[Maxwell’s PoV]

  [00:01]

  [00:00]

  Admiral Orton rose slightly from his command chair, his voice calm, absolute, and merciless. “Initiate bombardment.”

  “Commencing bombardment,” one of the officers confirmed.

  Maxwell stood at his post, his expression carefully neutral, though inside his thoughts churned in disbelief. He could not fathom it, a planet choosing bombardment rather than surrendering a single governor. Madness.

  'He must have bought them,' Maxwell reasoned silently. 'He’s using soldiers as his shield, bribed or bound by loyalty. But without a way off-world, they’ll all burn for his arrogance.'

  “Charging primary strike,” an officer near Maxwell announced. “Five minutes until release.”

  Across the bridge, another voice rang out. “Surface-to-orbit launches detected!”

  Maxwell’s head snapped toward the main display. His gut twisted. 'Idiots.' He pressed a hand against his forehead as the data appeared on the radar. Standard ballistic launches. Missiles. As if crude projectiles could ever breach the Dawn’s defenses.

  One by one, twenty signatures appeared on the grid, climbing from Aquarius’s surface toward orbit.

  “Redirect energy to shields,” Orton ordered sharply.

  “Reallocating. Bombardment charge delayed,” came the reply.

  The Admiral leaned forward, his eyes hard. “Do not underestimate them. We don’t know what kind of payloads they’ve prepared.”

  Maxwell suppressed a bitter laugh. 'Payloads? They could detonate every warhead they have, and it would still scatter across the shields.' Yet Orton remained focused, and Nathanael, at his side, wore the same expression of unease.

  “Impacts in ten seconds,” an officer announced.

  The bridge tensed. Fingers hovered over consoles, eyes locked on the countdown.

  Then one of the radar techs frowned, leaning closer to his screen. “Something’s off. Their speed is dropping. They’re… decelerating? Did they miscalculate their trajectory?”

  “Visual feed,” Orton commanded. “Bring me eyes on those missiles.”

  The holographic radar dissolved in an instant, replaced by a magnified video feed from one of the tracking drones. The bridge fell into silence as the image sharpened. Twenty blazing capsules cutting through the void, their hulls glowing red from atmospheric ascent.

  Then, one by one, each missile fractured. Lines of white gas hissed into space, controlled detonations rippling across their armored shells.

  Maxwell’s eyes widened. His breath caught in his throat. 'The capsules weren’t missiles at all. They were delivery systems.'

  The shells peeled away. From within, massive mechas appeared.

  “What in hell is this?” Orton’s voice broke the silence of the bridge, his usual composure cracking for the first time.

  “They launched mechas inside missiles?” Nathanael pushed himself up from his chair, eyes wide, incredulous. “How could anyone survive the G-forces of that kind of acceleration?”

  Maxwell leaned forward, fingers drumming against the arm of his seat. He wasn’t as knowledgeable in the lore of mechas as Nathanael, but even he could see it. These weren’t ordinary units.

  Their armor gleamed in the dim light of space, angular, sharp-edged, all metallic tones. Brutal elegance, reminiscent of the Arcantus-designed Third Generation frames. They were multi-role war machines, made for adaptability rather than specialization.

  And yet, even as the tactic stunned the bridge crew, Maxwell’s mind turned coldly analytical. 'Generalists. Nothing extraordinary. No specialized armaments for space combat. Against true spaceborne mechas, they’ll lose.'

  Still, something unsettled him. His gaze lingered on their movements. The precision, the aggression. These weren’t common recruits.

  “Deploy fighters immediately,” Orton commanded, his voice hardening as he pressed his communicator. “And prepare all mecha units for launch.”

  Maxwell blinked, startled. “All of them? Admiral, is that necessary?”

  “Yes. Every unit,” Orton snapped, his tone absolute. “Do not underestimate them. For their pilots to endure the kind of acceleration we seen, they must be exceptionally trained. And if Aquarius can deploy mechas this way, they can reinforce anywhere, at any time. Their deployment speed is their shield. That makes them dangerous.”

  The words sank into the room. Officers scrambled at their consoles, transmitting orders, prepping bays, fueling squadrons.

  Maxwell turned his eyes back to the holofeed as the first enemy mechas engaged. Fighters screamed into view, darting toward the intruders in tight formation, their engines blazing. For a heartbeat, it looked as if the Republic’s numbers would overwhelm the smaller force.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  But then the truth revealed itself.

  Even though these were Third Generation frames, they had been improved. Their movements were sharper, faster, more fluid than their base designs should have allowed.

  Maxwell’s jaw tightened as the first fighter was torn apart, the mecha twisting with impossible agility to evade the counterstrike. Another fighter followed, consumed in a burst of flame.

  “Admiral, I’ll take the field!” Nathanael rose from his chair.

  Maxwell hesitated, his mind racing. A part of him wanted to remain on the bridge, to observe, to calculate. Yet another part knew he needed to be there, to see the battle with his own eyes.

  “I’ll go as well,” Maxwell announced firmly. “I need to be there.”

