For a single moment, I was consumed by anger, anger that urged me toward something drastic. But the rational parts of my mind quickly dismissed the impulse, such an act would be reckless, costly, and ultimately unnecessary.

  The loss of my first ship stung deeply. It had been destroyed in a final act of desperation by the enemy, a bitter reminder of the harsh realities of war. The logistical effort to create that vessel had been immense. The sheer volume of biomass and rare minerals used in its growth could have yielded at least two thousand Star Lance missiles. That realization only deepened the loss.

  I exhaled slowly, pushing the anger aside and refocusing. I had missed critical moments in my frustration. Now, I redirected the remaining Star Lance missiles to their intended targets. The fleeing crippled ship increased its energy output, its defensive systems scrambling to intercept the ten missiles closing in on it.

  Their attempts were uncoordinated. The precision they once had was gone, and my missiles soon caught up. I initiated a countdown, manually manoeuvring them through the layers of their defensive network. The first impact struck the ship’s engines, jolting it forward. The second wave targeted its most damaged sections, breaching the hull and releasing acidic compounds that began eating through its outer shell, exposing the ship to the vacuum of space.

  I dispatched one of my ships to intercept, marking the first vessel to leave lunar orbit under my command. Meanwhile, the remaining twenty missiles were redirected toward the least damaged enemy ships. This was an opportunity to determine just how much destruction I could unleash. I commanded the missiles to accelerate to maximum speed, locking onto one of the vessels.

  As they approached, the enemy’s anti-missile defences kicked in. I lost four out of twenty to their missiles. A fifth missile was damaged by debris, spiralling off course. Their laser defence network concentrated on my acidic warheads, forcing me to weave and dodge through the chaos. Despite the growing debris field, they managed to neutralize four more, leaving me with eleven—five loaded with acid and six with plasma payloads.

  Still, my remaining missiles broke through. Monitoring their communications, I detected multiple breaches across the target ship, and a few non-critical sections were compromised.

  The acidic warheads had punctured their armour, spreading minor chaos as their crew scrambled to contain the spread. Despite the inflicted damage, the ship still managed to escape, retreating eastward at maximum speed.

  I observed the last damaged modified troop ship as it struggled to maintain control. Its manoeuvring thrusters flared, desperately trying to adjust its trajectory, but the vessel was in a death spiral.

  The damage must have been more severe than I initially estimated, severe enough that they were now attempting a controlled crash on the planet’s surface.

  A desperate act, but one that worked in my favour. They were choosing to crash on an active battlefield, a battlefield where I held the advantage. I immediately began calculating their descent trajectory, anticipating where they would make an impact.

  While my intelligence sub-mind monitored their internal communications, an unexpected revelation surfaced, a member of Dauqil’s species was onboard, offering a massive payout to any captain willing to render aid. Interesting.

  Meanwhile, the ship’s hull was becoming structurally unstable, its compromised sections steadily dissolving under the effects of my acidic warheads. A valuable opportunity presented itself, this vessel contained not only a high-value target but also knowledge, all within my grasp.

  I issued commands. My two ships broke formation and moved to intercept, flanking the failing craft from a distance, while my nearest ground forces converged on the estimated crash site.

  As the ship’s descent became increasingly erratic, its crew resorted to desperation tactics, launching missiles in a last-ditch effort to clear a landing zone. Explosions rippled across the battlefield, snuffing out several of my drones and shattering the landscape. Craters formed where munitions impacted, creating high-radiation kill zones that made pursuit risky.

  Finally, the ship crashed. The impact sent shockwaves through the ground, raising a plume of debris and smoke. The area surrounding the wreck was now a nightmarish hellscape, littered with explosive craters and radioactive fallout. I ordered my forces to maintain their distance while small clusters mapped a safe approach.

  Meanwhile, my intelligence sub-mind continued to feed me updates. The negotiations over the price of safe passage were ongoing, Dauqil’s kin were offering large amounts of Nullite in exchange for extraction. But even as his deal was being brokered, my focus was elsewhere.

