Captain Davidson sat alone on the bridge, surrounded by stations that would never be fully crewed again. The battle for Utopia had ended three days ago in catastrophic defeat. His ship drifted near the fragmented remains of the Imperial line just outside of the debris fields in vortex space that had been capital ships, silent hulks that had been homes to thousands, broken comm relays still broadcasting automated distress calls that would never be answered.
The crew was running recovery operations. Casualty assessments. Damage control on systems that barely functioned. The bridge smelled of ozone and burnt insulation with the lingering scent of death.
Through the forward viewport, vortex space shone with deceptive clarity. The vortex storms that had shrouded Utopia were gone, leaving space unnaturally clean. Almost peaceful if not for the armada on the other side.
His new XO, a Lieutenant Lewis, promoted from tactical when the old XO had died in the first engagement, approached with a tablet. Young, competent, still carrying the shell-shock of watching half the bridge crew die.
"Sir, fleet status reports are compiled. Casualty estimates are... significant."
Davidson took the tablet without looking at the numbers. He already knew they were catastrophic. Three major fleets reduced to scattered survivors. The Holy Order controlled Utopia's perimeter absolutely, and humanity had learned it was no longer the dominant force in its own space.
"Thank you, Lieutenant. Dismissed."
Lewis hesitated. "Sir, are we... are we going to be okay?"
Davidson looked at the young officer and saw the question behind the question: Will the Empire abandon us out here? Will reinforcements come? Do we matter anymore?
"We'll do our duty, Lieutenant. That's all any of us can do."
It wasn't an answer, but Lewis accepted it anyway.
The priority transmission arrived during delta watch, cutting through every security protocol with the kind of authority that made veteran comm officers nervous. It had to be a message from real powerbrokers of the Hallow Empire.
"Captain Davidson, this is Imperial Command. Priority One. Authenticate."
He authenticated, watching encryption layers peel away to reveal orders that felt inevitable.
"All surviving vessels are hereby recalled to core space for debriefing and strategic reassessment. Bring all combat data, sensor logs, and surviving personnel. Departure within forty-eight hours. Acknowledge."
Davidson acknowledged, already knowing there would be more. He isolated the room and activated all the security measures.
The second layer of encryption, activated with a message meant only for his eyes, bypassed through channels that technically didn't exist.
DIRECTIVE SIGMA - EYES ONLY
Captain Davidson: Secondary objective concurrent with recall. Subject: Tanya Furrow, civilian contractor, Bonded gardener, suspected of giving away unauthorised access to classified dimensional navigation technology. Suspected Spy for the Holy Order. If located, detain immediately. Recover all related research materials and equipment. Use of force is authorised if the subject resists. . Classification: State Security Priority Alpha.
Authorisation: Imperial Security Council
Davidson read it twice, feeling cold certainty settle into his bones.
They knew. Someone had connected the dots of Tanya's research, the Genesis sighting, the timing of her disappearance. They'd decided she was a threat or an asset to be controlled, which amounted to the same thing.
And they'd given him the order to bring her in. He knew it was coming and had already acted. Little as it was.
Davidson pulled up his encrypted message log. The warning he'd sent to Amara, brief and desperate: They're coming for her. Hide everything. She needs to disappear, and she needs to do it now.
No return ping. No acknowledgment. No way to know if it had gotten through the chaos of battle and fleet communications.
He understood what his choice meant. Once Command realised he could not, or would not, carry out their orders, they would move to secure every piece of research tied to Tanya. Securing the research meant seizing anyone who had worked with her. That included him and his crew.
He had done what he could. Beyond that, it was no longer his decision. All he could buy them was time, and he would spend it doing exactly that.
He pulled up his ship's communication logs, studying the encrypted channels he'd used to send his warning. Sophisticated enough to avoid casual detection, but if someone went looking specifically...
"Lieutenant Lewis," he called through the comm. "I need you to run a systems purge. All backup telemetry from our last engagement. Sensor data, communication logs, everything non-essential to navigation and life support."
"Sir? That's against regulations. Command will want—"
"Battle damage corrupted the backup systems. We're purging to prevent cascading failures. Log it as emergency maintenance and execute immediately."
