The Forging of the Horns (3): Pandora is Dying
Pandora is dying.
No matter how you sugarcoat it, they're losing. Even if they were told to prioritize aiding the governor's office first, they themselves have plenty of regrets and are suffering just the same.
The scale's grown. Too many...
It's been over ten days since the 50-kilometer-long dreadnought-class battleship Pandora embedded itself into the planet's surface. At first, there had been some hope because over 60% of the hull was intact. Power supply was holding, life support was functional, and the armory, medbay, and hangar were operational. Centered around the crashed battleship, they'd built a defensive line spanning over 50 kilometers, with about 980,000 crew and ground troops holding out for reinforcements.
But now, ten days later, the situation had changed.
"This is the worst..."
Supplies were running dry, and the enemy's numbers had surged. The internal automated factories had finally crapped out, ammo was depleting fast, Eldra clone troops were pouring in by the hundreds of thousands daily, and the sheer volume of bullets needed to counter them was astronomical. No supply lines meant no resupply, obviously. The allied fleet in orbit was locked in holding the line against incoming Eldra reinforcements, with no spare capacity to drop supplies planetside.
Rations had been halved two days ago. Water was holding thanks to the onboard purification system, but the filters were nearing saturation. And medicine—that was the most desperate shortage. Casualties were mounting hourly, and antibiotics, painkillers, and emergency kits were running out, far short of what was needed.
And worst of all, the defensive line had been breached.
Two days ago, Eldra forces punched through the rear defenses of Pandora.
"I-it's the butchers!!!"
"Fuck!! It's raptor variants!"
"How the hell do we take down those tiny-dicked things?!"
They were unstable butchers that only lived for two days, but they could churn out hundreds at a time, used minimal resources, and were lightning-fast due to their size—which was why everyone called them raptors. They'd led the charge, smashing through the weakest engine-section defenses, allowing about 3,000 to infiltrate the rear compartments—the ship's aft.
The defensive line was no longer on Pandora's "exterior." It had shifted to the "interior."
I'd love to napalm the bastards...
Air superiority was a brutal stalemate, and the weather wasn't cooperating. So no dice. Ship bulkheads became barricades, narrow corridors turned kill zones, vents and maintenance shafts hid ambushes. Urban warfare inside the battleship—a city under siege from within.
Selene Astraea was in the bridge, in the "head" section of Pandora amid the chaos. The bow had been wrecked on impact, but the bridge itself survived thanks to internal shock absorbers. Windows shattered, half the displays dead, floor cracked—but hey, kitchen's open for business. Limited comms sensors and internal monitors: that was all they had left.
Selene stood at the center, broadcasting across all surviving channels to every defense sector.
"Heh, broadcasting from the bridge."
Current strength: about 870,000. 40,000 KIA, 70,000 wounded. On paper, "still 870,000 left." But less than half were combat-effective. The rest: lightly wounded, exhausted, low on ammo.
"We're surrounded."
Her voice echoed through the ship's speakers.
"Simple problem now."
She paused for breath.
"We can attack in every direction. Damn good news, right?"
Cheers erupted—from the bridge, corridors, compartments, barricades. Probably the craziest fleet in the galaxy: despair at encirclement? Nah, cheers for "attack everywhere." A normal army's morale would tank, but the 5th Fleet had "normal" scrubbed from the dictionary. That's how she'd built it. After pouring years into this double-edged monster of a force, Selene finally saw its purpose. She killed the mic with a smile.
But her eyes weren't smiling.
...I hated war.
*****
After leaving the bridge, Selene headed straight for the medbay. Pandora's was a massive facility on central B-Deck, capacity 2,000. Seemed fine—until now, with over three times that crammed in. Corridors choked with wounded, ORs running 24/7, medics jacked on stims, sleepless.
First sight: Chief Medical Officer Hanna Reiter, Colonel. Her once-pristine whites stained with blood and antiseptic, dark circles heavy under her eyes.
"Lucky for the Empire we've got a Schweitzer like you. Right, Colonel Reiter?"
"Ah, Admiral. You're here?"
"Yeah. Good work."
Hanna's voice was predictably hoarse.
Frustrating that this is all I can do...
Still better than nothing. Selene pulled a gift from her pocket for the doc.
"Here. Use it for the wounded."
Hanna's eyes widened.
"This is... booze and water?"
