Serrick Brightland paced the bridge of his flagship, his command screen dominated by the immense red whorls of Quorin Prime, trying to will its gravity well into concealing his fleet just a few moments longer. The Dominion armada had found its prey. Outnumbered and outgunned, the battered fleet commanded by Brightland himself, decorated general and now branded a traitor, hid in the shadow of a gas giant and waited for salvation or oblivion.

Using a planet's gravity well as camouflage was a classic tactic. It was a maneuver his former star pupil should know well: Brightland had taught it to him. It wasn't like he'd had a choice, though. Especially after the last clash. Caeson had scoured eleven prospective gas giants for Brightland prior to this. Enough to make him sloppy? Serrick walked around his bridge and wondered.

On his thirty-second circuit, Serrick got his answer. One instant he was switching direction on his heel. Then blinding tendrils of coruscating weapons-fire lit up the viewports, crackling his shields to a crisp in moments. Even as Brightland barked the order to return fire, five of his crippled ships melted under fire and decayed from orbit, trailing flame and dust as they plummeted towards the planet's scarlet abyss. Caeson's timing had been perfect.

Serrick ordered the retreat, knowing his fleet was doomed. As Aurelius knew, the gravity well that had sheltered them also made hyperjumping impossible. His attack ships would be well in range before Brightland's could even hope to attain a safe distance.

Radiant nosed forward, filling Brightland's screens in an obvious strut of disproportionate force. But slowly. Aurelius was delaying, not from respect but, Brightland realized with horror, contempt. For his ship's age, the Star of Dominus' inability to keep up with the newer, faster Radiant. The recognition galled him. He set his jaw. Underestimation by one's opponent was always an advantage.

"Admiral," came Aurelius's voice, maddeningly gentle. Condescending. "Surrender and your rabble will be spared. Otherwise, I begin targeting them. In five seconds." A pause. "You are playing a losing hand, Serrick."

Fair point, Brightland reflected. In his defense, it wasn't like he'd planned any of this.

Source: World Story