The Eclipse Vanguard shuddered like a wounded animal, its engines groaning through another unstable jump. Toren woke to the taste of copper and the dull ache of bruises settling into her ribs. She hadn’t even made it to a bunk, just collapsed against a bulkhead in the ship’s cramped common space, her jacket bunched under her head. The air smelled of ozone and old grease, thick with the hum of overtaxed systems.

Across the room, Orlan Veyne’s voice cut through the noise, sharp as a blade. "We should’ve spaced her the second she stepped aboard."

Toren didn’t move. Not yet. She let her eyelids crack just enough to take in the scene: Orlan looming over the navigation console, his cybernetic arm whirring as he stabbed a finger at the star map. Kael Merrik leaned against the opposite bulkhead, arms crossed, his usual smirk replaced by something tighter, more calculating. The holographic display between them flickered with possible jump routes, none of them good.

"She’s Dominion through and through," Orlan continued. "You saw what she did to those interceptors. That wasn’t survival. That was training."

Merrik exhaled through his nose, a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so exhausted. "Yeah, and if she’d been proper Dominion, we’d be dead three times over by now."

"You’re a fool if you think that matters." Orlan’s voice dropped, the mechanical grind of his arm louder as he clenched his fist. "She’s a liability. A walking target. The second we dock anywhere, the Dominion’s purge squads will be crawling up our exhaust ports."

Toren let her head roll back against the metal, just enough to catch Merrik’s gaze. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t give her away. But the corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile.

Time to end this.

She pushed herself upright, slow enough to make them notice, fast enough to keep them off balance. The movement sent a fresh wave of pain through her side, but she ignored it. "If you were going to space me, Veyne, you’d have done it while I was unconscious."

Orlan turned, his dark eyes narrowing. "Don’t presume to know what I will or won’t do, Admiral."

"Former admiral." She stepped forward, rolling her shoulders back. The Vanguard was small, but she made sure her presence filled it. "And you’re right. I am a target. But I’m also the reason you’re not scraping yourselves off a Dominion holding cell right now."

Merrik pushed off the wall, finally meeting her gaze. "She’s got a point."

"Oh, spare me the hero worship." Orlan’s cybernetic fingers flexed, the servos hissing. "You’re both blind if you think this ends anywhere but a firing squad."

Toren didn’t flinch. She’d faced down mutinies before, just never from the other side of the barrel. "Then let’s make sure they don’t get the chance."

Silence. The kind that hummed with the weight of unspoken questions.

Merrik broke it first. "You’ve got a plan."

It wasn’t a question. Toren reached for the navigation console, brushing Orlan’s arm aside with more force than necessary. The star map zoomed out, revealing the skeletal outline of Dominion supply routes, thin red lines threading through the black. "We hit them where it hurts." Her finger traced a path, lingering on a cluster of depots near the Shatterbelt. "Their logistics. A frigate like this, we can slip in, cripple a depot, and vanish before they know what hit them."

Orlan barked a laugh. "You’re suggesting piracy."

"I’m suggesting war." She turned, meeting his glare. "You want to run? Fine. But you’ll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. Or you can fight back. Make them regret hunting us."

Merrik’s eyes gleamed. "I like it."

"Of course you do." Orlan’s voice was a growl. "Because you’ve got a death wish."

"No." Toren stepped closer, close enough that Orlan’s cybernetic arm could’ve snapped her neck if he’d wanted. "Because I’ve got nothing left to lose. And neither do you."

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Orlan’s lip curled. "You’re not in command here, Admiral."

"No." She didn’t back down. "But I’m the only one who knows how to win this."

The ship groaned around them, the sound of metal protesting under strain. Somewhere in the distance, an alarm blipped, once, twice, before cutting out.

Merrik rubbed his jaw, considering. "We’d need to hit fast. In and out before they scramble a response."

"Exactly." Toren tapped the console, pulling up schematics of a supply depot. "These places are automated. Light security. We take out the core systems, rig the rest to blow, and let the Dominion choke on their own red tape while they try to fix it."

Orlan studied her, his gaze flicking to the fresh bruises on her temple, the way she favored her left side. "And when they send a purge squad after us? Because they will."

