18: Chapter 18: The Imperial Fleet plunges into low orbit, only to discover that every inch of space is locked.

By the time the Imperial Fleet finished assembling in high orbit above Dead Silence-42, the number of Brood Lords on the scanners had already increased from sixteen to forty-eight.

Marcus Aurelian stood in the center of the bridge of the Emperors Hammer, hands pressed against the edge of the tactical table, staring at the dark gray dots on the holographic projection.

They were not arranged in neat line formations like Imperial Navy ships, but were distributed in orbit in a seemingly loose yet precise mesh structure—the distance between each Brood Lord was maintained at one hundred and twenty kilometers, with a margin of error of no more than fifty meters.

This was not a random distribution; this was a fire net covering the entire low orbit.

"Their numbers have tripled within five days." The voice of Tech-Priest Melchior came from the side of the tactical table, his mechadendrites updating the scan data in real-time, "And they are still increasing. The hatchery must have moved deeper beneath the surface; its exact location still cannot be locked."

Marcus did not answer.

He was counting the distance between those light points.

One hundred and twenty kilometers.

The effective range of Imperial Lance Weapons was three hundred kilometers, and macro-cannons were even further.

But the problem was—those things were not ships; they were alive.

Living things did not need to rely on ship-borne sensors to lock onto targets; they had eyes, nerves, and reaction speeds faster than Imperial fire-control systems.

"Order the fleet to maintain its current orbit. Do not approach low orbit."

"Inquisitor, if we do not enter low orbit, the scattering attenuation of the Lance Weapons will—"

"I know." Marcus interrupted the First Officer, "But if we enter low orbit, they will latch onto us as we pass through the debris belt. The last scan already told us what is in that debris."

The First Officer closed his mouth.

The results of the last scan were still lying on the tactical table—the wreckage of the Imperial 37th Garrison Fleet had been covered by some kind of spore from The Swarm, and every piece of debris was emitting low-power quantum signals.

Those signals, when viewed individually, were just faint background noise, but when the Brood Lord formation passed through the debris belt, all the signals flickered in synchronization at the same instant.

That was target calibration.

The Swarm had turned the wreckage of the Imperial Fleet into preset firing coordinates; as long as Imperial ships approached the debris belt, the Brood Lord's parasite swarms could crash directly into the Imperial ship's sensor arrays along the pre-calibrated trajectories.

"They have turned what we smashed into their fortifications." Bern's voice came from his helmet; he was standing on the bridge flank today wearing full battle armor, a power halberd in his hand, "That is why they didn't contest the orbit with us before. It wasn't that they couldn't fight, but that they didn't want to fight with unfinished products."

Marcus finally moved his gaze away from the holographic projection.

He looked at Bern.

"Your suggestion."

"Do not enter low orbit. Clear the debris belt with Lance Weapons from a long distance to force them to ascend to orbit. The wing membrane structure of the Brood Lords lacks the residual atmosphere needed for attitude adjustment in high orbit, so their maneuverability will decrease."

"How many broadsides will it take to clear the debris belt?"

Melchior calculated for four seconds.

"The debris belt is twenty-four hundred kilometers long, with the densest area about eight hundred kilometers. Clearing it completely would require the entire fleet to bombard it continuously for at least six standard hours. The problem is—the recharge interval for Lance Weapons is ninety seconds, and macro-cannons are even slower. Bombarding for six hours means our fire rhythm will be stretched into a tattered net."

"And they won't wait for us to recharge." Bern finished the sentence for him.

The bridge fell into a brief silence.

The holographic projection on the tactical table continued to refresh—the light points of the forty-eight Brood Lords were slowly moving, contracting from a mesh distribution into four dense formations.

Each formation had twelve, with the spacing between them converging to within twenty kilometers.

This was an attack formation.

"They won't wait for us to open fire." Marcus said in a low voice.

The alarm sounded throughout the bridge in the next second.

"Large-scale target release detected! From the direction of low orbit! Quantity—Quantity—"

The Tech-Officer's voice was drowned out by the alarm.

On the tactical table, the forty-eight Brood Lords released their parasite swarms simultaneously.

All twelve chambers within each Brood Lord opened, releasing ten parasites per second.

Forty-eight Tyrants, four hundred and eighty chambers, four thousand eight hundred parasites per second.

The first wave of release lasted for a full ten seconds.

Forty-eight thousand targets.

Each target was only the size of a fist, encased in a shell containing concentrated, highly corrosive creep digestive fluid.

The moment the parasite flight formation unfolded in orbit, they collided, merged, and converged into three dense torrents glowing with purple-green fluorescence, locking onto the Imperial Fleet's flagship, the escort cruisers, and the outermost frigates, respectively.

