Sorith-Ven sat in his private chamber, submerged up to his gills in the temperature-controlled waters of his sphere. The bioluminescent corals around him pulsed in rhythmic patterns, meant to promote calmness, but he felt nothing.
They summon had come instantly after the disaster. The loss of the moon. The catastrophic loss of clone life. The destruction of critical assets at the hands of Nethros. The weight of failure pressed on him like the abyssal depths.
A translucent interface flickered into view before him, the call initiating. He exhaled, suppressing his emotions as his secondary eyelids flickered shut and opened again. He had to appear composed and in control.
The Consortium was waiting.
The feed stabilized, revealing the virtual meeting chamber—a vast, dark expanse mimicking the endless ocean trenches from which their kind had evolved. Bioelectric filaments pulsed through the deep, illuminating the gathered figures in eerie, shifting glows.
Twelve Hydrarchs, the wealthiest and most powerful among the entire fleet, floated in their designated positions, their forms drifting weightlessly in simulated water,
Their perches were adorned with virtual riches, each marked with the symbol of the clan to which its occupant belonged. Their gill crests flared in agitation, signalling impatience.
And below them sat Aegirarch his presence was suffocating as his gaze was locked onto him.
The oldest and most revered of the Consortium, Oryss-Vezhiran loomed on a massive pedestal of darkened pearl and layered shell, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth barely betraying an emotion except for the faintest curl of contempt.
The chamber was already filled with voices, a discordant symphony of blame and calculations.
“The loss of the moon is beyond unacceptable.”
“Our fleet suffered a 32% casualty rate. That does not account for the damaged ships returning, which could increase the casualty rate to 37%.”
“Do we even know the full extent of Nethros' incursion? How much of our infrastructure is compromised?”
“The losses of machines, infrastructure, and primary etheric combat clones alone exceed projected worst-case scenarios.”
“Not just numbers resources, ships, investments. This is a fiscal calamity.”
“Sorith-Ven.”
The chamber went still.
Oryss-Vezhiran had spoken his name.
Sorith-Ven inclined his head slightly, his external features carefully controlled. His gill slits remained still, his frilled mandibles did not twitch.
But inside—inside, he felt dead.
His gaze borrowed into him as it regarded him with that same expression, the one that sent a primal chill through his very core. A look that did not even need to carry words, for it was the same gaze a predator bestowed upon dying prey.
You are already lost.
When Oryss-Vezhiran spoke, it was in a deep, deliberate cadence, like the slow rolling of the tide before a storm.
“Explain yourself.”
Sorith-Ven knew there was no salvaging this. There was no argument, no justification that would erase what had happened. But protocol dictated that he respond. That he accounts for the total loss. That he accounts for why.
“The Nethros assault was beyond our predictive models,” he began, voice steady. “Their vectors of approach—”
“Irrelevant,” the Oryss-Vezhiran interrupted.
Sorith-Ven stiffened.
“You were entrusted with maintaining the security of a new economic stronghold. A node of our trade empire. You failed. The cost is beyond acceptable. And yet, you speak of models? Of data?”
The pressure in the chamber was suffocating. Some Hydrarchs turned their eyes away, unwilling to witness his disgrace directly. Others watched with predatory curiosity, waiting to see if he would fight against the inevitable.
Sorith-Ven did not flinch. He could not. He spoke the truth because there was nothing else left to offer.
“There is no reversal to be had. The moon is lost. The fleets are lost. My life and holdings are forfeit.”
A long silence.
Oryss-Vezhiran did not blink.
“Yes it does,” he replied.
The pronouncement was as cold and absolute as the ocean depths.
The chamber dimmed. His connection was being severed.
Sorith-Ven did not protest.
As the darkness took him, he let out a long, slow breath.
His sphere was ejected from the ship, tumbling into the void as the massive vessel drifted further away. His cybernetics eyes locked onto a weapon battery tracking him.
As the distance stretched, the last thing he saw was a blinding flash of light then came the pain.
———
The chamber slowly reverted to its original state, the glow of bioluminescence stabilizing as the virtual waters settled. The execution of Sorith-Ven had been witnessed by all, a stark reminder of the cost of failure.
His death was not merely an end but a transition, a signal that the tides of leadership were already shifting.
Oryss-Vezhiran made a deliberate motion, the digital realm responding to his will. Aegirarch was moved to the centre of the chamber, his form now positioned directly beneath the twelve Hydrarchs. The shift was subtle, yet it carried immense weight.
