The end has come. Before the final jump, there was still a hope that it was only our ships or our nodes or our resources that they wanted, not our people, but now that hope is gone. It slides out of subspace, enormous, engorged with a horrible power pulsating beneath its shining alien skin. The Lucifer.
It glides lightly towards us. It is not like a Terran vessel, bound by treaty and ideology and humanity. It will not hesitate to take everything that we have, everything that we are. There is nothing we can do but watch as it draws from its bottomless reserves, preparing to end us without thought or meaning. Blasts of incomparable destruction stream forth from the the vessel's potent prongs, expending the energy of a thousand fusion weapons in a second. The Emperor, watching from afar, intones the sacred royal funerary chant for his race's lost home.
Then a miracle happens. The impossible columns of death peter out a pathetic six kilometers from their points of origin, the energy dissipated long before reaching the furthest reaches of the atmosphere. Vasuda Prime is saved by free space! Elated sand eating bookies collect a surprising windfall of cash from gullible Terran gamblers, while the younger generation exchanges high-threes and fist-bups!
The destroyer hangs silently in the void, its glow maps turning a shade of green. It broadcasts a short signal before slinking back into subspace, never to call again. Years later a team of Terran and Vasudan cryptographers translate the Shivans' message as "Sorry, we've had a rough week. You know, this happens to a lot of guys..."