“FEUER!”

With the profound utterance of this declaration, our foe faces an immense discharge of weaponized willpower. Due to the resulting back-blasts, however, it is difficult at first to assess the damage because of our visual feed getting overwhelmed by smoke. As the Castelforte marches forward through the endless mist, I can only clench my arms in anticipation. While waiting for the Castelforte to regain proper visualization of the battlefield, I glance over at Brutus, who certainly does not share my excitement.

“Oh? Are you concerned about something, Brutus?” I ask calmly. He returns the stare while stroking his chin. He must have been tense until now, as he eases up if only a little.

“It’s something like that,” Brutus answers, tapping his arm.

“If I have to guess, I suppose you were unsure about firing from this range?” The enemy formation is no more than six-hundred kilometers away from us. They would have very little ample time to react given they were not expecting an enemy fleet so close in the vicinity—let alone in this spacial zone of all places. This is merely punishing them for letting their guard down. I cannot say I could relate to the ill-fortune they have brought upon themselves.

However, Brutus has every right to be concerned—just as he always has been until now. Frankly, our chance at success would be far lower if they were in an alert phase. They still don’t know our exact location… at least if I have to guess. So even if they were by chance shifted to defensive positions, they would have just as much difficulty maneuvering out of the trajectory of a swarm of projectiles as they are now.

“This probably doesn’t need to be said, Madame, but there’s no turning back now,” the oaf says dryly “we’ve effectively swung a bat to the hornet’s nest—” a furrow of his brow “more of a poke with an overly long stick, I’d reckon. I’m slightly concerned that all we were capable of doing is alerting the enemy to our presence and allow for them to react more accordingly. If we have gotten a little closer…”

“True,” I add as I massage my cheek “perhaps I have… jumped the gun, in striking at the Metropol fleet. If I had waited a little longer, I could have delivered a more swift killing blow than just the sinking of a battleship or two. I d no doubt that I could’ve denied the enemy knowledge of our declared presence just as I’ve done at Lübeck and with the southern fleet.

“But hindsight is just that… the poke was a good one, but maybe a close-up swing with a bat would’ve benefited me with a more decisive outcome?” I muse with a stroke of my chin.

“Don’t fuss over it too hard, Madame,” Brutus replies “frankly, it’s a tough call for anyone to make—even for the likes of you. There is no telling how the dice may have fallen.” I give a nod at Brutus’s words, and to my surprise, it’s not long before the Castelforte breaks through the dull mist into the open. When our sensors finally clear up, I squint at the visual feed off to the side and breath a sigh of relief. “Maybe you were right to trust your gut,” the oaf remarks with mild amusement “they’re still scrambling around like headless chickens even after everything is said and done!”

The fleet—or really what remains of the formation—is in such chaos that it’s difficult to draw any real opinion about what is happening. Ships are trying to advance, and then there are ships trying to reorganize into defensive positions. It even seems like some are attempting to withdrawal. In any case, if I’m not careful, I might fall into the trap of once again overestimating my opponent. “Your orders, Madame?” A subordinate asks as he approaches us with a chest salute.

“We will continue to advance at max speed. The quicker we close distance and cut the ships down the better,” I remark “we need to sink them before the Metropolitans can be reinforced by additional ships—I want to clear a path to the Trinidad. Securing our flanks as it stands would be an impossible task,” I pause for a moment to think “with that said, pass on to Sergi and the other ships to maintain cohesion—it’s risky, but it’s best we don’t divide our firepower. Any ships that stray off risk getting captured or even destroyed.

“With that said, the ship lieutenants may fire at will. There’s no point in concentrating firepower now. We will hardly be able to put a dent in numbers once the Metropolitans are capable of counterattacking. So long as we maintain pressure through potshots we will be able to maintain the momentum.”

“As a precaution, have the fleet spread out to avoid collateral damage,” Brutus chimes in, and we both exchange glances. The thought didn’t cross my mind so I’m thankful that this oaf can catch my oversight. Seeing that I have silently agreed with Brutus, the subordinate finalizes the instructions with a courteous understood scurries off to deliver on orders.

Slight goosebumps make me worry about what might have happened if Brutus didn’t think to interject with the order. I can only imagine there would be a lot more losses if our dimwit lieutenants so much as mirrored the Metropolitan’s mistakes of clumping units together. I do have faith that my men are above average in competence but unfortunately, I am no mind-reader; who knows if my men are letting the luck get to their heads? Though, if there is one issue I have it’s that by spreading the fleet out we risk increasing courier shuttle travel time between ships.