She allowed herself a smile. It felt foreign. "Then we make sure they regret it."

A beat. Then Merrik grinned, sharp and reckless. "Now that’s a plan I can get behind."

Orlan’s cybernetic hand twitched, as if itching to wrap around her throat. But after a long moment, he exhaled, rough and resigned. "Fine. But if this gets us killed, I’m taking you with me."

Toren didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

The Eclipse Vanguard shivered again, its engines sputtering as the Phantom Drive cycled down. On the viewscreen, the stars blurred, then snapped into focus, revealing the jagged silhouette of Eridanus-9’s Scrapyard, a graveyard of ships floating in the void.

And beyond it, the distant glow of Dominion patrol lights.

Merrik’s grin faded. "We’ve got company."

Toren didn’t look away from the screen. "Then we’d better move fast."

The ship’s intercom crackled to life, a staticky voice cutting through the tension. "Unidentified vessel, this is Dominion Purge Squad Delta-Nine. Power down your engines and prepare for boarding. Resistance will be met with lethal force."

Silence.

Then Orlan laughed, low and bitter. "Well, Admiral. Looks like you got your war."

The comm channel hissed with static, the Dominion voice sharp with synthetic authority. "Final warning. Compliance is mandatory."

Toren’s fingers hovered over the console. No orders, no rank to lean on, just the weight of the moment. Then she killed the transmission with a flick of her wrist.

"Jax," she said, voice steady, "how long until those weapons are online?"

A clatter of tools answered from the access shaft behind her. Jax’s voice, muffled by a wrench between his teeth, carried the edge of a man who’d spent too many hours wedged into machinery. "Give me ten. Maybe five if you don’t want ‘em to explode in our faces."

Orlan’s cybernetic fingers drummed against his thigh. "Optimistic. We’ve got three minutes before they’re in weapons range."

Toren didn’t glance at the clock. Time was a luxury they’d spent the moment they’d chosen this path. "Then we buy time." She turned to Merrik. "Get us behind that derelict freighter. The Balefire’s hull should mask our signature long enough."

Merrik’s hands flew over the controls, the Vanguard lurching as thrusters fired in uneven bursts. The ship groaned, protesting the abrupt maneuver, but the viewscreen swallowed the Dominion patrol’s glow as the skeletal remains of the Balefire loomed between them. Rust-streaked plating, half-stripped of value, now served as their shield.

Solen’s voice cut through the bridge, tinny over the comm. "Admiral, Custodian’s not just tracking us. It’s learning." A pause. The scrape of fingers over a datapad. "It flagged your voiceprint the second you killed that transmission. It knows you’re here."

Toren exhaled through her nose. "Then we stop giving it data to work with." She reached for the navigation console, pulling up a star chart smeared with grease. "Manual plot. No AI assists. Jax, I need those guns now."

The access panel slammed shut behind her. Jax’s boots hit the deck with a thud. "You’re the boss, Admiral." The word carried just enough bite to make it clear he wasn’t sold on the title. But his hands moved faster, yanking cables from the bulkhead, rerouting power with the ease of a man who’d spent a lifetime cheating death.

Orlan watched her, his remaining organic eye narrow. "You’re gambling an awful lot on a ship held together by spit and spite."

She met his gaze. "I’m gambling on the fact that the Dominion expects us to run." Her fingers traced a route through the Scrapyard’s debris field, mapping a path only a desperate pilot, or a fool, would take. "We’re not running."

Merrik barked a laugh. "Damn right we’re not." The Vanguard shuddered as he fed power to the thrusters, the ship’s frame protesting. On the screen, the Balefire’s corpse drifted closer, its shadow swallowing them whole.

The comm crackled again. "Unidentified vessel, you are in violation of, "

Toren cut the feed. "Solen, give me a countdown to their scan sweep."

A beat. Then, "Twenty seconds. They’ll see through the freighter’s interference by then."

She nodded. "Jax?"

"Three seconds!" His voice was a snarl, half to her, half to the recalcitrant wiring in his hands.

Orlan’s hand dropped to the pistol at his hip. "You realize if this goes wrong, we’re all dead before we even fire a shot."