A pause. Then: "Understood, sir."
Davidson closed the connection and stared at the Directive Sigma order. He'd just committed his first act of deliberate disobedience. He had become a liability to Imperial Security. They would realise it eventually.
And when they did, orders for his silence would follow just as inevitably as orders for Tanya's detention.
The only question was timing.
The high-profile shuttle arrived sixteen hours later, announced through proper channels with proper clearances. Commander Vell from Fleet Intelligence, coming aboard for "routine post-engagement review and documentation."
Davidson met her in the shuttle bay, noting the two armed security officers who accompanied her. Standard protocol, supposedly, but the message was clear.
Commander Vell was tall, precise, with the kind of controlled efficiency that came from years in intelligence work. Her smile never reached her eyes.
"Captain Davidson. Thank you for accommodating this review on such short notice."
"Commander. How can I assist?"
"Routine documentation. Combat logs, sensor data, and command decisions during the engagement. Fleet Command wants comprehensive after-action reports from all surviving vessels." She gestured toward his bridge. "If we could begin?"
They walked through corridors that still bore scorch marks and emergency patches. Vell said nothing about the visible damage, too professional to comment on what everyone could see.
On the bridge, she set up her equipment with practised efficiency. "I'll need access to your primary communication logs, sensor archives, and tactical recordings from the entire engagement period."
"Of course. Lieutenant Lewis will provide whatever you need."
What followed was three hours of meticulous review. Vell asked pointed questions about specific decisions, timing of withdrawals, and coordination with other fleet elements. All standard debriefing procedures.
Then her tone shifted subtly.
"I notice some gaps in your communication archives. Encrypted transmissions that didn't route through standard fleet channels."
"Battle conditions," Davidson replied smoothly. "Standard protocols broke down when the Holy Order jammed our networks. We used whatever channels still functioned."
"Mmm." Vell pulled up a timeline. "And this purge of backup telemetry? Logged as emergency maintenance fourteen hours ago?"
"Corrupted data was causing system conflicts. We cleared it to prevent cascading failures."
"Interesting timing. Just before my arrival." Her expression remained professionally neutral. "And you're certain the corruption was battle damage? Not, say, deliberate sanitation of sensitive information?"
Davidson met her eyes without flinching. "Commander, I've served in the Imperial Fleet for thirty-three years. If you're questioning my integrity, please do so directly."
"I'm not questioning anything, Captain. Simply documenting discrepancies for my report." She smiled that empty smile again. "Which will note that communication gaps and data loss are consistent with the chaotic engagement conditions you described."
She didn't believe him. They both knew it. But without concrete evidence, she could only file suspicions and move to the next vessel.
Vell packed her equipment with the same efficiency she'd displayed unpacking it. "Thank you for your cooperation, Captain. Fleet Command will review my findings."
After she left, Davidson stood on his bridge and counted the minutes until her report reached whoever was watching for exactly this kind of irregularity.
He walked to his ready room and keyed his private comm. "Lieutenant Lewis, quietly prep emergency departure protocols. Keep it subtle. No general alerts."
"Sir?"
"Call it a drill. But have us ready to leave on my order."
Lewis's hesitation carried through the comm. "Yes, sir."
Davidson closed the connection and sat in his command chair, watching Vell's shuttle depart through the viewport.
The noose was tightening. He could feel it. He just needed to minimise the fallout.
Late in the night, when the skeleton crew maintained their posts and exhausted personnel tried to sleep, Davidson recorded a personal log.
Not for command. Not for official records. For himself, and maybe for whoever found it after everything fell apart.
"Personal log, Captain James Davidson. Date... doesn't matter anymore."
He paused, organising thoughts that had been churning for days.
"I broke orders. Destroyed evidence, sent unauthorised warnings, and deliberately obstructed intelligence operations. By any military standard, I've committed treason."
Another pause, longer this time.
"I won't apologise."
His voice strengthened.
"I've served the Empire for three decades. Followed orders that made sense and orders that didn't. Watched good people die for political decisions made by people who'd never seen combat. But I followed orders because the system was supposed to protect us. Maintain civilisation. Keep humanity from tearing itself apart."
