Xhollin (The Season of Sustenance)

  Day 257

  1 A.E.

  436 days since my arrival

  The reaction unfolded as expected. Within ten minutes of the first attack, comms channels were flooded with fragmented reports, uncertainty spreading like wildfire. Rumours of rogue clones echoed across encrypted transmissions, and command scrambled to maintain control.

  My access to enemy networks was limited after losing my outpost, but I could still observe. I wanted fear to take root. A few more strikes would determine the outcome. Would command dismiss the incidents as isolated failures, or would they react to the possibility of widespread clone rebellion?

  Five more attacks were executed over the next six hours.

  The first targeted a small outpost housing a communications relay. One of my agents was stationed inside, with four more clones stationed nearby. Under the cover of fixing a damaged relay, my agent had lured everyone outside, and my infiltrators moved in swiftly to secure the installation. The clones were bound and would be transferred out by my agents for conversion. The takeover was silent and efficient. No alarms. No resistance.

  The next three attacks escalated into open firefights at critical supply hubs. Infiltrators provided support, drawing clone forces away while my agents pressed the advantage. Within minutes, automated defences were overridden, and core reactors overloaded turned the hubs into irradiated ruins. Command detected the pattern, but instead of acknowledging the scale of the attacks, they tried to suppress the news, containing panic among the ranks.

  The final strike was the riskiest. A massive mining complex in the western sector was fortified and staffed with sixty enemy clones. A direct assault by my agents was impossible, they were outnumbered five to one.

  Instead, infiltrators executed a precision breach, infiltrating the hub and causing chaos while the clones moved to neutralize the threat while my agents moved to their objectives.

  Within moments, enemy communications were jammed, automated defences were rewritten, and agents and infiltrators began eliminating all targets.

  Panic set in. Defenders fell in quick succession. When the last hostile dropped, my forces withdrew, leaving behind only radioactive ruins and an open-channel transmission detailing the “rogue clone uprising.”

  This was the moment to push forward.

  In the east, my fleet was primed for a decisive strike.

  Thirty-five ships took positions across the entire region, providing fire support, while another hundred automated hauliers stood by to transfer Nullite off the lunar surface.

  A total of 1,800 Star Lance missiles were prepped for launch.

  My scouts kept a close watch on enemy movements in orbit. The Triumvirate’s fleet drifted slowly, adjusting position only with manoeuvring thrusters, their formations deliberate, calculated. Fifteen ships maintained high-altitude overwatch above contested zones.

  Sixteen were converted mine hauliers, repurposed into troop carriers.

  Eighteen were warships, each bearing the insignia burned into my memory—dark orange stripes intersected by three circles.

  But my focus was on one vessel.

  A behemoth, three times larger than any ship I had ever encountered. At first, I had mistaken it for the enemy’s capital ship, but Frival’s memories corrected me. It was merely a supply haulier, a monstrous cargo vessel tasked with replenishing the war effort. It ferried fresh clone reinforcements to the front while loading its hull with refined Nullite.

  The true capital ship, Xaldrin’s Wake, lingered in deep space, stationed between the moons Phaedra and Ivinal, too distant to intervene in time.

  Everything was in place.

  The countdown to launch the first volley began—ten minutes.

  Thirty-eight of my ships were ready to move the moment the missiles launched, capitalizing on the initial confusion.

  I would deliver a blow that would shake the Triumvirate.

  At the same time, my remaining bases in the northern sector launched their offensives. Suicide drones and Mosquitoes swarmed marked supply convoys in suicidal waves, overwhelming defences with sheer numbers.

  The battlefield was set.

  As the countdown reached its final seconds, chaos in the north intensified. Command struggled to contain the growing disorder, redirecting focus away from the impending strike. The distraction worked perfectly.

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  The moment the timer hit zero, the first volley was unleashed.

  Four hundred and fifty missiles surged from the Southern Hemisphere, accelerating eastward toward the fifteen enemy ships holding defensive positions. Their comms chatter spiked instantly as sensors detected the inbound swarm. Warnings were shouted, and orders scrambled.

  Each of the fifteen ships had thirty missiles locked onto them.

  As the missiles streaked through the vacuum at maximum speed, my attack fleet emerged—hugging the lunar surface to avoid early detection. I started another countdown. The missiles would begin striking in waves over the next eight to ten minutes. Every second counted.

  The first ninety missiles locked onto their targets, homing in on three of their orange-striped warships. The enemy responded immediately, launching their own counter-missiles in a desperate attempt to intercept.

  I took direct control.

  Their missiles weren’t simple projectiles they detonated early, creating expanding clouds of high-velocity shrapnel designed to tear through anything in their path. The first explosion sent lethal fragments slicing through space.

  I adjusted course, but eighteen of my missiles were shredded instantly.

  I pressed forward, dodging incoming counterfire. Defensive turrets lit up, cutting into the formation. Concentrated laser fire vaporized six more missiles. Then another eleven were lost in the chaos of rapid manoeuvres and overlapping engagement zones.

  Fifty-five missiles remained.

  I redirected them, concentrating firepower on two of the enemy ships. Plasma detonations slammed into their hulls, boiling away armour plating. Acid warheads followed, eating through the weakened sections.

  The enemy ships faltered.

  Sensing an opportunity, I ordered ten of my ships to ascend rapidly, firing their volleys. The enemy responded without hesitation. Counter-missiles streaked to meet them, while defensive turrets adjusted, tracking my ascending ships with deadly precision.

  Then came the lasers.

  My ships were built for speed, but they couldn't outmanoeuvre the pinpoint accuracy of Triumvirate weaponry. The concentrated beams tore into the forward three ships, their hardened hulls struggling to take damage, while the internal biomorph was stretched thin trying to seal all the breaches before the damage became catastrophic. I had no choice.

  I designated them as shields.

  They absorbed the brunt of the incoming fire, their reinforced carapaces cracking and melting under the assault. As they faltered, three more ships took their place, pressing the advance.

  Then we reached the optimal range.

  The battle turned savage.

  Bone dart launchers ignited, hurling acidic and plasma projectiles at close range. Enemy ships fired everything they had, determined to outlast us in a brutal exchange of attrition. It became a contest of endurance, who could withstand the punishment the longest.

  The undamaged enemy ship retreated at max burn. But the other two were too heavily damaged to flee, their engines struggling pushing their thrusters to max burn against the sustained onslaught.

  I focused fire.

  Their armour crumpled under the relentless assault. The final wave of bone darts found their mark, rupturing structural supports. That was the moment I had been waiting for.

  My ships surged forward.

  They intercepted the crippled warships, their appendages latching onto hull plating. Defensive turrets were ripped from their sockets. Acid spitters were deployed, searing through bulkheads. Assault raiders soon followed the acid spitters through the breached openings, swarming into the corridors like living nightmares.

  My ships immediately retreated to a safe distance, leaving the boarding party to their mission.

  The enemy ships were overwhelmed.

  The cost, however, was severe.

  Four of my ships were critically damaged. Two were beyond saving, their structures too compromised to continue the fight. I immediately ordered all damaged ships to retreat, with four of them towing the fallen vessels for potential salvage and repair.

  Meanwhile, my boarding parties advanced deeper inside the enemy ships. The comms were a storm of frantic distress calls, desperate requests for reinforcements that would never come.

  The entire engagement had lasted only four and twenty seconds.

  And while this battle raged, my remaining missiles were still closing in on their intended targets.