Commander Garrick's office was not built for comfort.
It was built for clarity.
Everything inside it reflected that purpose—the sharp architectural lines, the dark steel walls broken only by clean bands of white overhead light, the polished command desk positioned precisely at the center of the room like a tactical anchor point instead of furniture.
No clutter.
No decorations.
No wasted space.
A war room disguised as an office.
Tonight— it felt too small.
The projection screens along the far wall glowed with fractured battlefield telemetry while tactical overlays rotated slowly across layered displays suspended in midair. Red casualty markers blinked intermittently through static distortion where portions of the convoy data still refused to reconstruct properly.
The room smelled faintly of cold coffee, overheated processors, and exhaustion.
No one inside had left for hours.
Commander Hale stood near the rear tactical display with both arms folded tightly while reviewing reconstructed convoy movement patterns for what had to be the twentieth time. Major Volkov leaned against one side of the central table wearing a medical compression wrap around her shoulder she had clearly ignored treatment orders to keep on.
Commander Mercer looked worse.
He sat heavily near the edge of the room with one boot propped against a lower drawer while drinking something that smelled strong enough to qualify as industrial solvent.
Captain Solis remained near the observation glass silently watching Helius Prime beyond the station windows.
And Commander Garrick—
Garrick stood at the center of the room with both hands clasped behind his back while staring at the newest incoming file sitting unopened across the main display.
No one interrupted him.
Because they all knew where it came from.
Ryven Voss.
The room remained silent long enough for the distant mechanical hum of the academy systems to become noticeable.
Then Hale finally spoke.
"…they sent it themselves."
Not a question.
Mercer let out a tired breath through his nose. "Of course they did."
Volkov's eyes narrowed slightly toward the unopened file. "That means they're thinking clearly again."
"Some of them," Solis corrected quietly.
No one argued.
Because everyone in this room knew exactly how close Wrong Sky came to destroying the entire evaluation convoy.
Not through lack of talent.
Through design.
Garrick finally stepped closer toward the display.
The file rotated slowly in the air before him marked with Helius emergency encryption and direct authorization codes from Mei Tanaka and Ryven Voss.
Structured.
Clean.
Intentional.
That alone said enough.
Mercer rubbed one hand slowly down his face.
"…how bad was it really?"
Nobody answered immediately.
Because none of them knew yet.
Not fully.
The surviving battlefield feeds painted enough of the picture to understand the scale of what happened.
But fragmented combat recordings and distorted telemetry only showed pieces.
This file—
would show intent.
Garrick opened it.
The room dimmed automatically.
Wrong Sky filled the office immediately.
Even after hours of partial reconstructions—
the stars still looked wrong.
Not dramatically.
Subtly.
Enough to trigger instinctive discomfort somewhere deep behind the eyes.
Solis exhaled quietly near the windows.
"…god."
The convoy emerged from distorted jump-space across the projection wall.
Broken spacing.
Formation drift.
Ships too far apart from each other to support rapid defensive overlap.
Hale's expression hardened instantly.
"They manipulated the exit vectors."
"Yes," Garrick said quietly.
Not speculation.
Fact.
The footage rolled forward.
Then—
the first strike hit.
Three ships vanished.
No explosions.
No debris.
Just sudden absence.
The office went completely silent.
Even Mercer stopped drinking.
The second attack followed immediately after.
Closer.
Cleaner.
A transport vessel split violently apart while emergency escape pods launched too late into empty space already claimed by enemy fire.
Static screamed briefly through damaged audio channels.
Cadets shouting.
Command lines collapsing.
Then—
Kael's voice.
"They didn't miss."
The room sharpened instantly.
Not because of panic.
Because of calm.
Even through battlefield distortion—
Kael sounded terrifyingly focused.
"They moved us."
Volkov slowly folded her arms tighter. "…he figured it out immediately."
Mercer let out a low whistle.
Hale watched the convoy formations unravel across the display with growing unease.
Because this—
this was the exact moment training usually failed.
Fear spreading faster than structure.
Pilots reacting instead of thinking.
Young cadets dying because panic outran discipline.
But then—
Kael spoke again.
"Our enemy brought us here like sheep to slaughter."
The room held still.
Not because the line sounded dramatic.
Because of what followed it.