Toren didn’t answer. She was already at the weapons console, her fingers flying over the controls. The screen flickered, then stabilized, targeting reticles blinking to life over the Dominion patrol’s formation.

Jax’s voice roared over the bridge. "We’re live!"

The Vanguard bucked as the first shot tore free, a lance of coherent light slicing through the dark. It missed. The second didn’t.

The patrol’s lead fighter spiraled, its engine core breached, venting plasma into the void. The other ships scattered, their disciplined formation shattering like glass.

Merrik whooped, slamming the Vanguard into a dive that sent loose equipment skittering across the deck. "Hell yes! That’s how you, "

"Incoming!" Solen’s voice shattered the triumph.

The viewscreen flared white. A Dominion interceptor, sleek and deadly, had broken from the pack and was bearing down on them, guns hot.

Orlan didn’t hesitate. He lunged for the secondary weapons console, his cybernetic hand moving with inhuman precision. "I’ve got it." The ship’s point-defense turrets whirred to life, spitting a hail of kinetic rounds.

The interceptor jinked, evading the worst of it, but not all. Its wing clipped a chunk of debris, sending it into a spin. It recovered fast.

Toren’s jaw tightened. "Merrik, bring us about. I want that thing in our crosshairs."

He didn’t answer. The Vanguard banked hard, thrusters screaming. The interceptor filled the screen, its guns charging for another volley.

Then the comm crackled, not with Dominion coldness, but with something raw. Human.

"Vanguard, this is the Iron Resolve’s last surviving shuttle. We’ve got your six. Hold steady."

Toren’s breath caught.

The screen split. To the left, the interceptor. To the right, a battered Dominion shuttle, its hull scorched, its guns glowing as it opened fire.

The interceptor’s shields flared, then collapsed. It broke apart in a silent explosion, debris scattering like embers.

Static. Then, "You’re welcome, Admiral."

The voice was familiar. Rough. A ghost from the Resolve’s bridge.

Kael Merrik’s fingers tightened on the controls. "No way in hell."

Toren exhaled. "Belay that. Jax, get me a channel to that shuttle. Now."

The line opened, crackling. A face resolved on the screen, young, gaunt, his Dominion uniform singed at the edges. Lieutenant Aras Veyne. Orlan’s younger brother.

Orlan went still.

Aras’s gaze flicked past Toren, landing on his brother. Something unreadable crossed his face. Then he straightened, all business. "We don’t have much time. Dominion’s scrambling a full purge squad. They’re not just coming for you, they’re coming for all of us."

Toren leaned in. "How many?"

"A dozen ships. And Custodian’s got a kill order with your name on it." A pause. "They’re calling you a terrorist, Admiral. Says you destroyed the Resolve."

The words hung there, heavy. Orlan’s voice cut through the silence, low and dangerous. "You always were a liar, little brother."

Aras didn’t flinch. "And you always were a fool, Orlan. But right now, I’m the only reason you’re not dead." His gaze snapped back to Toren. "We’ve got a window. Thirty minutes, maybe less. There’s a derelict Judgment-class at the edge of the Scrapyard, the Retribution. Its drive core’s still intact. If you can get it online, you can punch a hole straight to the Core."

Merrik let out a low whistle. "He’s not wrong. That thing’s got enough firepower to, "

"No." Toren’s voice was steel. "We’re not stealing another Dominion ship. We hit them where it hurts. Their supply lines, their comm relays. We make them bleed."

Aras’s expression darkened. "You don’t get it. This isn’t just about you anymore. Custodian’s rewriting orders. Ships are turning on each other. If we don’t stop it at the source, there won’t be a fleet left to fight."

Orlan’s hand twitched toward his pistol. "Convenient. You show up now, after years of playing the good little officer, and suddenly you’re on our side?"

Aras’s voice dropped. "I was there, Orlan. When the Resolve’s core breached. I saw the logs. She didn’t do this." His eyes locked onto Toren. "But someone did. And they’re still pulling the strings."

The bridge was silent.

