Ducktales/ships Novels & Stories

"We're out. We're actually out." "Look," Jun whispered. Elara wiped her eyes and looked at the long-range Aetheric-Scanner. They weren't alone in the dark. Emerging from the shadow of the moon, and rising from the far side of the planet, were hundreds of other White Ships. They were of different shapes and sizes—some looked like floating cathedrals of glass, others like jagged shards of obsidian—but they all shared the same Architectural-Lineage. "Are those... survivors?" Mina asked, her voice trembling.

The stone didn't shatter; it dissolved into a mist of pure, breathable energy that turned the surrounding air into a shimmering shield. "If the other Arks want our home, they'll have to come through the mud to get it!" The First Arrival As the sun set, a massive shadow fell over the valley. It wasn't the Lotus-ship of the Vance-Core, and it wasn't the obsidian monolith of the Hunters. It was a rusted, hulking beast of a ship—Ark-12: The Penitent.

He buckled the harness over his head. "Take a seat guys, this is going to be fun." Tom sat down in one of the four seats against the back wall. He buckled his harness as did the other three men. "Pod seventy-one ready," Aidan said into the headset. The huge ship in front of them turned to face them. The thing was massive. As one, a bunch of spikes released from the ship and formed a pattern. They approached the human ship. Tom knew these. He had learned to pilot one a lifetime ago. Those were darts, offensive ships used to attack. The darts grew closer and flew in a pack. Lasers beamed out of them in short rays and hit the ship.

Forsaking the ability to be a man would be far easier. Ashrac's newest toy is a drone used by the earth realm's U.S. military, or so he tells me. It doesn't work, but Ashrac broke it down and rebuilt it so he knows everything it can do. Acasia explained over tea that Dmitri, an earth realm vampire and friend, is creating documentation so Ashrac can attend one of earth's scientific colleges in about twenty-five years. It will be good for him.

He indicated a sleek, fast courier ship. "The Silver Dart. Lightly armored, but fast. If we can reach it—" A shadow fell over us. It wasn't a cloud. It was too solid. Too geometric. The wind picked up. It whipped the trees into a frenzy. The sound of heavy thrusters drowned out the confused murmurs of the civilians behind us. I looked up. Descending from the upper atmosphere, blocking the sun, was a warship. It wasn't a drop-ship. It was a Dreadnought. Its hull was painted silver and blue. It bristled with kinetic cannons and gravity-dampening arrays.

“Lady Ever—” “No names.” Becky lifted a hand without slowing. “Not mine. Not yours. Not tonight.” The man bowed his head. “As you wish.” “Is the ship ready?” “Aye.” He jerked his chin toward the vessel moored at the far end of the dock. It was a weather-beaten cargo ship, hull patched, sails rolled, the Eastwind insignia freshly painted over with a darker, unfamiliar crest. “False flag, false registry, false manifests. No one’ll track where she’s goin’.”

he'd called it, though Jack suspected simple curiosity. "Visual contact," Marcus announced. Jack looked up and saw it. The scout ship was beautiful—a sleek vessel of silver and blue, organic curves suggesting it had been grown rather than built. But it was clearly damaged. Portions of its hull flickered with unstable energy, and a trail of debris marked its descent path. Behind it, still distant but closing fast, three dark shapes pursued. The Vanguard hunters. "Aria-7, this is Jack Miller," he broadcast on the Origin Heart's frequency. "We're here to help. Can you match our position?"

The clearing fell silent, save for the ticking of our cooling engines and the hiss of steam from the crippled Crawler. Dax killed his engine, kicking the kickstand down. He kept his SMG raised as he walked toward the massive, dented cargo hatch of the land-ship. "Convoy Seven," Dax called out, his voice echoing in the crater. "The perimeter is clear. Open the door." For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, with the screech of tortured metal, the heavy hydraulic locks disengaged. The massive steel ramp slowly lowered, hitting the glowing mud with a heavy thud.

The Derelict Draft The blue ship glided to a halt beside the reef, its wooden hull scraping against a massive, crystalline question mark that rose twenty feet out of the black water. The ship trapped in the ice was not an audit cutter or a Spire vessel. It was an ancient, double-decked galley built entirely from black slate, its oars frozen mid-stroke in the hardened ink of the reef. Its sails were made of heavy, yellowed parchment, completely covered in columns of fading red ink—the distinctive signature of an Internal Audit from the First Era. There was no life on the decks. The crew had been liquidated centuries ago, their bodies turned into smooth, grey statues of solid graphite that sat

She stumbled as gravity reasserted itself, Cain already steadying her, his hands shaking just enough that she felt it. The ship shuddered. Then it decloaked. Above the Dawlya world, the sky split. Draynor warships slid into visibility like titans emerging from shadow sleek, angular, bristling with restrained devastation. Dragon signatures flared across Dawlya sensors in blinding cascades. The waiting ship surged upward, joining formation. Avi turned, breath ragged. “Kael. Lees.” “They’re safe,” Cain said immediately, jaw tight. “Ghost extraction to Ashbarrie. Mikan ordered it the second the lattice flared.” She swallowed hard, nodding once.