"Remember who you are."
The battlefield changed.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Garrick watched retreat vectors hesitate across the tactical overlays.
A drifting support mech stabilized.
A damaged squad turned instead of scattering.
"We trained for this."
Cadets stopped panicking.
Not all at once.
Piece by piece.
Choice by choice.
"We are soldiers of the Federation."
Mercer slowly lowered the drink in his hand.
"Jesus Christ."
"No," Garrick corrected quietly.
The room looked toward him.
Garrick's gaze remained fixed on the battlefield footage.
"…Helius."
That landed heavily.
Because they understood exactly what he meant.
The footage continued.
Marcus Calder holding formation beneath pressure that should have shattered defensive structure entirely.
Darius Kane stepping into collapsing lanes like his mech physically did not understand retreat.
The Forest twins disappearing through blackout zones while eliminating pressure nodes before enemy formations could complete containment patterns.
Mei rerouting communication structures in real time while Torres flooded hidden relay channels fast enough to reconnect separated units before they vanished entirely.
Not clean.
Not elegant.
Alive.
Volkov stared at the screen silently for several long seconds.
"…they adapted."
"No," Hale corrected quietly now.
Everyone looked toward him.
Hale's eyes never left the footage.
"They trusted each other enough to adapt."
That difference mattered.
The projection shifted again.
The pressure changed.
Subtle.
Almost invisible.
Then Kael's voice came through once more.
"…they're herding."
The room tightened instantly.
Solis stepped away from the window slowly.
Because now they saw it too.
The corridor.
The opening disguised as escape.
The kill funnel waiting farther ahead.
Mercer's expression darkened immediately.
"…those bastards."
"They were shaping battlefield movement," Hale said quietly. "Compressing response vectors."
Volkov's jaw tightened.
"They wanted them trapped."
"Yes," Garrick answered.
The footage continued.
Kael's mech shifted first.
"…we break it."
Ryven answered immediately afterward.
"Of course we do."
Mercer barked out a short laugh despite himself.
"Of course he says that."
Even Volkov's mouth almost moved slightly.
Because there it was.
The thing every instructor in this room recognized instinctively.
No hesitation.
No tactical debate.
No delay.
One of them made the decision.
The other committed instantly.
The battlefield shifted around them afterward like momentum itself had changed direction.
The convoy stabilized.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
Enough to survive.
Enough to fight back.
Enough to hold.
The footage finally ended.
The projection wall dimmed slowly back into the quieter lighting of Garrick's office.
No one spoke immediately.
Because now—
they understood the scale of it.
Not just the ambush.
The response.
Mercer leaned back heavily in his chair. "…they were never supposed to survive that."
"No," Garrick agreed.
Silence followed.
Then Solis spoke quietly near the window.
"…they already fight like deployed units."
That settled heavily across the room.
Because she was right.
Not students.
Not cadets trapped inside a battlefield for the first time.
Units.
Functional.
Adaptive.
Operational.
Volkov looked toward Garrick carefully.
"…what now?"
Garrick didn't answer immediately.
Instead he looked once more toward the frozen final frame lingering across the darkened display.
The convoy.
Broken.
Burning.
Still holding.
Then he spoke.
"Helius sees it."
Mercer blinked once. "All of it?"
"Enough."
Hale straightened slightly near the tactical display. "You're calling assembly."
"Yes."
That answer came immediately.
No hesitation.
Because Garrick already understood the danger now.
If Helius filled the silence first—
the academy would fracture into rumor, fear, speculation, and hero worship before command regained control of the narrative.
And this—
this could not become mythology yet.
Not while the blood was still fresh.
Garrick activated the academy command channel.
The AI responded instantly.
"Yes, Commander."
"Prepare full academy assembly." A pause. "Mandatory attendance."
"Priority level?"
Garrick's eyes remained on the frozen battlefield.
"Highest."
The room quieted again after that.
Not uncertain.
Resolved.
Because now—
the next battle started.
Not in space.
Inside Helius Prime itself.
And somewhere deep beneath all the exhaustion, Garrick acknowledged something he had not allowed himself to fully think until now.
This generation had crossed the line already.
Too early.
Far too early.
But there would be no walking them backward after this.
Because once cadets survive a real battlefield—
they never fully become students again.