January 17, 1312 PE

  Aslan Sensor Station, Winton System

  The sensor array hummed softly, a constant background vibration that most of the station’s crew had long since learned to ignore. For the lone sensor operator on duty, however, the noise faded into irrelevance as his eyes stayed locked on the tactical display before him.

  Most days were dull.

  Hyper translations appeared as brief flares on the screen—merchant vessels exiting hyperspace to queue for the Winton System’s hypergate junction. Freighters. Schooners. Passenger liners. The occasional private yacht. Predictable. Routine.

  This was not routine.

  A string of new signatures bloomed at the very edge of the system’s translation limit. Not scattered. Not staggered.

  Synchronized.

  The operator’s brow furrowed as the system began auto-counting.

  One hundred.

  Two hundred.

  Four hundred.

  The final tally stabilized at five hundred and sixty-two.

  His hand hovered over the console.

  That alone was enough to set his nerves on edge. Merchant convoys didn’t translate in formations that tight. Even military exercises rarely achieved that degree of precision—especially not at the exact limit of safe translation.

  Still, procedure was procedure.

  He initiated a standard transmission request, querying the unidentified fleet for identification and intent. The signal was routed through official diplomatic channels, encrypted, logged, and timestamped. It would take minutes to reach them—and longer still for a reply.

  His gut twisted.

  Something’s wrong.

  To avoid escalating a potential diplomatic incident, he forced himself to wait.

  Seconds stretched into minutes.

  No response.

  The operator frowned. By now, even a slow or poorly crewed merchant convoy should have acknowledged the hail. He checked the transmission logs. Clean. No interference. No jamming.

  Following protocol, he opened a secure channel to his superior.

  “Sir,” he said, keeping his voice level, “I’ve detected multiple suspicious translations. I suspect they may be pirates or irregulars. I haven’t received any response to the identification request I sent.”

  The reply came quickly—and dismissively.

  “They’re probably just a merchant convoy heading for the wormhole,” his superior said. “We get them once or twice a month.”

  A pause.

  “Still,” the voice added, “how many did you detect?”

  The operator swallowed.

  “Approximately five hundred, sir.”

  Silence.

  “The synchronization was too precise,” he continued. “They translated exactly at the system limit. That’s exceptional astrogation. Merchants don’t do that—not even the high-end ones.”

  “What?” the superior exclaimed. “Stay where you are. I’m coming to confirm this myself.”

  The channel cut.

  The operator turned back to the display, pulse pounding. The unknown fleet continued advancing inward at a steady, controlled burn. No transponder signals. No deviation in formation.

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  Then his console chimed.

  Two new signatures detached from the main mass.

  Smaller. Faster.

  Cold dread crept up his spine.

  He selected one of the contacts, pulling up its acceleration profile and trajectory. The numbers populated instantly.

  The acceleration curve was unmistakable.

  Missiles.

  They were inbound—fast, precise, and aimed directly at Aslan Station.

  The superior burst into the control room just as the realization fully set in.

  “Sir,” the operator said hoarsely, rising halfway from his chair, “missiles incoming!”

  The words had barely left his mouth when the world turned white.

  Two nuclear detonations bloomed where Aslan Sensor Station had once orbited. The shockwaves tore through the station’s superstructure before its automated defenses could even react. Hull plating vaporized. Compartments decompressed. Every living thing aboard was erased in less than a second.

  No distress call was sent.

  No warning reached Winton Prime.

  Aslan Station ceased to exist—leaving only expanding debris and a silent gap in the system’s early-warning network.

  ■■■■■

  Central Command Center, Winton Prime

  The communications officer frowned at her console.

  Aslan Station’s handshake signal had dropped.

  At first, she dismissed it as a transmitter hiccup. It happened often enough—radiation interference, software faults, micrometeor impacts. Normally, a backup system would restore the signal within seconds.

  Thirty seconds passed.

  Then a minute.

  Then fifteen.

  That wasn’t normal.

  She checked the logs again. The other three stations under her watch continued transmitting flawlessly. Only Aslan was dark.

  Something’s wrong, she thought.

  She hesitated, fingers hovering over the comm controls.

