Page 60 of Ravaged By the Reaper
The first shot screams past the viewport like a comet with a deathwish.
It misses the hull by a hair, ion trails carving the vacuum into blue-white ribbons—and that’s the last warning we get.
Starbase Gamma roars to life.
Turrets rotate, cannons extend like the fingers of some waking god, and shields flare against the first volley of plasma bursts. The whole structure groans, metal spine flexing under impact as if it’s alive and pissed off.
“INCOMING HOSTILES, MULTIPLE VECTORS,” the computer howls. “SHIELD STABILITY AT 89%.”
I’m already moving. Already bolting toward command with gravity shifting under me like a drunk’s breath. My boots slam steel and echo through chaos. Sirens wail. Holo-screens flicker with enemy fleet telemetry, the red of Coalition markers spreading like a disease.
I slap the tactical overlay into place. The screen zooms, and there they are.
Hornets.
Swarms of them—fast movers, Coalition class X-91s and scythe-wing interceptors, spiraling in formation like dancers in a ritual slaughter. Each one is a blade on fire. We hit a few on approach, but there’s too many. Way too many.
Gamma's returning fire, sure, but it’s like punching waves.
We’re outmatched.
I grit my teeth. My hands curl tight around the guardrail as impacts shudder through the deck plating. Sparks rain from a blown conduit nearby. Crew members shout. The command staff's trying to hold formation, to track targets, to stay calm.
But we’re bleeding seconds.
And seconds mean lives.
Then I hear the tone—long-range scanners picking up something new.
One blip.
Then four.
“Unidentified ships emerging from FTL corridor,” calls the nav officer. Her voice is tight. “Range—thirty AU. Speed—dropping from warp now.”
The holomap updates. Blue blips this time.
I lean in, my heart punching my ribcage.
There she is.
The Widowmaker.
Panaka’s ship, black and sharp as a blade dragged across space. She's flanked by three more Reaper vessels—ghostlike and nimble. No signatures. No warnings. Just pure, tactical malice cloaked in silent arrival.
The nav officer sucks in a breath. “Sir… they’re broadcasting no codes. But I think it’s them.”
I grin, slow and feral.
“They’re not here to talk.”
Yentil swivels toward me, eyes narrowed. “Those yours?”
“Damn right they are.”
The display shifts—Reaper ships break formation, peeling into a delta pattern. Widowmaker moves to intercept the largest Coalition dreadnought like it wants to swallow it whole.
“They brought reinforcements,” someone breathes.