But it could just be a baseless worry. As we march closer to the enemy formation, we endure the first shots of counter-battery. With careful maneuvering, the majority of our ships are more than capable of withstanding the brunt of missile attacks. Although there are a few ships that were not fortunate and therefore sunk. For most, all hands have been lost; but one of my lackeys surmise that a few managed to escape in time in shuttles.

“Madame, should I have a few ships in the rear slow down to pick up the survivors?” A rather lanky subordinate asks. I bite down on my thumb in ponder. To slow down the cohesive force to pick up baggage, or to abandon them in pursuit of our goal? It’s a painful decision, but it cannot be helped. Sergi or Brutus would certainly not approve, but there is no time now to sacrifice the momentum and pick up on other’s carelessness.

“No, signal for them to withdrawal to Olga’s positions: she’ll be able to retrieve them once she finishes her business with the auxiliary fleet,” this is of course assuming she manages to accomplish that in time. But I have full faith in Olga’s ability to take on a rather small escort fleet. “Failing that, they will simply become Federation prisoners,” I say flatly with a grimacing expression. The subordinate clears his throat and blinks owlishly. But perhaps knowing his place there is no protesting and he merely excuses himself to relay orders.

“I would say that is heartless of you,” Brutus says from a nearby console “but rescuing them would mean surmounting losses, correct?”

“You can look at it that way, yes,” comes my reply “any stragglers spending time retrieving the shuttles will be exposed to encirclement themselves.” When we both look at the strategic map, there are small blimps just on the edge of the map from one edge of the asteroid belt; namely from the vicinity of Jean’s positions. First, there is one, then three, and then several more. Those blimps could easily consist of at least two squadrons. Since they are too far to offer any meaningful support to the formation I’m engaging now, I’d predict their officers might ideally want to flank us. Most of them seem to be about eight-hundred kilometers away, maybe less.

It’s only a matter of time before the Trinidad high command orders more ships to break off from the front-lines to counter-attack us. But it could be at least another hour or two before any squadrons reach the skirmish here. And an hour is all I need to break through the relief convoy fleet heading for Olga.

So long as the Metropolitan headquarters pulls more ships from the front-lines, it could mean Richter and them will have an easier time to do a counter-attack of their own. Or at least I would hope so. I imagine even with the ease of pressure, Jung still wouldn’t have any spare ships to afford any offense. Unless of course, he uses the decoy ships as a ploy; I can only surmise that the fact the decoy fleet seems marginally smaller than before is because he used them in some way or another when he launched a strike on the Trinidad.

Come to think of it, I haven’t heard from Jung until now. And even at that, his fleet doesn’t appear to be doing any major undertakings at the moment. Has Jung grown too cautious over the years? Or perhaps he is just waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike? Knowing the man, he wouldn’t simply sit down after one failed attempt at the Trinidad —his pride wouldn’t allow it. Would Jung chance launching an offense into the Metropolitan lines? Or perhaps he might flow south to cut off the salient?

Jung’s intention’s aside, the Federation contingent that I exchange fire with has hardly budged from their positions. Perhaps I was naive to think they would make the obvious choice of retreating—in this case, they don’t have anywhere to withdrawal. For all intents, their back is to the sea—the asteroid shower pelting away amid the ongoing battle occurring there. Not to mention the vulnerable asset that is the Trinidad and its screen of ships.

But the more we butcher them, the more I’m left to wonder: why? Do they intend to stand their ground here for the intention of halting my advance? I can only wonder what goes on in their minds as they sink one by one, hoping to buy time for reinforcements to envelop me. I find it rather surprising they would not slowly make any rear-guard actions and retreat to the safety net that is the flagship screens.

But as more Metropolitan ships sink in the intense back-and-forth exchange, the more I notice that the Ruthenian warships are executing a rear-guard action—without the Metropolitans in tow. Which I find rather surprising, considering the colonists would be far more likely to make a suicidal frontal charge. I would’ve wished for that course of action, but regrettably, competence comes from the strangest sources.

Even as the distance closes between the opposing contingent and I, the Ruthenians unflinchingly stand back even as I wither down what remains of the Metropolitan elements. It’s hard to tell what happened before my arrival, but judging from all the colonial remains we passed by before this started, it could be karma for leaving their kind out in the sun. And that can’t help but make me scoff; even when both groups are pitted together against me, grudges run deep even when both of their blood is spilled by my hands. However shaky the relation may be between the two elements, it’s an opportunity I seek to fully capitalize on.