  Her superiors had a habit of brushing off concerns. Too cautious, they’d say. Paranoid. Most of them cared more about collecting their salaries than doing their jobs properly.

  Lazy parasites, she thought bitterly.

  Still… she couldn’t ignore this.

  She opened a channel.

  It took several minutes before the call was accepted.

  “What?” her superior snapped. “I told you not to contact me unless it’s an emergency.”

  Before she could answer, her console screamed a warning tone.

  A massive thermal bloom registered at Aslan Station’s last known coordinates—timestamped over thirty minutes ago.

  Then more alerts.

  Hundreds of warship signatures.

  Identified. Classified. Confirmed.Her blood ran cold.

  “Sir,” she said, swallowing hard, “I think this is an emergency.”

  The superior sighed audibly. “Fine. What is it?”

  “Aslan Station has been destroyed by a missile strike,” she said. “Sensors confirm a large hostile fleet entering the system. The signatures match known Trajan Pact warship profiles.”

  She took a shaky breath.

  “I believe the Novies have launched an invasion.”

  ■■■■■

  Novaya–Sagittarius Junction Control Station, Sagittarius System

  Traffic through the hypergate flowed in orderly queues, each ship carefully spaced to prevent catastrophic accidents. The controllers took their work seriously—one mistake could cost thousands of lives and cripple interstellar commerce for days.

  Then the pattern broke.

  “Commander,” a controller said slowly, “there’s no inbound traffic from the Novaya side. All merchant movement has stopped.”

  The commander leaned forward. “Stopped entirely?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The commander frowned. “That’s… suspicious. Inform Admiralty and alert the other junction stations.”

  The controller began preparing the transmission, already knowing it would likely arrive too late.

  The hypergate flared.

  A single ship of the wall emerged.

  It did not slow.

  It launched shuttles toward the station.

  Then another ship of the wall followed.

  Then another.

  A line of warships streamed through the gate in single file, their hulls unmistakably Novayarski in design. The lead ship launched missiles at nearby defensive forts without hesitation.

  Explosions rippled across the void.

  A transmission hijacked every console and speaker.

  “This is Admiral Aleksandr Sukolai of the People’s Navy of Novayarsk,” a stern figure announced. “Effective immediately, jurisdiction over this station and hypergate transfers to the People’s Republic.”

  Behind him, Novayarski banners hung rigidly.

  “Our Marines will board and secure the station. Comply, and you will be treated well.”

  The transmission ended.

  Moments later, armored Marines stormed into the control room. One panicked controller tried to shout warnings.

  A needler cracked.

  The man fell, his body torn apart by micro-explosions.

  Outside, the Novayarski fleet continued onward—toward the heart of the Star Kingdom.

  ■■■■■

  “Admiral,” an officer reported urgently, “the Novaya junction has fallen. Two hundred and thirty-two Dmitry-class dreadnoughts confirmed in transit. More are likely inbound.”

  Admiral Theodore Solomon straightened on the bridge.

  “Order Battle Squadrons Twelve, Five, and Nine to intercept,” he commanded. “Keep them outside missile envelope.”

  He allowed himself a grim smile.

  “Prepare the MDMs. Let’s see how the Novies enjoy our new toys.”

  Another alert chimed.

  “Sir, incoming transmission from the local SSN squadron commander.”

  “Patch it through.”

  A hologram resolved into the image of a blonde woman in a black vac suit, rank insignia marking her as an Admiral.

  “This is Admiral Elaine Koltsovich,” she said crisply. “My squadrons will assist the Royal Navy in defense of the system. You have command.”

  The screen shifted to the tactical overview.

  Over three hundred first-rate Novayarski ships of the wall advanced toward Sagittarius, capital of the Star Kingdom.

  The Home Fleet surged forward to meet them.

  One hundred and twelve RSN capital ships.

  Thirty-nine of them were the new Iron Prince class.

  Sixty-four third-rate Solarian Retribution class vessels bolstering the line.

  For the first time in over a century, the galaxy stood on the brink of a battle unlike any it had seen before.

  And the stars waited, silent and uncaring, as fleets closed for war.