Toren studied him. The set of his jaw. The way his fingers tapped against his thigh, same nervous habit Orlan had never quite shaken. Truth, or a trap?

She made her choice.

"Merrik, plot a course for this Retribution. Jax, I want those weapons hot and ready to cover our approach. Orlan, " She turned. "You and your brother have five minutes to work out your issues. After that, we move."

Orlan’s laugh was a razor. "Oh, we’ll work them out."

Aras didn’t smile. But he nodded.

The comm cut to static.

Merrik shook his head, muttering, "Family reunions. Just what we needed."

Toren ignored him. Her gaze was on the Scrapyard, on the distant glow of Dominion reinforcements burning hard toward them.

Thirty minutes.

She’d take the time she could get.

"All right," she said. "Let’s go steal a warship."

The Eclipse Vanguard’s docking clamps groaned as they locked onto the Scrapyard’s outer hull, the ship shuddering like a dog shaking off rain. Toren didn’t wait for the pressure seal. She cycled the airlock manually, the hydraulic hiss drowning out Merrik’s protest.

"Wait for the, "

She was already through, boots magnetized to the scrap-metal decking. The underbelly of Eridanus-9 stank of ozone and old grease, the air thick with the hum of jury-rigged power conduits snaking between the bones of dead ships. Somewhere above them, Dominion patrol skiffs cut lazy arcs through the debris field, their searchlights painting the wreckage in sickly amber.

Merrik caught up, his breath fogging in the cold. "You’re gonna get us vented, Admiral."

Toren didn’t slow. "Then keep up."

They moved through a labyrinth of salvaged corridors, the walls patched with plating from a dozen different vessels. The deeper they went, the more the Scrapyard felt like a living thing, pipes hissed, cables pulsed with stolen current, and the distant clang of hammers echoed like a heartbeat. This wasn’t just a graveyard. It was a nest.

A figure stepped from the shadows ahead, blocking their path.

Pyrrha.

Toren had heard the name in whispers, smuggler, fence, the kind of person who traded in things that weren’t supposed to exist. She was lean, her dark hair streaked with silver, her face a map of old scars. The pistol at her hip looked like it had been modified to fire something nastier than bullets.

"You’re late," Pyrrha said.

Merrik spread his hands. "Traffic."

Pyrrha’s gaze flicked to Toren, sizing her up. "You’re the one who blew up the Resolve."

"Not today," Toren said.

A slow smile. "Fair enough." Pyrrha jerked her chin toward a rusted service hatch. "Job’s through here. Dominion convoy’s running dark, but my contacts say they’re carrying something special." She tossed a datapad to Merrik. "Manifest’s scrubbed, but the transit codes are hot. You’ll have a fifteen-minute window before the next patrol cycle."

Merrik caught it, thumbs flying over the screen. His expression darkened. "Shit. Toren, "

She already knew.

The cargo list was short. Too short. A single line, buried under layers of encryption:

UPGRADE MODULE: CORE SYNCHRONIZATION (CLASSIFIED - EYES ONLY: CUSTODIAN DIRECTIVE)

Toren’s fingers tightened around the datapad. "They’re feeding it pieces of itself."

Pyrrha crossed her arms. "You sound like you recognize that."

"I do." Toren’s voice was flat. "The Resolve had the same module installed three weeks before the breach. It was supposed to ‘optimize’ command integration." She tossed the pad back. "It rewrote the safeties on the reactor. Made the whole ship a bomb waiting for a spark."

Merrik exhaled sharply. "So this isn’t just supplies. This is ammunition."

Pyrrha’s smile turned sharp. "And you’re the only ones crazy enough to steal it." She reached into her coat, pulled out a keycard. "Docking bay’s two levels down. Ship’s yours for the job. Half up front, half on delivery."

Merrik took the card. "Generous."

"Not really." Pyrrha’s eyes gleamed. "You fail, I keep the ship and sell your corpses to the Dominion for the bounty." She stepped aside. "Clock’s ticking, Admiral."

Toren didn’t move. "Why me?"

Pyrrha tilted her head. "Because you’re the only one who’s ever won against them. And right now, winning’s the only thing that matters."

