Empire fired on us inside Stratiste space?
Three cruisers, two destroyers, seven corvettes gone in less than two minutes, Thélo!
This world hides something — and believe me, those people will kill to keep it secret."
"If you're right… then what do we do?"
"Oh, I'm right. I'm thinking bio-weapon. I'm thinking toxic agent. I'm thinking planet-killer.
But no one will ever know. It's over.
You can still fight if you want — they'll give you a shiny plaque, call you a hero,
and file your name under 'terrorist' in the Corpo archives."
"Be as cynical as you want, but there are still people here who want to live.
At least, those who still can. Our orders are to reach General Castro."
"That incompetent woman who led us straight into this trap?
I can't wait to see her face when she realizes we're screwed and has to tell her troops.
If I follow you, it's only to watch that."
"A goal's still a goal, Sergeant. Hold on to it — we'll argue about dying later, once we're home."
"Shut up and help me up, stupid rifleman."
Thélo knew Sahlovy's cynical side, but never like this.
He was a veteran, a warhound who'd once fought beside the C.S.C.
If anyone here knew the enemy, it was him.
They spoke for a while, calmer now, weighing their chances.
In the end, they agreed: find the survivors, reach the Ambiorix.
An hour later, they'd gathered what remained of the crew, sorted the injured, and left behind the dying —
entrusting them to whatever god had dumped them here, as Sahlovy muttered.
With six others, they set out toward the wreck of the Ambiorix,
its carcass lying four kilometers away, perched atop a dark plateau overlooking the sea.
It was their only salvation.