Marcus made the quickest decision of his forty-plus-year military career.

"All fleet, anti-air formation! Lance Weapons at full-power scatter mode! Prepare for close-quarters engagement!"

His voice drowned out the alarms, the screaming of the Tech-Officer, and the trembling roar of the bridge.

The Lance Weapon arrays of each ship charged at full speed; scatter mode did not require precise hits, only the creation of a continuous wall of high-energy photons in front to burn up any targets that crashed into it.

Three cruisers opened fire simultaneously, and the scattering Lance Weapons unfurled into three orange-red curtains of light in front of the fleet, spanning dozens of kilometers.

When the first wave of parasites hit the light curtain, the effect was immediate.

Thousands of parasites instantly vaporized in the high heat of the Lance Weapons, their purple-green bodily fluids exploding in the vacuum to form clusters of diffusing corrosive mist.

The number of targets on the tactical table plummeted, and a brief cheer erupted on the bridge.

The cheering lasted less than ten seconds.

The Imperial Fleet's sensor arrays were suddenly subjected to large-scale interference—the plasma clouds generated by the Lance Weapon scattering and parasite vaporization obscured the entire forward field of view, leaving the scanners completely white.

For a time, each ship could only rely on optical equipment for assisted targeting, but the reaction speed of optical equipment was an order of magnitude slower.

The remaining parasites took the opportunity to split into three routes, bypassing the light curtain and slipping into the fleet formation from the blind spots of the side and rear sensors.

The Brood Lord's attack was not a reckless suicide charge, but a standard naval anti-air suppression tactic—the front line creates noise, while the side lines bypass the main defensive line to strike weak targets.

This was not a tactic of insects.

This was the standard tactic of the Imperial Navy when suppressing Ork anti-air ships.

The parasites struck the sensor arrays of the cruisers and frigates with precision.

The concentrated creep digestive fluid exploded upon impact, splashing corrosive liquid onto optical sensors, radar antennas, and communication arrays, quickly burning out the ship's eyes and ears.

The side sensor array of the Emperors Hammer was the first to be paralyzed, followed by two frigates, and then the bow radar of the cruiser Shield of Faith.

"They are hitting the sensors first!" Melchior shouted, his mechadendrites frantically switching scanner modes, but most of the data ports had already turned into static.

"They are blinding us!"

Marcus watched the fleet sensor interface on the tactical table go dark one by one.

He no longer issued commands.

It wasn't that he had given up, but that he could no longer shout—only the bridge sensors of the Emperors Hammer were still working for the entire fleet, and they were gradually being filled with the signals of approaching parasites.

Just as the last sensor was about to go black, a set of data flashed on the edge of the tactical table—three large targets had broken away from the debris belt in low orbit and were charging straight at the outermost frigate that was still attempting emergency repairs.

The Brood Lords themselves had entered the fray.

After breaking away from the formation, three Tyrants ascended at high speed, their wing membranes fully unfurled in the vacuum, all twelve chambers beneath their carapaces emptied—they had discarded all dead weight to gain maximum acceleration, crashing straight into the frigate.

The officers on the bridge had no time to analyze, no time to warn.

Ninety seconds before the impact, the frigate triggered a high-energy explosion from within—it was a sympathetic detonation after the backup energy core was activated by the impact traces.

The light of the explosion illuminated the entire fleet.

The burning wreckage of the frigate scattered in all directions, the debris tracing dozens of outward-spreading crimson trails in orbit, each one reflected on the portholes of the Emperors Hammer, reflected in Marcus's tired but calm eyes.

"Order... retreat."

Marcus's voice returned to calmness, but everyone behind him could hear the change in his tone—not anger, not fear, but something heavier than that.

It was the sound of a door closing.

The Emperors Hammer and the remaining frigates turned, and the Warp engines began to warm up.

The Brood Lords did not pursue the retreating fleet—they didn't need to.

Their mission was to control the orbit, not to pursue fleeing enemies.

The forty-eight Tyrants regrouped between the wreckage of the Imperial Fleet and the retreat trajectory, their wing membranes unfurling in low orbit into a silent, dense network.

The holographic projection system on the tactical table automatically generated a battle damage assessment report after functionality was restored.

The summary column for the mission failure was still empty, waiting for Marcus to fill it out himself.

He did not touch the screen, but simply stood in the center of the bridge, looking at the low orbit outside the porthole where The Swarm had finished its deployment, and at the gray-green planet that was rapidly receding.

Terra must know that this orbital strangulation marked the transition of the war against The Swarm from a blockade to an all-out confrontation—this was the heaviest paragraph he would enter into his next report.