Space.
Cold darkness parts like a curtain before an ancient, merciless play.
No sound. No wind.
Only infinity—black as an unopened fate.
And yet, even in this void, something moves.
Something capable of rewriting history.
Two armadas. Two silent titans.
Approaching.
Slowly. Inevitably.
Like two steamrollers of time, ready to crush whatever stands between them.
**
On one side—Admiral Tyler's squadron.
A fleet advancing from the direction of Mercury. Smooth. Calculated. Impeccable.
Like a surgical scalpel carved from steel and discipline.
At the center—the control station "Cobalt."
Its dome glows with a restrained blue radiance, mirrored in the cruisers' armor.
Surrounding it—massive ships, like planets in orbit.
Each one armed with salvo systems, ready to spew fire at a single word.
Drop ships—black as sin.
Inside—soldiers in armor.
Thousands of hearts, holding their breath, waiting for the signal.
"We are here. We are ready. Give us a target."
In cargo bays—shells, drones, water, fuel, repair units.
And above all—ergon reserves, taken from the Mercury Corporation under the terms of a fragile truce.
The fleet breathes anxious readiness.
Tense as a boxer before the bell.
**
From the direction of Mars comes Alexander's squadron.
The Crimson Fleet.
The fury of the Red Planet, embodied in sharp, threatening geometry.
Next-generation ships—long as spears.
Living symbols blaze on their hulls, like the branding of ideology.
Weapons—modular.
Sensor arrays—like probing tendrils.
They don't circle.
They charge.
Like an arrow—to the enemy's heart.
**
Alexander's flagship—antiseptic, bare, the skeleton of logic.
No emblems. No ornaments.
Only cold. Only will.
Alexander stands at the center of the command hall, unmoving.
Like a man for whom fear is a forgotten emotion.
Before him—a holographic table.
Light pulses—and Marcus appears.
"Mr. President," Alexander's voice is direct, like a Martian infantry march.
No servility. Only respect—like that for a senior commander.
"Awaiting orders."
Marcus appears relaxed—like a volcano one second before eruption.
His voice—soft. Almost friendly.
But his eyes...
Colder than open space.
"Good to see you, Commander," he says. "Awaiting your report."
Alexander flicks his hand.
A map flares to life:
Routes. Orbits. Clusters. Spectra. Energy fields.
"Fleet of sixteen cruisers approaching the rendezvous point.
All systems nominal. No deviations.
Status: Combat ready."
Marcus nods—like someone who already knew.
He doesn't make decisions. He affirms destiny.
"Soon we'll combine forces," he says.
"And form the most powerful strike force since the dawn of Civilizations."
"Earth trembles, Alexander. She feels what is returning—what she tried to forget."
"And we—are alive.
And we are coming back.
This will be a cleansing."
**
He transmits the coordinates.
Alexander catches them with his gaze.
Verification. Confirmation. Course locked.
"Coordinates received.
We're moving."
But Marcus suddenly hesitates.
There's something new in his voice.
A shadow.
"One more thing.
The object that launched from Earth's platform...
What of it?"
Alexander nods tensely. Each word tight with concern.
"We detected it immediately.
It maintains distance.
It doesn't approach. But it doesn't leave."
"It's like a shadow waiting for the sun to shift."
"A perfect sphere. No hatches. No windows.
Mass unmeasurable. Energy profile unstable.
It watches."
"Drones?"
"Dispatched. Sensors too. It remains passive.
But... it's observing."
**
Marcus frowns.
His face darkens. His gaze turns lethal.
He steps closer to the hologram. Almost touches it.
"If that ship sides with Earth...
Chances?"
Silence.
As if the cosmos itself paused to listen.
Alexander looks at the sphere. Then—into the president's eyes.
"None.
If it engages—we lose."
**
A pause hangs in the air.
Absolute.
No sound.
Even breath stops.
The hologram pulses.
Like the heart of an alien god.
Marcus's fingers clench into a fist.
He teeters.
One moment—and he could destroy everything.
But he exhales.
His face becomes a mask once more.
His voice—calm now. Without a hint of doubt.
"It changes nothing.
We engage.
And we win. For the living."
Alexander salutes.
No gesture. Just voice:
"For the living."
**
The hologram fades.
Silence wraps the hall again.
But it's not peace.
It's pressure.
"It will begin soon. It already has."
Outside—the armadas close in.
Two forces. Two worlds.
And in the depths of the black abyss, among the stars,
a moment is born that will change everything.