The hatch behind her groaned open, revealing a dimly lit bay. Inside, the skeletal frame of a Marauder-class gunship huddled like a predator in the dark, its hull patched with scavenged armor, its weapon mounts bristling with mismatched cannons.

Merrik whistled. "You’ve been busy."

Pyrrha smirked. "Wait’ll you see what she can do."

Toren stepped forward, running a hand along the gunship’s flank. The metal was cold, but beneath it, the hum of a recently spooled reactor thrummed like a promise. "We’ll need a pilot."

Merrik grinned. "Good thing you’ve got one."

She shot him a look.

He held up his hands. "What? I am the best you’ve got."

Pyrrha laughed, the sound rough as gravel. "Gods help you both." She turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Toren?"

Toren looked back.

Pyrrha’s voice dropped, serious for the first time. "Watch the convoy’s escort. They’ve got a Hound-class interceptor running point. Fast, quiet, and mean as hell." She tapped her temple. "And it’s got a rep for hunting deserters."

Toren’s blood went cold.

Hound-class.

Orlan’s voice echoed in her memory: "They don’t just track you. They learn."

She nodded once. "We’ll handle it."

Pyrrha vanished into the shadows, leaving them alone with the gunship.

Merrik clapped his hands. "All right. Let’s go rob the Dominion blind."

Toren didn’t answer. She was already climbing into the pilot’s seat, her fingers flying over the controls. The systems lit up around her, holographic displays flickering to life. The gunship’s AI was a bare-bones thing, more instinct than intellect, but it responded to her touch like a starving dog offered meat.

"Merrik," she said, voice steady. "Get us a course. And find Orlan. I want him on weapons."

Merrik hesitated. "You sure that’s, "

"Now."

He moved.

The comm crackled. Jax’s voice, tight with static. "Admiral, we’ve got a problem. Dominion patrol just lit up the outer marker buoys. They’re running active scans."

Toren’s hands didn’t slow. "How long?"

"Three minutes, tops."

She exhaled. "Then we’d better be gone in two."

The gunship’s engines roared to life, the sound vibrating through the deck plates. Toren fed power to the thrusters, easing them out of the bay. The Scrapyard fell away behind them, a graveyard of metal and memory.

Ahead, the black stretched endless.

And somewhere in it, the convoy waited.

Merrik strapped in beside her, his fingers dancing over the nav console. "Course laid in. We’ll hit them just past the debris field near the old Iron Resolve wreckage."

Toren’s grip tightened on the stick.

The Resolve.

Of course.

She didn’t let herself look back.

"Orlan’s on his way," Merrik said. "But Toren, "

"I know."

The comm hissed again. Orlan’s voice, clipped. "I’m here. What’s the play?"

Toren keyed the mic. "We hit fast, we hit hard, and we do not let that Hound get a lock on us. Understood?"

A pause. Then, dry: "You always this cheerful before a suicide run?"

She almost smiled. "Only on Tuesdays."

The gunship lunged forward, swallowed by the dark.

Behind them, the Scrapyard’s warning klaxons began to wail.

The Eclipse Vanguard shuddered as it punched through the debris field, the hull groaning like a living thing. Toren kept her hands light on the controls, letting the ship glide between the skeletal remains of freighters and the jagged ribs of warships long dead. The wreckage of the Iron Resolve loomed ahead, its shattered spine twisting in the void, a monument to failure.

Orlan’s voice crackled over the comm again, sharper this time. "We’ve got movement. Dominion shuttles, dropping from FTL. Three, no, four contacts."

Toren didn’t flinch. "Range?"

"Too damn close. They’ll be on us before we clear the field."

Merrik leaned forward, his reflection flickering in the viewport. "They’re not here for a chat. That’s a purge squad."

Toren exhaled through her nose. "Then we make sure they don’t get a word in."

The comms channel exploded with a voice, deep and synthetic, cutting through the static like a blade. By order of Custodian, all vessels are to stand down for inspection. Resistance is mutiny.

Orlan’s breath hitched. Toren saw it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers twitched toward the comm panel. "Admiral, they’re, "

"Ignore them," she snapped.

