Distant stars twinkle in the void ahead. Their beauty is a stark contrast to the depravity we’ve come to stop. Out there, among those stars, the mindless drones of Sansha’s Nation lurk. Bright people stolen from their homes and left bereft of all hopes and dreams, enslaved in service to an “ideal” they never even believed in. Sansha Kuvakei, what a depraved fool he is. It’s a criminal shame there is nothing to be done about saving these lost souls. The cold darkness of space, ripped apart in fiery explosions, is the only reprieve we can yet afford them. A sickening bandage against the bleeding wound of letting more colonists be stolen away to the “Nation”.

Amarr space. Some might say a place in Sansha’s “utopia” is a preferable alternative to the whips and shock collars of the Amarr houses. Nonsense. Even a life of servitude under the slavers is a paradise compared to what Kuvakei puts these people through. This incursion ends here and now, and we’ll expunge every last one of these ships until their Mothership goes up in flames.

“Fleet, take the gate.”

The low warble of the ship’s engines powering down as the warp drive takes over, and in a moment the acceleration gate flings my Vindicator forward into the Nation’s Override Transfer Array. One of the first in, I waste no time setting my thrusters to full, steering up and away from my comrades just about to land. The onboard computer announces their remote sensor boosters taking hold on my targeting systems, and seconds later my neutron cannons are firing out into space, tearing the Sansha frigates down to their constituent parts.

The lasers and cannons of our Marauders sing ceaselessly, one salvo after the other volleying the Nation forces off the field. The first group, then the second, scarce any time for them to get their own shots in. Our logistics cruiser pilot complains of boredom, but I turn my attention back to the task at hand. The final defenders of this complex show up, hurrying to the frantic alarms and calls to action, but they are too late. The entangling grapples of our stasis webifiers take root, slowing their fast, zippy ships to a mere crawl. Another few salvos of ear-shattering cannons, and wrecks litter the field.

“Align to broadcast,” comes the fleet commander’s call. One at a time, we’ll drive the Sansha out of here.

One at a time.

From the flight log of Amfion Bravais, YC126.