Captain Manuel's ship, the Skiff, drifts in the black void of orbit.
The hull trembles—
not from wear,
but from restrained fury.
The inner mechanisms saturate the air with a barely perceptible vibration—
like a premonition.
Beyond the armored portholes, stars glide past—
mute,
indifferent.
Judges who do not sentence—only watch.
**
The bridge.
A silence—dense as death.
Everything is in its place.
The crew holds still.
Fingers hover over panels,
eyes locked on the central holographic screen.
The air—thick.
Like before lightning strikes.
Before the storm.
Dimness sliced by holograms—
polygonal projections of allied captains.
Their faces—tense,
jaws clenched,
and in every gaze: the same reflection.
The time for words has ended.
Only the objective remains.
**
Suddenly—a new projection.
Vikhar's face flares into view.
Exhausted.
But his eyes—sharp as blades.
His voice cuts through the silence:
"Urgent update.
Yulia and Alex just transmitted the coordinates.
Our ships must move into position over the nodes.
Once the target leaves the Platform—we strike.
No signal.
No mercy."
The screen flashes with the Platform's schematic—
a titanic structure,
hanging between stars like a mirage.
Red points flicker across the structure—
shield contours. Energy veins.
Weak spots.
"Sorry, but I don't trust those prisoners," Maria snaps.
Arms crossed.
Her voice—not just sharp, but searing.
"Yesterday, they were silent like zealots.
Today—heroes of the resistance?
Too convenient."
Vikhar meets her gaze.
"I don't like them either," he replies calmly.
"But we have no other choice.
Not a single one.
They've picked a side—
even if they don't know it yet.
And we—we choose faith. Or extinction."
**
Manuel steps forward.
A figure like a monument of resolve.
Hands clasped behind his back.
His voice grates like gravel under treads:
"The Platform is guarded by twenty-two cruisers.
Over a hundred drones.
If we miss—
we'll be crushed in thirty seconds.
No one will bother asking who fired first."
"The shield?" Pietro interjects.
He leans closer to the screen,
his voice taut with metallic tension.
"If we delay, the defense will close."
"The field's on Camilla," Vikhar replies.
Precise. Like a shot.
"She'll weaken it at the right moment.
One chance. One."
"Camilla?" Pietro's smile is venomous.
"You seriously think she'll risk herself—for us?"
"She's already risking it," Vikhar snaps.
"There's a front inside the Platform.
She's fighting it.
Now it's our turn."
**
Maria stays silent.
Stares at him.
Deeply.
Coldly.
Testing.
But Vikhar doesn't blink.
His gaze holds no anger.
No fear.
Only choice.
She nods.
Slowly.
Almost imperceptibly.
But it's the turning point.
Click. A shift inside the system.
"Fine," she says.
"I'm with you.
If she's holding the shield from within—
I won't back off from the outside."
**
Silence.
Saturated by words.
Now, only the pulse speaks.
"Do we have a Plan B?" Manuel asks.
Like a door slamming shut.
"No," Vikhar shakes his head.
"Only this.
Either we strike first...
or we vanish."
**
The words fall like leaden drops.
They won't be repeated.
They won't be forgotten.
Manuel turns his head.
Looks out the porthole.
The Platform—motionless.
Like an idol.
Like a god no one prays to anymore.
But he feels it—
something inside is stirring.
Ripening.
Like a poisonous fruit.
He turns back.
His face—stone.
"Then prepare," he says.
"All stations: battle readiness.
Formation shift in three...
two...
one...
Form up."
**
He steps toward the console.
Panels come to life.
The light—crimson.
The sound—low.
A hum fills the bridge.
It isn't noise.
It's the ship's breath.
Alive.
Ready.
The crew moves—
precise.
Wordless.
Fearless.
One organism.
"Transmit to allies:
at the count of seven—synchronized turn.
Entering strike zone.
Target—the Platform's energy core.
One shot.
One chance."
**
The captains' holograms vanish—
one by one.
Their ships in the dark
begin to move.
Like a spiral.
Like a crown of steel.
Tightening around the giant.
Soundless.
Merciless.
**
Manuel looks ahead.
Into the eyes of the Platform.
And he knows—
it isn't asleep.
Just waiting.
"Today," he says,
softly,
evenly,
like a log entry,
"we're not just fighting.
We're etching lines into the chronicle of the future.
Let that be remembered."
**
Silence.
Only the countdown.
Only the tension.
Only the heart.
Until the first shot.
Until the sky explodes with truth.