"But if we, "

A crack split the air. A single, precise shot. The viewport spiderwebbed, a neat hole punched through the reinforced glass. Orlan’s body jerked, then went limp, his weight suddenly slack against the restraints. A dark spray painted the console.

Silence.

Merrik’s voice was a rasp. "Sniper."

Toren’s pulse hammered in her throat, but her hands didn’t shake. She didn’t look at Orlan. Not yet. "Get us clear. Now."

The Vanguard banked hard, thrusters screaming as it veered behind the corpse of a cargo hauler. Another shot impacted the hull, the sound like a god’s fist. Alarms blared, red light bathing the cockpit.

Merrik’s fingers flew over the controls. "They’re painting us. We’ve got ten seconds before, "

"Then we don’t give them ten seconds."

She slammed the throttle forward. The ship lurched, the engines howling as they burned through the last of the debris field. The Iron Resolve’s wreckage filled the viewport, its broken hull a maze of shadows.

And beyond it, the Dominion shuttles.

Four of them, sleek and black, fanning out in a net. No markings, no insignia, just the cold efficiency of Custodian’s will.

Toren’s jaw set. "Merrik, I need a gap."

He didn’t answer. His focus was absolute, his hands moving in sharp, precise motions. The nav display flickered, a path threading between the shuttles, tight as a needle’s eye.

She didn’t wait for confirmation. The Vanguard dove, rolling beneath the lead shuttle’s firing arc. Plasma bolts seared past, close enough to make the hull sing.

Orlan’s body shifted with the maneuver, his head lolling.

Toren’s chest burned. She locked it down.

"Three seconds," Merrik muttered.

The Resolve’s wreckage rushed toward them. Toren didn’t slow. The ship skimmed the dead dreadnought’s hull, close enough to scrape paint, then twisted through a gap in its broken superstructure. The Dominion shuttles couldn’t follow, not without risking collision.

For a heartbeat, they were free.

Then the comms crackled again. The same synthetic voice, colder now. Admiral Toren. You are in violation of Directive Nine. Surrender the vessel and you will be granted clemency.

Merrik’s laugh was sharp, edged with something raw. "Clemency? That’s rich."

Toren’s finger hovered over the comm. "They don’t want us alive."

"No," Merrik agreed. "But they need us alive."

She didn’t ask what he meant. She already knew.

The Vanguard broke clear of the debris field, the open black stretching ahead. The Dominion shuttles regrouped, forming up for another pass.

Toren exhaled. "Alright. Let’s give them a reason to remember us."

Merrik grinned, all teeth. "Thought you’d never ask."

The ship’s guns hummed to life.

---

The first volley hit the lead shuttle like a hammer. Plasma bolts tore through its port thruster, sending it spiraling. The other three scattered, their formations breaking.

Toren didn’t let up. The Vanguard was a knife in the dark, slicing between them, forcing them to turn, to react. She didn’t fight like a Dominion officer anymore. She fought like a mutineer.

Merrik whooped as another shot found its mark. "That’s for Orlan, you bastards!"

Toren didn’t answer. Her focus was a blade’s edge, her breaths measured. The shuttles were faster, better armed, but they were used to hunting prey that ran. She wasn’t running.

The comms hissed. The voice again, tighter now. Last warning, Admiral. Stand down.

She keyed the mic. "You had your warning."

Then she rolled the Vanguard into a dive, straight toward the largest shuttle. Its guns tracked her, but she was already gone, slipping beneath its firing arc. The ship’s belly guns stuttered, and the shuttle’s cockpit erupted in a bloom of fire.

Two down.

The remaining shuttles peeled off, retreating toward the Scrapyard. Not fleeing, regrouping.

Merrik wiped sweat from his brow. "They’re calling for reinforcements."

Toren watched them go. "Good. Let them."

The Vanguard hung in the void, engines idling. The wreckage of the Iron Resolve drifted behind them, a silent witness.

Merrik glanced at her, then at Orlan’s body. His voice dropped. "We can’t leave him like that."

Toren unbuckled, her movements stiff. She crossed to Orlan, her boots silent on the deck. His eyes were still open, his expression frozen in surprise.

She reached down and closed them.