  Orton’s gaze lingered on his two commanders, his expression unreadable. For a moment, it seemed he might forbid them, keep them tethered to the safety of command. But then his eyes shifted to the tactical hologram, to the chaos playing out in orbit, and he nodded.

  “Take one squadron each,” he ordered.

  Both men saluted sharply. “Yes, sir.”

  They left the bridge quickly. The corridors blurred past them until they reached the main hangar.

  The place was alive with chaos.

  Hundreds of mechas stood in rows, engineers swarming over them like ants, fueling, arming, calibrating systems.

  And yet, two machines stood apart from the rest.

  They were titans of copper, their armor catching the hangar lights and refracting them in shades of red and gold. Upon their chests was the insignia with a pair of wings crossed with tridents, the mark of command mechas.

  Though they were Fourth Generation frames like many in the hangar, these were different. They were masterpieces of cutting-edge design, forged not only for battle but for symbolism. Their armor was thicker, heavier, sculpted with intimidating lines. They were not elegant, but they were powerful, brutal, the embodiment of the Republic’s will.

  One of the mechas gripped a colossal trident, its edges crackling with energy. The other held a massive energy lance.

  Nathanael strode toward his machine, climbing the scaffolding to reach the cockpit ladder.

  Maxwell, however, paused. His gaze lingered on his copper giant, the trident clutched in its hand. A smile tugged at his lips despite the chaos around him. To him, this weapon was more than steel. It was a declaration. A silent warning. This was not merely a war machine. It was a banner. A reminder to every enemy that the Republic did not fight only to win, but to dominate.

  Climbing the rear ladder, Maxwell entered the cockpit. The cabin sealed shut behind him with a resounding hiss. Consoles flickered to life, bathing him in a wash of green and amber light. He pressed a series of switches, his hands steady, his heart pounding with anticipation.

  The systems began their analisys.

  [Engine: Activated]

  [Weapons: Charging]

  [Shields: Stable]

  [Integrity Scan: Running]

  The copper titan stirred, its frame rumbling as if waking from slumber.

  Nathanael’s voice crackled across the comms. “Commander Nathanael, Model C00, ready for launch. M2 Squadron will deploy with me. M3 will follow Commander Maxwell. Squadrons M1, M4, and M5. Form up a containment circle around us. Keep the enemy pinned. Do not let them scatter. We’ll surround them and end this fast.”

  Maxwell sat within the cockpit, the glow of his consoles reflecting across his face. Every diagnostic light flickered green.

  “Commander Maxwell. Mecha model C00, cleared for launch,” he reported, his voice steady as his hands gripped the dual control sticks, his boots sliding firmly into the pedals that would command his machine’s thrusters.

  “Launch sequence engaged,” came the reply from the engineers below.

  The hangar shook as the massive doors began to grind open, revealing the abyss beyond. The launch chains clamped around his mecha’s legs, locking him to the magnetic rails. He felt the vibration through the frame as the chains pulled, then lurched forward, accelerating him down the launch corridor with brutal force.

  One after another, mechas thundered down the rails, hurled into the void. The moment they cleared the hangar, their thrusters ignited, propelling them into formation.

  Forty mechas surged behind Maxwell. Another forty followed Nathanael.

  “Stay close!” Maxwell barked over comms, his voice sharp, commanding. “Quick strike—eliminate the twenty before they can regroup!”

  He leveled the colossal trident in his machine’s hand, aimed like a hunter’s spear at the nearest target.

  But the enemy had already moved.

  The twenty mechas of Aquarius scattered with sudden, shocking precision. Not far enough to escape the encirclement, but far enough to force the Republic’s squadrons to split their attention.

  “Damn it! What kind of speed is that?!” Nathanael’s voice roared across the comms, frustration boiling over.

  Maxwell’s focus narrowed to a single foe ahead of him. He poured power into his thrusters, the mecha screaming forward, every ounce of acceleration pressing him deeper into his seat. The enemy mecha twisted and rolled, its thrusters flaring as it danced through evasive maneuvers. However Maxwell was closing the gap.

  Every pirouette, every sudden dive, he matched with raw skill and relentless pursuit. His chest rattled with each violent turn, the G-forces clawing at his body, but he didn’t relent.

  “Give up!” Maxwell shouted, his voice echoing inside his helmet. “I’ll tear your carcass apart!”

  The words became a mantra in his mind, burning as the engines at his back. 'Just a little closer. Just a little more.'

  The trident raised, its energy tips igniting as he prepared to strike. His mecha lunged forward, arm extended, the weapon poised to impale—

  “Careful!” The warning blared through his comms, a frantic cry from one of his allies.

  Too late.

  The enemy wasn’t running. It was baiting.

  Maxwell’s eyes widened as his HUD lit up—enemy fire converging. He barely registered the shift in the opponent’s trajectory before the world erupted.

  A cluster of blasts tore through his machine, ripping apart its limbs in a storm of fire and shrapnel. The legs went first, then the arms, then the torso, each section detonating in quick succession until his cockpit was engulfed in a cloud of flame.

  The last thing Maxwell saw before the inferno consumed him was the cold, unflinching visor of the enemy mecha staring back.

  And then, nothing.