Chapter 5: The Last Stand at Ironridge

The commander doesn’t answer, brewing something inside. Hayes presses, aiming for a decision: “If you don’t dare risk the fleet, you drop the key piece, you lose the board.”

The chief panics, invoking the elders to pressure the commander, but the commander resents it. Hungry for glory, thinking Hayes’s plan is flawless, he says, “What’s a legacy, if not to build a greater one? If we can’t risk this, how do we win? Show our might—mobilize the ninety thousand.” Then, quieter: “Let’s get it done.”

Hayes fans the flames, bows, “Your ambition outgrows the old guard!”

The chief wants to object, but is sent to organize. In hours, a faint circle forms in space, made up of ninety thousand ships—a staggering sight, the Empire’s pride, spanning half an AU.

A low-frequency EM ping signals readiness. The spider craft weaves within the circle, its silk-spinning belly threading the void.

The craft moves with eerie grace, the threads invisible but deadly. The staff watch in awe, the reality of the plan finally sinking in.

It flies from ship to ship, first weaving ninety thousand spokes, then spiraling out, taking over a year. The strain on supply and crew is immense, but no one dares complain.

At the end, the commander and others return to the deck. He looks down, asking Hayes, “We’ve built many weapons—each with its own beauty. But yours has a cold elegance. How do we even look at this?”

Hayes shouts, “This is the difference between slaughter and capture. The Empire wants extermination, but you can’t wipe out all life. Better to capture, convert, win them over.”

“Excellent. When will it be done? Then bring me Ironridge—I’ll let you handle it.”

“Your words are music to my ears! But weaving isn’t easy—such fine threads, with one spider craft, will take weeks.”

Suddenly, the chief’s aide rushes in, kneels, “Commander, the chief sent me—there’s no web at all, not even a hair.”

The chief turns on Hayes, furious. “So your spider spun nothing—you spun a lie! Explain this ‘emperor’s new clothes’!”

Hayes laughs, “You think this web is visible? That’s the point. There’s plenty you can’t see. The more invisible the weapon, the deadlier.”

The chief says, “Why not toss you in and see if it sticks?”

Hayes grins, “Go ahead. But if something sticks, the web’s exposed.”

The commander’s eyes are sharp, staring for a long time before he finally smiles. “No lies—his eyes are clear. Proceed.”

The chief protests, “Commander, let the experts check. If this is a trap—”

“Those I use, I trust. I trust those I use.”

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Ironridge Outpost is wracked by infighting and threats; the little planet is in chaos. The Governor is uneasy, unsure if the Star Sage’s plan will work. With his best general in enemy hands, he’s anxious and losing hope. A brawl breaks out in the mess, echoing the larger breakdown.

Word spreads that the Empire’s fleet is coming. Panic follows. The army readies its antimatter missiles, but morale is shot. Without Hayes, few want to fight, let alone go out in a blaze.

Deserters are caught and punished. Facing death either way, some carve names into their bunks before choosing suicide. The Governor is helpless, watching his army fall apart.

All blame the Supreme Sage, saying he cost them Hayes and doomed the outpost. Officials submit petitions, the Governor’s faith wavers, and he suspects the Sage is a plant, a sellout, maybe even a traitor.

The Supreme Sage says, “Governor, the fleet’s halfway here—just as planned. We can begin the operation. Please prep a hover platform for me.”

The Governor hesitates, then orders the craft. Officials crowd the hall, blocking the Sage. Someone yells, “Governor, you’re letting the fox back in. He threw Ironridge into chaos—now you let him go? You’re just helping him escape!”

The Governor ignores them, pinching the bridge of his nose, voice hoarse, longing for peace. “Everyone out! Now!”

The Supreme Sage walks outside. The officials part, none daring to stop him. The Governor doesn’t look back—he’s just waiting for the end.

The Sage reaches the open air. Crowds gather, watching what they think is the last day. His robe flaps in the wind as he steps onto the platform and rises. The people below curse him, calling him a demon.

The Sage soars higher, thin air stinging his face, the platform thrumming underfoot. He closes his eyes, trusting his own judgment.

The Governor, supported by aides—Lieutenant Harris and Chief Medtech Lee—comes to the gates. He stands tall, looks out at the people, and, seeing the time is right, shares the plan to calm them.

He says, “Folks, the final battle is here. The Supreme Sage will soon perform a ritual—think of it like a solar storm on the Higgs field—to scatter the enemy. Have faith and courage—”

Even he doesn’t believe it. He has to sell hope anyway.

A physicist says, “Governor, this so-called Sage is likely a fraud. The cosmic wind doesn’t exist—subspace is just a model, nothing more.”

To keep the plan secret, the Governor told no one but the Sage and Hayes. Now, fearing a con, he feels worse.

The Sage sits cross-legged, pulls a red flag from his belt and waves it, then a yellow flag, pointing skyward. Tension builds. The whole outpost watches as the spot above flickers. After a few minutes, nothing happens—everything is quiet, as if before a storm. The HUD timer blinks in the corner, seconds crawling by.

The Governor breaks free from his aides, walks forward, and suddenly drops his head, mic off. The crowd erupts—people riot, cursing the Sage as a fraud. The Governor orders the guards to restore order. A councilman says, “Governor, the fox’s mask is off. Better shoot down the Sage to calm the crowd!”