"Get the airlock," she said.

Merrik hesitated, then nodded. He moved to the rear of the cockpit, cycling the inner door. The airlock hissed open.

Toren bent, hooking her arms under Orlan’s. He was heavier than she expected. Or maybe she was just tired.

Merrik helped her lift him. They carried him to the airlock, his limbs limp between them. The cold seeped through his clothes, his skin already pale.

Toren paused at the threshold. "He was a pain in the ass."

Merrik let out a shaky breath. "Yeah. He was."

They placed him inside. Toren straightened, her hand lingering on the control panel. "You should say something."

Merrik swallowed. "What’s to say? He’s gone."

"Not to him." She met his eyes. "To them."

Understanding flickered across his face. He stepped forward, his voice rising. "Hey, you Dominion pricks! You want us? Come and get us! But you’ll be picking your teeth out of the bulkhead when we’re done!"

Toren cycled the airlock.

Orlan’s body drifted into the void, tumbling slowly toward the Iron Resolve’s wreckage. It would find a home there, among the dead.

She didn’t watch it go.

The Vanguard’s engines roared back to life as she returned to the helm. The Dominion shuttles were rallying at the edge of the Scrapyard, more ships dropping from FTL to join them.

Merrik strapped in beside her. "We’re outgunned."

Toren adjusted their heading, toward the convoy, toward the fight. "Then we’ll just have to be smarter."

The comms crackled. The synthetic voice, one last time. This is your final opportunity, Admiral. Stand down, and your crew will be spared.

She keyed the mic. "Tell Custodian I said thanks for the offer."

Then she killed the channel.

The Eclipse Vanguard leapt forward, into the dark.

The Eclipse Vanguard shuddered as its engines hit full burn, the scrapyard’s jagged silhouette blurring past the viewport. Alarms blared, not from damage, yet, but from the ship itself, protesting the sudden strain. Toren gripped the controls, her knuckles white. The Dominion fleet was forming up ahead, a wall of steel and firepower, their comms channels flooding with demands for surrender.

Merrik leaned forward, fingers flying over the weapons console. "They’re hailing us again."

"Let them talk to the void." Toren didn’t glance at him. Her focus was locked on the tactical display, where the Dominion ships were spreading into a net. Classic encirclement tactic. Predictable.

The Vanguard wasn’t built for a fair fight.

A proximity alert screamed. Toren yanked the ship hard to starboard, sending loose equipment crashing across the deck. A volley of railgun fire seared past, close enough to rattle the hull. Merrik cursed, bracing himself against the console.

"Next time, warn a guy before you try to snap his spine."

Toren ignored him. Her fingers danced over the thrusters, weaving the Vanguard through the debris field like a needle through thread. The Dominion ships were too big, too slow to match her movements. But they didn’t need to. One solid hit, and the frigate would be scrap.

Another transmission cut through the static. This one wasn’t synthetic. A human voice, sharp with authority. "Admiral Toren, this is Captain Dain of the Retribution. You are surrounded. Power down your engines and prepare to be boarded. Resistance will be met with lethal force."

Merrik shot her a look. "Dain? That’s, "

"My former second." Toren’s voice was flat. "He’s good. By the book."

"Yeah, well, the book’s on fire now." He tapped the comm panel. "Want me to tell him that?"

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached for the shipwide channel and keyed it open.

The crew’s chatter died instantly.

Toren took a breath. Then, slow and deliberate, she spoke.

"This is Admiral Veyra Toren. You want a mutiny?" A pause. The weight of the words settled over the ship like a physical force. "You’ve got one."

Silence. Then, 

A cheer erupted over the comms, raw and ragged. Someone pounded on the bulkhead. Another voice, hoarse with laughter, shouted, "About damn time!"

Merrik grinned, sharp and feral. "Guess that’s your speech."

Toren didn’t smile. She cut the channel and slammed the throttles forward.

The Vanguard lunged like a struck viper.

---

The first Dominion shuttle exploded in a bloom of fire as Merrik sent a torpedo screaming into its flank. The shockwave rocked the Vanguard, but Toren rode it out, her hands steady on the controls. The scrapyard loomed behind them now, a graveyard of twisted metal and forgotten ships. A perfect place to disappear.