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For a long, heavy moment, no one spoke.
Aegirarch’s gaze swept over the twelve, unreadable, unwavering. The Hydrarchs, perched above, stared down in kind, their collective presence an unspoken challenge. It was a silent clash of authority, a contest of will where neither side was willing to yield.
Oryss-Vezhiran spoke first, “Can the moon be taken back?”
The words, though simple, sent ripples of tension through the chamber.
Aegirarch did not hesitate. His voice cut through the simulated waters like a harpoon.
“No.”
Silence followed. Some Hydrarchs twitched their gill crests, shifting in discomfort. Others remained still, waiting.
Aegirarch continued, the weight of his calculations pressing upon them like the pressure of the deepest abyss.
“Our remaining fleets have the massed firepower required for planetary reclamation. But the cost in ships, clones and material would be catastrophic.”
The virtual water darkened as projected figures appeared around him, luminous strands of data forming the true scale of the operation.
“Even at full strength, our forces would struggle against the current Nethros' entrenched position. But now?” He paused, letting the numbers speak for themselves. “Now, it is armed with nuclear warheads.”
A murmur rippled through the Hydrarchs, the shifting colours of their perches betraying their unease. Even the most hardened among them understood what that meant. Nethros was no longer merely a biological horror it had become a strategic nightmare.
“Ground forces are irrelevant. Any attempt to retake the moon would result in annihilation before landfall. A single strike would cost more than this entire meeting is worth.”
The Hydrarchs’ expressions hardened. No one dared argue the maths. But then Aegirarch’s tone shifted, an even deeper undercurrent of dread slipping into his voice.
“Worse still, we cannot dismiss the possibility that Nethros may have already spread beyond the moon.”
At that, the chamber dimmed further. It was not the loss of the moon itself that terrified him. It was the thought of the contamination spreading.
All eyes turned to Kraklak, the head of the Science Division, whose perch was woven from petrified coral and strands of bioluminescent thread. His mandibles twitched as he spoke, his voice chittering with barely restrained alarm.
“We have analysed surviving video from the battlefield.” A new projection emerged, showing distorted footage from a helmet cam showing blurry images of several ships, their shapes distorted pushing at maximum burn and leaving the surface.
“We cannot rule out the possibility that Nethros may be expanding as we speak.”
Kelbor-Threxul a Hydrarch, his wealth built upon asteroid refineries and military campaigns, hissed. “And the proof is some distorted video? We are basing our next response on this?”
Kraklak’s gill slits flared in agitation. “We do not have the luxury of certainty. Nethros does not function like a conventional biological entity. It is intelligent. It is adaptive. It may not even require a physical presence to spread. If even a fraction of itself has reached one of our ships—”
He stopped. He didn’t need to finish.
They all knew what that would mean.
Oryss-Vezhiran turned his gaze over the chamber. He did not ask for a vote from the other Hydrarchs. He did not need to.
“Effective immediately, all vessels that left the moon are to be redirected to space, beyond any planetary bodies, beyond anything vital. Any ship showing irregularities is to be expunged.”
The decision was made. The orders would be carried out.
The Consortium had chosen survival over reclamation.
———
Hours later, Aegirarch and Kraklak met within their secured virtual realm—a void of absolute blackness, absent of decoration or distraction. Only their avatars cast a faint glow, the sole points of light in the empty abyss.
Aegirarch exhaled, his form shifting slightly as if weighed down by unseen pressure.
“They only reveal themselves after the moon is lost,” he muttered. “Now this entire campaign is a disaster.”
Kraklak remained still, his gaze impassive.
“And if this anomaly begins mass-producing ships, we may not even have the fleet power to continue,” Aegirarch added.
Kraklak finally moved, glancing around the void as if considering its emptiness. “I’ve run the calculations. Our chances of making a successful jump back to civilized space sit at 3.7%.” His voice carried no inflexion, only cold logic. “The Ark ship will not return for another three cycles. Our best course of action is to hide within the asteroid belt, avoiding detection.”
Aegirarch’s gill slits flared slightly. “It’s close enough to the nexus point. We’ve already begun repositioning our ships.” He let out a low, humourless chuckle. “Let the Hydrarchs and the others perish when the anomaly begins its true campaign. They ignored all of my warnings.”
Kraklak merely inclined his head. “Then we wait and see.”