"Stockpiled for victory drinks, but that might take a while. So use it now. Water for the wounded, booze for..." Selene handed over the canteen. "Disinfectant or drink—your call."
Hanna's hands shook taking it.
"Admiral, this is yours..."
"Who treats the wounded if the doc drops? One sip of my water's worth less than one doc's stamina. This is for me, got it?!"
"Ah, haha... Yes, ma'am."
Selene turned to leave, then paused, scanning the medbay.
"...Someone's sons."
Wounded on the floor.
"...Someone's daughters."
Moaning, staring at ceilings, unconscious. Medics darting between, air thick with antiseptic, blood, a headache-inducing stench.
"You're doing great, all of you. I know the Empire stands because of you. Heroes—that's you."
And she despised the xenos. Their tower of hatred wouldn't crumble easily.
I want revenge.
Hated that she couldn't.
Then a medic looked up at her.
"Admiral. We're holding because of you and His Majesty the Emperor. We believe! In victory!"
"..."
Selene nodded and left. Walking the corridor, she clicked her tongue.
"Want to send 'em all back alive."
Back on the bridge, she stared at the tactical display, lost in thought.
"Alright... Selene. You got this. Empire's first female admiral, right? Bled for it, outshines those two deadbeat brothers and our poor baby bro, promised to protect her more since she gets more eyes. So calculate..."
Remaining supplies, troops, enemy growth rate, defendable area.
Result: no answer.
"Three days tops like this..."
Two duty officers pretended not to hear her mutter.
"Max four or five, maybe."
Four assumed ideal conditions: enemy pressure steady, morale holds, no disease, vents working. One slips? Three days.
"...Haa."
Her eyes flicked to a corner icon: recorded footage.
"Our little bro caused a scene."
Her poor admin slave of a brother chased her all the way to Forge. And broadcast empire-wide about the mess here. Grainy vid, but content clear: long boring pontificating on peace, then 10-second golden platter decapitation magic show.
"Lucky break."
Selene muttered.
"Weakened 'em some."
True. Aurora and Human Brethren's beheading op (strapping folks to rockets—insane) hit Eldra ground command. Commander and deputy headless on platters? Chaos inevitable. They'd recovered fast after first hit, but second surprise? Expected. Pressure on Pandora dropped 30% for two days—two days bought by Selene.
But Eldra were smart. Lower officers reorganize. New chain forming, pressure rebounding. Maybe vengeful surge.
And worst: rain from the skies.
Forge rain wasn't normal. Forty years of slashed enviro budgets: smog, heavy metals, industrial waste mixed in the air. Clouds birthed acid rain—pH 2-3, chemicals, metals corroding everything. Liquid rads hitting troops, irradiating live.
Internal forces sheltered in hull, but trench and barricade guards took direct hits. Ponchos, gas masks—limited. Acid ate filters, dissolved coatings, gnawed rifle metal.
Selene ground her teeth, biting her thumbnail.
Dying so undignified. Fuck...
Fighting enemies? Great—they get stronger, you hit harder. But rain? No. Enviro bombs lost in crash. No tactics for corrosive sky-piss.
Any way out...?
Then adjutant Korvel entered. Inspiration struck.
"Korvel."
"Yes, Admiral."
"Get me three chaplains."
"Pardon...?"
Chaplains? Now?
"Buddhist, Muslim, Christian. One each—drag 'em here."
5th Fleet had 'em: Stellar Light Church (Christian) chaplains, Myriad Laws Sangha (Buddhist) monks, Path of Stars (Islam) imams.
Five minutes later: Father Marco de Santis (Stellar Light), Monk Won-gak (Myriad Laws), Imam Yusuf al-Khalidi (Path of Stars).
Selene eyed them.
"Got a job for you."
"Yes, Admiral!"
"Write some prayers."
"???"
They stared.
"Prayers?"
"Yeah. Roughly..." She pointed out the viewport. "'For war: stop the rain, grant clear skies.' Got it? Write 'em! Move!"
"Ah—yes!"
They bolted. Korvel ventured:
"Admiral, will prayers change the weather?"
"Dunno."
She shrugged.
"No loss if not. Prayers don't need bullets. Gotta try. Nothing else left."
Selene wasn't religious. But many of 870,000 were. Three faiths praying same thing? Maybe prayer power. Even if rain stays, boosts morale.
Next morning: rain stopped.
"...It worked?"