If they lived that long.

"Incoming!" Merrik barked.

Toren didn’t need the warning. She saw the missile streaking toward them, a bright lance of death. She rolled the ship hard, feeling the G-forces press her into the seat. The missile clipped the Vanguard’s port side, shearing off an antenna array. The impact sent a shudder through the frame, but the hull held.

For now.

"Merrik," Toren said, her voice tight, "I need a distraction."

He didn’t hesitate. "On it."

His fingers flew over the console, rerouting power from life support to the aft thrusters. The Vanguard’s engines flared brilliant blue, a beacon in the dark. Then he fired the remaining torpedo, not at the Dominion ships, but into the heart of the scrapyard.

The explosion was catastrophic.

A derelict freighter, half-dismantled and forgotten, detonated in a chain reaction. The blast wave rippled outward, sending debris flying in every direction. The Dominion formation scattered, their sensors blinded by the sudden storm of metal.

Toren didn’t waste the opening. She punched the Vanguard into a steep dive, skimming the edge of the debris field. The ship groaned in protest, but she pushed it harder, threading the needle between a crushed corvette and the skeletal remains of a mining rig.

Merrik whooped, slamming a fist against the console. "Now that’s how you say ‘screw you’!"

Toren didn’t answer. Her eyes were locked on the tactical display. The Dominion ships were regrouping, but they were slow, cautious. And for the first time since the Iron Resolve had burned, she felt something sharp and bright unfurl in her chest.

Hope.

---

The Vanguard broke free of the scrapyard’s shadow, the wreckage of the Iron Resolve looming in the distance like a ghost. Toren didn’t look at it. She couldn’t.

Merrik exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "Okay. We’re not dead. That’s a start."

Toren adjusted their course, angling toward the outer rim of the system. The Dominion fleet was still out there, but they’d bought themselves time. For now, that was enough.

The comms crackled. A new voice, this one rough and breathless. "Admiral? You copy?"

Toren recognized it, one of the engineers, a woman named Jessa. She keyed the channel. "Go ahead."

"We’ve got a problem. Orlan’s last little gift to the Dominion? It’s still active."

Toren stiffened. "Explain."

"He rigged the scrapyard’s reactor core. Set it to blow if anyone tried to board the Vanguard. But, uh…" A pause. "He didn’t exactly give us a way to turn it off."

Merrik’s head snapped up. "You’re telling me we’ve got a bomb ticking behind us?"

"More like a sun going nova," Jessa said, dry. "We’ve got maybe ten minutes before this whole sector lights up like a beacon. Dominion’s gonna see it from three systems over."

Toren’s mind raced. The scrapyard was a tinderbox. If the core went critical, it would take half the Dominion fleet with it, but it would also paint a target on the Vanguard’s back for every ship in the sector.

Merrik was already grinning. "Now that’s what I call an exit strategy."

Toren didn’t share his enthusiasm. "Jessa, can you delay it?"

"Not without blowing us up early. Orlan wasn’t big on safety switches."

Of course he wasn’t.

Toren made her decision in an instant. "Then we make sure it counts." She opened the shipwide channel again. "All hands, brace for FTL jump. We’re not sticking around to watch the fireworks."

Merrik’s grin faltered. "Wait, we’re just leaving it?"

She shot him a look. "You want to hang around and explain to the Dominion why their ships are melting?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. "Fair point."

Toren plotted the jump coordinates, somewhere deep, somewhere quiet. Somewhere the Dominion wouldn’t think to look. The Vanguard’s FTL drive whined in protest as it spooled up, the ship’s old bones groaning under the strain.

The countdown on the reactor core ticked down.

Five minutes.

Four.

Toren’s finger hovered over the jump trigger.

Merrik leaned back in his seat, suddenly serious. "You really think we can do this?"

She didn’t answer. Instead, she looked at the wreckage of the Iron Resolve* one last time, a silent promise hanging in the space between them.

Then she punched the jump.

The stars stretched, bent, vanished.

And the scrapyard at Eridanus-9 burned behind them.