Darrow didnāt relay it. She could feel them. The ship was her body. Every hull plate was skin; every sensor, a nerve. But she couldnāt act. Not yet. The cooldown was not a technical limitation. It was a biological one. Push the Navarchās gift twice in rapid succession, and the feedback would liquefy her brainstem.
āIncoming,ā tactical whispered. āTwelve signatures. Fast movers.ā
The enemy squadron split. Two vectors. They knew. Of course they knew. Every pirate in the sector had learned the rhythm of a Navarchās recharge. Thirty seconds of vulnerability. Thirty seconds to close range, to overwhelm point defense, to kill the god before she could pray again. navarch ability cooldown 30 seconds
It is ten heartbeats too long. It is the time it takes for a missile to cross three astronomical units. It is the span in which a lucky shot can find a reactor core, in which courage curdles into panic, in which a battle turns not because of strategy, but because a god on your side is momentarily mortal.
And thirty seconds later, when the silence returned, Darrow would reset the timer and waitāpraying the next thirty seconds didnāt ask for more than they had to give. Darrow didnāt relay it
āEvasive pattern Delta,ā Darrow ordered. The helmsman acknowledged. The Wake twisted, but it was a fat carrier, not a fighter. A railgun round clipped the port nacelle. Alarms howled. Atmosphere vented from C Deck. Eleven souls, gone before they could scream.
āNavarch ability ready,ā the shipās voice announced. Every hull plate was skin; every sensor, a nerve
In combat, thirty seconds is an eternity.