"Apparently."
Why tho?
Whatever. Eldra respawn endlessly; we don't. Attrition on equal footing? Better.
Forge's eternal red sky unchanged, but clear now. Clouds parted, acid ceased, winds shifted toxic clouds away. Meteorological norm—3-4 day cycle. Probably unrelated. Right?
Troops saw differently.
"Whoa!!! God’s on our side! Allahu Akbar!!!"
"Admiral ordered prayer—heavens answered!"
"All thanks~ to His Majesty the Emperor and his apostle the Admiral!!!"
"Matamata! True dat!"
Morale soared, naturally. External lines active again, gear repairs, medbay rad victims halted. Physical and psych boosts.
Selene smiled, commed the chaplains:
"Good work. Now pray those bastards die for the nation."
One last task.
"Finally... time for the asshole."
She headed to the corner—impromptu HQ. A chair held a bound man, wrists and ankles tied, guard nearby.
"Ugh... w-water, please."
"Like hell."
"Kuh..."
Victor Grayburn. Ex-Forge governor. Exploited planet 40 years, backdealt with Eldra, sparked this war.
Selene loomed, glaring. His eyes bloodshot—sleepless from her "interrogation."
Simple method...
"Confess!!"
He flinched, yelling.
"Fuck!! I betrayed humanity—told you everything!!!"
Genuinely aggrieved.
"Everything!! How those pointy-ears built factories here for infinite clones!!"
"Shut up!! Confess!!!"
"Arrrrgh!!!"
Her technique: scream "Confess!!" in his ear on loop while starving him. Rational, efficient, effective.
He'd spilled plenty. Especially Eldra bio-factory setup on Forge: he provided sites, winked at smuggled parts/gear.
But she kept going.
"Smuggled Eldra factory parts? Heard it!! So confess!!!"
"I confessed everything—what more?!"
She wasn't after more intel—squeezed dry. In this hell, stress toy for relief? And maybe last scraps. Yelling at war's cause in a 870k siege? Catharsis.
Summary of Grayburn's spill:
Eldra "Union"—post-warlords gov consolidating. Top warlord absorbing others, rebuilding White Armada (Great War Eldra navy that got wrecked). Complete it, they match Empire navy. Also allying alien states—reform Great War coalition.
But hurdles. Orc Krog Republic: post-civil war red-tinted "democracy," normalizing with Empire, improving ties. Great War grudge: Eldra used Krog as cannon fodder, let too many die. New regime leverages history against Eldra, eyes Empire alliance to check 'em.
Plus Eldra internals: oppressing "Dark Eldra" (diff skin/faith subgroups)—slavery, purges under "unity."
So, they're claiming "stabbed in the back." Some "Dolchstoßlegende" bullshit. Barely holding own house.
Those guys starting war... no, no declaration—just big "surprise protest"?
Whatever. Pointy-ears are hopeless.
"How's a fringe gov know galaxy-level diplo?"
Surprising for a border gov.
Grayburn: "Governor's fat gig, but survival needs insurance. Bought intel with spare cash. Black market brokers ain't cheap—half my embezzlement went there!"
"Brag much, fucker."
"Ah..."
Smart enough for intel investment. Didn't see xeno backstab coming, tho.
Duh. Empire admin stretched—no bandwidth for fringes. We thought same.
Emperor fucked it up.
Our bro... big picture?!
Unlikely, but possible.
Squeezed dry. Done.
Selene loomed:
"Promise time."
His eyes shook.
"No matter what, I'll drag you home, squeeze till your marrow dries. Heard what happened to Great War human traitors?"
"Ah, yeah..."
"Look forward. Might be eternal Empire battery?"
Chills down his spine.
"J-joking, right...?"
She grinned wide.
"Joking~ Take it serious tho. Haha, no such tech yet."
Cut laugh, turned to Korvel:
"Headset him, loop 'Confess' recording five hours."
He nodded, pulled headset.
"Yes. Where to?"
"Inspect lines. Aft sections specifically. Need firsthand intel."
"I'll come."
Korvel fitted headset, hit play, followed.
Door almost shut: leak from headset.
"Confess!!"
"Confess!!"
"Confess!!"
"Arrrrgh!!!"
Grayburn's scream faint beyond door.
"This is torture!! Human rights violation!!"
Selene walked on, ignoring. Great War or now, trash always barks loud.