The gut-punch crack of ion cannons
The gut-punch crack of ion cannons lit up the sky, illuminating swirling green clouds over Nebula Veltis. A lone spacecraft, its hull battered but resilient, weaved through the chaos like a thread through the eye of eternity. Captain Dennik Volkov, broad-shouldered and solemn, sat in the cockpit, his military coat—the deep blue of the Alderran Fleet, etched with silver trim—hanging loose on his sturdy frame. His dark hair was matted with sweat, and his amber eyes narrowed in determination as the ship’s proximity alarms screamed for mercy. Dennik’s scarred and weathered face bore the look of a man who’d stared into the void one time too many, and the void, startled, blinked first.
“Eve, status!” Dennik barked at the ship’s AI, his voice sharp enough to cut through the static crackling over comms. His gloves flexed tightly over the ship’s controls as he maneuvered through an onslaught of debris and plasma fire.
“Hull integrity at sixty-eight percent. Oxygen reserves stable but depleting. Engine failure is imminent if we maintain this speed, Captain,” replied Eve, her synthetic voice devoid of panic but drenched in urgency. A bead of sweat rolled into Dennik’s brow. He wiped it away quickly, taking stock of the faintly-glowing star map on the screen in front of him.
“Not an option. Keep the engines running. We make it to Rigel-One, or we die trying. No middle ground,” he growled. Outside, the jagged remnants of an obliterated trade freighter floated lifelessly in the nebula—it had been one of three that the Alderran Fleet had dispatched for diplomacy, responsibility shared between rival solar territories. But diplomacy had turned to betrayal and bloodshed.
Diplomacy's Doom
The mission had started with much hope. Dennik had stood proud and clean-shaven, wearing his pristine navy-blue diplomatic coat, beneath Rigel-One’s twin suns. Flanked by the most formidable peace envoys of the Alderran Fleet, he could have been mistaken for an ancient warlord-turned-politician, his imposing frame delivering silent but firm authority in every stride.
The task had seemed simple: escort cargo freighters loaded with humanitarian aid into contested territories while brokering peace with the Vitari Ambit—a coalition known to renege on agreements at the first flicker of self-interest. Despite whispers of imminent chaos, Dennik had carried hope that day, confident in humanity’s ability to unite under the stars. But he should’ve known better—leaders fall prey to comfortable illusions.
Hours later, a cigarette-thin Vitari negotiator, whose violet eyes reflected nothing but greed, had tilted his head and muttered, “It seems… regrettably necessary,” before signaling an ambush. Chaos erupted. Hydrosonic traps hidden in gift exchanges ripped through flesh and hull alike. Betrayal screamed more eloquently than any interstellar war cry. The ensuing massacre left Dennik’s freighter as the last survivor, scrambling to stay ahead of destruction.
The Phantom in the Void
Now, hurtling through Nebula Veltis, Dennik bore not just the burden of survival but the weight of knowing he, as captain, had trusted too deeply. The freighter’s cargo hold groaned under the strain of its contents: not merely aid supplies, but a sealed crate he and even Eve were forbidden to open. “Bureaucratic black boxes,” Dennik muttered darkly under his breath, sweat-soaked collar sticking to his neck.
“Captain, incoming transmission. It’s… fragmented,” Eve interjected.
“Patch it through.”
A distorted but unmistakable voice broke through. “Volkov… denied on Rigel… rendezvous with—” Static consumed the rest before revealing a single phrase that chilled him: “They know about the cargo.”
“They know?” Dennik hissed, jaw tightening. Thoughts raced through his mind but came to a screeching halt when another alert blared across the cockpit. A Vitari raider vessel, sleek and deadly, had entered pursuit on their starboard flank.
The Unforgiven Sky
“Eve, full evasive maneuvers. Turbo-steering, now!” Dennik called, bracing himself as the ship dipped dramatically into the swirling green abyss of Nebula Veltis. Static electrical pulses from the nebula danced perilously close, crackling against the freighter’s hull. The raider stayed close behind, weaving with predatory grace.
“Our friend doesn’t seem eager to let us go, Eve,” Dennik remarked grimly as he gripped the controls tighter. They spiraled downward toward the gravitational pull of an unstable black dwarf winking maliciously in the distance.
“I suppose this is where I offer odds of survival?” Eve quipped despite the danger.
“Spare me. Divert all auxiliary power to the front shields. Hold steady at twenty solar-bound units—no deviations!”
The Vitari ship’s plasma cannons shredded between them like streams of white-hot fire as Dennik piloted through fragments of asteroids and fleeting pockets of the nebula’s searing gasses. They danced a perilous waltz against death, the screech of grinding metal filling the silence each time debris grazed the shields.
The Truth Revealed
Eve’s calm voice broke an agonizing twenty-seconds of silence. “Captain, the crate in the hold… I detected sudden energy surges from it. If we don’t jettison it, it could compromise the ship entirely.”
Dennik froze for half a second, then bellowed, “Override that thought, Eve. We were tasked with safeguarding it at all costs—no arguments.” But doubt gnawed at him. What could justify the deaths of so many?”
The Vitari ship fired relentlessly, each shot accelerating toward the inevitable. Then, an explosion rocked the freighter. Sparks erupted from the dashboard as Eve announced, “The raider's systems have faltered. We can lose them if we—”
“Wait, backtrack. How did their systems fail?” Dennik demanded, instinctively scanning damaged memory banks, suspicious yet intrigued. Eve hesitated before admitting, “The energy surge from our cargo destabilized them. I fear it wasn’t coincidental.”
The Choice
They hovered in suspended silence under the sickly green glow of the nebula. Dennik’s worn gloves touched the steering gently. His voice low and hoarse, he whispered in realization. “It’s a weapon. Buried aid run my ass; they used me to deliver chaos itself.”
Somewhere deep within the void, the Vitari raider burned in silence, consumed by its pursuit. But in the captain’s cockpit, a man stood at war—against betrayal, legacy, and self-recrimination.
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Latvia's Russian Minority Explored
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