He stared at his hands, remembering the controls he'd gripped during the battle, the orders he'd given that sent people to their deaths.
"Tanya Furrow is a shipwright from a farm colony. She builds things that help people. Rescue ships. Navigation systems. Technology that opens space to everyone instead of just the military and the wealthy. She's bonded to a Gardener, yes. She's flying a ship she probably shouldn't have access to, yes. But she's also the one person in this entire mess who still builds to help. She is not made for war. "
He closed his eyes.
"The Empire sees her as a threat. Maybe she is. Maybe her technology will destabilise everything. Maybe it helped the Holy Order, but maybe next time she helps us. Sadly, the empire will see her as dangerous; we'll have destroyed the exact kind of person we need most."
He opened his eyes, focusing on the recording interface.
"So if whoever finds this wants to know why I betrayed my oath, it's because my oath was to protect humanity, and for that, we will need Tanya Farrow on our side."
He encrypted the log with personal codes and buried it deep in the ship's maintenance systems, hidden among diagnostic files that nobody would review unless they were looking for something specific.
The general recall was well on the way. All remaining Imperial vessels were to return to core space for strategic consolidation. Routine, expected, entirely normal after a defeat of this magnitude.
Davidson was reading the order when his sensor officer called out with a sharp alarm.
"Sir, incoming IFF signatures. Imperial cruisers, three vessels, approaching fast on intercept vectors."
Davidson felt ice settle in his stomach. "Identification?"
"INS Rectitude, INS Judgment, INS Sovereign Authority. All showing proper Imperial codes."
Ships named for punishment and control. Not reinforcements. Not rescue.
"Captain, we're being hailed," his comm officer reported.
"On screen."
The transmission showed a face Davidson didn't recognise—a commander with the flat expression of someone reading from a script.
"Captain Davidson, per order of Fleet Command, you and your crew are hereby relieved of duty pending investigation into operational irregularities. Stand down all systems and prepare for personnel transfer. Compliance is mandatory. Acknowledge."
Davidson recognised the phrasing. He'd heard it before, even said it himself, more than a few times. Only to make officers disappear while in intelligence custody. There would be no investigation. No trial. Just silence, and later a report listing "unfortunate casualties" or "tragic accidents."
"Lieutenant Lewis," he said quietly. "Sound evacuation alert. Cite unstable reactor conditions. Non-essential personnel to escape pods immediately."
"Sir, that's—"
"Execute the order, Lieutenant."
Lewis hesitated only a moment before triggering the ship-wide alert. signals sounded, followed by automated evacuation protocols.
His old crew members appeared on the bridge: his sensor officer, tactical specialist, and engineering liaison. The ones who'd survived when so many hadn't.
"Captain, what's happening?" the tactical officer asked.
Davidson stood, facing them with the honesty they deserved. "Those ships aren't here for routine transfer. Fleet Command has decided we're a liability. This ship won't survive what's coming. Anyone who stays does so by choice, knowing we probably won't make it out."
Silence settled over the bridge. The evacuation alert continued its urgent pulse.
His engineering liaison, a grizzled chief who'd served on this ship for eight years, spoke first. "Where are we going, sir?"
"Nowhere. We're buying time for the evacuation pods to clear."
"Then I'm staying. This ship deserves a proper engineer at the end. Like the good old days, I will go down with the ship"
One by one, they made their choices. His new XO, Lieutenant Lewis. His tactical officer. The sensor specialist. Not all of them, as some chose survival, and Davidson ordered them to the pods without judgment. But enough stayed that he wouldn't face this alone.
"Get those pods launched," he ordered. "And someone get me a weapons status report. If we're going down, we're doing it on our terms."
The incoming cruisers opened fire without warning.
No further hails. No demands for surrender. Just missile locks and energy weapons painting his hull, clinical and efficient.
"Evasive manoeuvres!" Davidson ordered, gripping his command chair as the ship lurched. "Launch countermeasures, use the debris field for cover."
His tactical officer worked frantically. "Point defence holding. But sir, our weapons are at forty percent capacity. We can't fight three cruisers."