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  My ship latched onto the broken drifting vessel, its mandibles cracking open the weakened hull, allowing my boarding forces to flood inside. Acid spitters surged forward, accompanied by assault raiders, seeking to overwhelm whatever resistance remained.

  The battle within the ship was brief but vicious. I had anticipated resistance, but what I found was surprising fleet clones. Unlike their ground-based kin, these variants were smaller and more agile, their elongated frames adapted for zero-G combat. Their armour was optimized for shipboard engagements, and they fought with a level of coordination and precision I hadn’t yet encountered.

  Even so, they were outmatched. My forces pushed forward, section by section, tearing through what remained of their defences. Yet, despite their inevitable defeat, they refused to surrender. When capture seemed unavoidable, they destroyed their systems and took their lives rather than allow themselves to be taken.

  As I advanced toward the ship’s central chamber, I found it a large sphere, translucent in appearance, revealing the singular occupant within. The being’s scales were a striking blend of deep reds and pinks, but what drew my attention most were the extensive cybernetic augmentations embedded into its form. Entire sections of its face had been replaced, its hands nothing more than precise mechanical constructs.

  It regarded me with eerie calm, speaking through synthetic vocalizers.

  “So the etheric Brine claw has me at my worst,” it said, its voice devoid of fear. “Tell me, Brineclaw, what would it take for you to leave this moon and settle elsewhere?”

  I paused, my mind processing the question, but my answer came swiftly.

  “The destruction of your fleet and your species,” I replied.

  As I continued clearing the ship, my forces confirmed the inevitable, no survivors were remaining. Every terminal had been wiped, and every data core was destroyed. Frustrating, but expected. My drones turned their attention to the clones’ bodies, cataloguing details for future study.

  Then the voice spoke again.

  “What would it cost for me to leave this ship in safety? I could grant you many boons if we were to trade. Whatever you desire, I would be willing to pay.”

  I considered this for a moment before giving my response.

  “There is nothing you have to offer but your mind.”

  A section of my ship’s biomorph detached, shifting into a containment pod. My drones moved to breach the sphere without compromising its integrity. The being watched them work, its expression unreadable.

  Then, it uttered one last message.

  “Well, it seems you have me beaten. But I will not allow my mind to be turned into a puppet, especially by an etheric Brine claw-like you.”

  With that, the sphere darkened, severing our connection.

  A moment later, the void burned with a new explosion. Another sun bloomed over my war-torn territories, marking yet another decisive victory. I sighed, diverting a splinter of my mind toward refining new boarding alternatives. The battle had proven that my methods, while effective, still had gaps to fill.

  As I turned my attention back to the greater war effort, the larger strategic picture became clear. Whatever resistance remained in the Southern Hemisphere was collapsing. In some sectors, enemy forces had transitioned into an organized retreat. In others, they had devolved into a full-blown rout.

  The sudden appearance of my ships had sent shockwaves through enemy command structures. I monitored their communications, catching snippets of wild speculation and paranoia. False sightings were being reported at an increasing rate. Some claimed my fleet was larger than it truly was. Others whispered that the entire moon was alive.

  That last rumour intrigued me. The idea of converting this moon into a living, moving base was… compelling. I ran the calculations, analysing the sheer scale of the undertaking. The mass of the moon, the energy required, the new fields of technology I would need to develop—it was impractical in the short term.

  But something smaller… something feasible… I let a part of my mind run those numbers for future consideration.

  Meanwhile, the presence of my ships had already forced a shift in enemy strategy. Some captains, seeing the tides turning, began pulling back from critical fronts in the Southern Hemisphere. Without their orbital support, some of their stiffest defensive positions crumbled, allowing my forces to launch large-scale counteroffensives.

  Still, some refused to abandon their posts. A few captains stood their ground, choosing to fight. It would make little difference.