The presidential fleet of Marcus. The Cobalt station.
A low roar runs through the hull.
It is not the wail of an alarm—it is the groan of metal, melted by betrayal.
And then—darkness.
Panels die. A soft white light bursts for the last time—like the breath of the condemned.
Scarlet signals flare along the walls—spasmodic, feverish, as if the station itself has fallen into delirium.
Sirens rip the air apart. Metal vibrates with fear.
It feels.
Something irreversible is already happening.
"To your stations!" Admiral Tyler roars.
His voice is an artillery blast aimed at panic.
He cuts the air with his hand, pointing officers to their consoles.
"Battle alert! Raise the shields! Readiness level—one!"
The doors to the command hall slam open.
President Marcus stands in the doorway.
His eyes dart across the room. His face is stone, but fear is already growing beneath it.
To the left—operator posts in crimson glow.
To the right—tactical displays, the fleet unraveling like a torn net.
Ships move—not forward, but apart.
Not into battle, but away.
"What in God's name…" Marcus whispers,
unable to believe what he sees.
"What is happening?!" Louder now. "Report!"
Tyler turns.
His face is pale.
His eyes hold no fury.
Only panic.
Open. Burning.
"A virus, Kairus… it is inside," he forces the words out. "They have not just broken our codes. They are breaking minds.
We are losing the fleet—not in battle.
In thought."
On the main screens—the fleet stirs,
but not to their command.
Heavy cruisers veer off course.
Frigates slip behind the station.
Transports drift toward Alexander's flagship.
No shots fired.
No orders given.
Only… departure.
"They are leaving… without a single shot…" Marcus says slowly,
as if each word scrapes his throat from the inside.
"Half the fleet… is walking away. Without a fight."
"They are no longer with us," Tyler answers flatly. "They are dead. Inside.
Kairus rewrote them. He has done what no enemy in twenty years could achieve."
"How did you LET this happen?!" Marcus explodes,
stepping forward, fists clenched,
as if he could hammer reality back into shape.
"You do not get to lecture me!" Tyler snaps back.
His voice is rage now.
"Officers! Check every module! Anything cut off from the core—quarantine it! Immediately!"
"Commander Alexander has broken away," an officer reports.
The voice shakes, but holds.
"The fleet is moving into the gravitational shadow zone.
If they cross, we lose them."
"Main batteries are ready. Target is locked. Awaiting your order to fire, sir!"
A heartbeat.
The stillness before the storm.
"No!" Marcus whirls.
His voice is a current strong enough to jolt steel.
"We do not fire on our own.
They are not enemies. Not yet."
"They are deserters!" Tyler cuts in.
"They have betrayed their oath.
I say—open fire."
"Target locked. Fire!" the speakers announce.
IMPACT.
The Cobalt station shudders.
Beyond the viewing glass—a flash, white and blue, like the birth of a newborn star.
A torrent of fire.
Marcus's ships firing upon those who flee.
They are firing—upon themselves.
The rebels' shields collapse one by one.
Space screams.
The darkness bleeds.
"Shields down to twenty-seven percent," an officer reports,
with the voice of a surgeon cutting into living flesh.
"Alexander is building a defense.
Fifteen layers of drones around the perimeter.
Fast."
"Drive them to the edge! Now or never!" Tyler shouts.
But his voice no longer commands.
It pleads.
It is the echo of a death knell.
And then—a different kind of flash.
"Stand down! Cease fire!" Marcus's voice strikes like a hammer.
"Admiral Tyler, you have disobeyed a direct presidential order. That is treason."
Silence.
Everything freezes.
Every finger. Every button.
A shadow moves.
Anie steps out.
Security Service agent.
In her hand—a paralyzer.
One shot.
One pulse.
One ending.
Tyler falls.
Not like a man—but like a broken drone.
The system draws his body away.
The officers watch.
As if witnessing the fall of a legend.
As if seeing something no one believed possible.
Marcus stands.
His chest rises and falls.
His voice is heavy, but straight as a blade.
"Maintain order.
From this moment—I take direct command.
Status report. Now."
A pause.
Then a voice—shaking, but precise:
"Remaining ships have been checked. No sign of infection."
"How many?"
"Eighteen cruisers. Sixteen assault carriers. Twenty-one transports."
A beat.
"That is all we have left, sir."
Marcus lowers his gaze.
His fists clench again—not from rage, but to keep the pain from spilling out.
"We are now less than a striking fist," he whispers.
"And they will head for Earth. And Earth will welcome them.
And fold them into its fleet.
It was not gunfire that betrayed us.
It was doubt."
He turns to the officers.
His voice is even.
"But we have not lost yet.
We do not surrender."
And in the red glow of alarms,
amid the echoing walls,
the overheated panels,
and the trembling shadows,
Marcus feels, for the first time, that he is no longer merely a president.
He is—
the last bastion.