"We don't need to fight them. We need to last long enough for the pods to clear." Davidson watched the tactical display, seeing escape pods ejecting in clusters. "Helm, keep us between the cruisers and those pods. Weapons, fire for effect, not for kills. Just make them cautious."
His ship danced through the debris field, using the wreckage of the battle as cover. Railgun rounds and missiles reached toward the pursuing cruisers, it was not enough to destroy them, but enough to force evasive manoeuvres, slow their pursuit.
"Pod group alpha has cleared the engagement zone," Lewis reported. "Beta launching now."
Another impact rocked the ship. Damage alarms screamed from multiple sections.
Davidson pulled up his encrypted communication array. It was the one running through non-standard channels, the one that had gotten him into this situation. He diverted reactor power to the long-range transmitters, amplifying the signal beyond safe parameters. He knew this would be his last chance.
"Sir, what are you doing?" his comm officer asked.
"Sending a message."
He composed it quickly, every word burning away his last chance at deniability:
They are after blood. They're coming. The Empire will hunt her until she's captured or dead. Run. Hide everything. Trust no one in uniform. This is bigger than you know.
—A friend who tried
He encrypted it with every code Amara had ever used, routing it through every relay that could still reach her network. Then he pushed the transmit button.
The communication array exploded in feedback, antennas burning out under the overload. Every ship within sensor range would detect that transmission. Fleet Intelligence would trace it within hours.
He'd just confirmed every suspicion Commander Vell had filed in her report.
"Pod group beta clear," Lewis called. "Final group launching."
Another impact. This time the damage was serious—hull breach on deck seven, reactor containment warnings.
"Sir, we need to evacuate," Lewis said urgently. "The reactor—"
"I'm aware, Lieutenant." Davidson watched the tactical display. The three cruisers were closing, no longer cautious now that they'd confirmed his ship was dying. "Get to a pod. That's an order."
"Captain—"
"Go."
Lewis hesitated, then saluted, with a proper military salute that said everything words couldn't and left the bridge at a run.
The bridge was burning. Smoke filled the air, mixing with the smell of melted insulation and spilled coolant. Davidson sat in his command chair, watching the reactor containment display as warnings cascaded into critical failure.
He could evacuate. Should evacuate. There was still time to reach an escape pod.
But the reactor breach was accelerating. If it went uncontrolled, the explosion would destroy every pod within five kilometers. His crew, the people who'd served with him, trusted him—they'd die because he'd led them into this.
Unless someone stayed to manage the containment failure. Hold it long enough for the pods to clear the blast radius. The others knew it as well, which is why they had chosen to stay.
Davidson pulled up the reactor controls and began the manual override sequence. His fingers moved across controls slick with blood from a head wound he didn't remember receiving. The bridge shook with impacts from the pursuing cruisers, but they didn't matter anymore.
"Final pod group clear," the automated system announced. "Evacuation complete."
Davidson checked the tactical display one last time. The pods were spreading out, too many targets moving in too many directions for the cruisers to pursue them all. His people would survive. Some of them, at least.
He thought about Tanya. The farm girl who'd crashed on a rogue planet and emerged with ancient technology and impossible dreams. Who talked about ships that saved lives with a light in her eyes that made cynical military officers remember why they had joined the fleet in the first place.
She would hate knowing what happened here. Hate that someone died to protect her. He hoped she'd never find out. Hoped she'd just disappear into the black and build her ships far from Imperial reach. He knew that was not likely. She was going to be part of this war whether she wanted to be.
The reactor containment was failing faster now. He'd held it as long as humanly possible.
Davidson pulled up the scuttling charge controls. The final option, the one that lets you choose how your ship died. He'd always thought he'd go down fighting, not sitting alone on a burning bridge trying to save people who were already gone.
But this was fighting, too. Just a different kind.
He triggered the sequence. Thirty seconds until detonation. Enough time to think, not enough time to regret.
"Fly safe," he whispered to the empty bridge.
The reactor breach synchronised with the scuttling charges. For a moment, Davidson saw white light brighter than any star.
Then nothing.