But one thing is for sure; no matter how many I butcher, it does little to level the playing field in terms of firepower. It doesn’t particularly matter if this element is obliterated or not. It’s akin to an enormous stack of handkerchiefs; I could pour countless battles of wine over it, but there will always be additional layers to soak up the losses. I can’t think of this as a battle of attrition—or rather I’m unwilling to do so. No amount of inflicted losses will compel the Federation to seek peace and withdrawal. The enemies that soak up my finite flow of poured liquid will merely pale in comparison to the countless bottles of liquid that the Metropolitans have at their disposal.

And as I stare at the strategic map, it’s only evident that those bottles of wine loom ever so near to my puny stack of handkerchiefs that I call my manpower. “Madame!” Clyde runs up to me before the good-for-nothing Bowen can cause me irritation “we’ve taken notice of a large contingent emerging from the center…”

“Ships from the center?” I utter trying to keep my cool. Those could either be reinforcements from the Federation’s headquarters or even elements dispatched from the battlefield—from the salient? No… surely the Metropolitan admiral wouldn’t overcommit that much to me at the cost of possibly losing his breakthrough, would he?

“Yes, but not only that but Bowen and I are reason to believe that there is also a medium-size force coming from the south,” at those words I reel around to face the strategic map. And to my dismay, Clyde’s remarks are correct. I’ve been anticipating that the Federation behemoth would shift its weight around, but I failed to take into account just how many squadrons they would tactically relocate.

“Madame…” Brutus steps in with a concerned look “with regards to the flanks, spreading our ships out is most likely out of the question… but would it still be worth sending a distress signal to Miss Olga?” When he finishes, I heave a giant sigh.

“You are right on your assumptions. Rushing forward into this forlorn hope is suicide. But directing our firepower in several directions is even more suicidal, and thus I won’t consider it—at least not for now,” another distressing exhale “I don’t want to admit it but I have no way out of this one. Unlike Jung, I don’t latch on to senseless things like pride. But with that said, sending a distress signal would be the ideal thing to do—but there is the chance that the Metropolitans will pick up on the urgency…”

“Madame…” Brutus whispers with a strained face. I pinch the scarred part of my nose and release a pained scoff.

“The risk far outweighs the benefits. But even so, you have my permission to inform the communication operator of transmitting a distress signal to Olga,” I reply while pinching my nasal ridge some more. As Brutus leaves, I am left to wonder if such a signal will even reach Olga in the first place. But so long as she does—even if the message arrives too late—at least she may know about the rapidly deteriorating situation I found myself in.

Was a flanking maneuver simply a bad execution? Or was it a good idea undermined by a paranoid high-command? Would I have been better off simply charging headfirst into the fray, perhaps assaulting upstream after the southern contingent was defeated? Who knows how that battle could have unfolded. But there is no use dwelling on it now; perhaps generations from now armchair historians will dissect every nook and cranny of the battle that unfolded here.

As the threat of encirclement looms overhead, my fleet continues to obliterate the helpless center formation. The Metropolitans in particular are now unable to reliably fire barrages because of the closed distance. Their dwindling numbers are almost the same as their Ruthenian counterparts, if even less than that. The colonist elements must have realized that stopping the tide dead in its tracks isn’t working and begin to steadily give ground at a quicker pace, and take up a U-shaped position in the process. It’s not long before the see-saw ends in our favor, and we unleash one last close-range of lethal shots that more or less neutralize the combat effectiveness of the Metropolitan element of the relief escort fleet.

Our ships rapidly speed through those who signal for surrender: but unlike my usual handling of them, I’ve decided to grant them mercy by sparing them. Under normal circumstances, I would have either destroyed their ships outright or drafted the ships after disposing of their crew. But regrettably, it’s an opportunity I will have to let slide. Even knowing the fact that they will eventually turn around to rejoin the fight hangs on my mind but there are more pressing matters at hand. It hardly matters if they die or not, they are merely another cog in this mammoth I am facing. The only thing I gain to lose is precious munitions and what specks of time I have left.

As we venture through the shattered remains of the Metropolitan ships, something doesn’t stand right with me with the way the Ruthenians are behaving. Perhaps it’s the way they are formating their rearguard action, or maybe it’s the speed they are advancing. It almost seems like there’s no urgency—no sense of desperation. It doesn’t even make sense that they retreat in a partial circular motion and at such a slow speed for me to catch up to. I pause to gaze at the strategic map. Then shoot Brutus a glance, who returns the look with puzzlement.

“Er… is something the matter, Madame?” He asks, avoiding my glare by looking at the projected map. A rear-guard action? It’s rather uncharacteristic of them to be performing that, isn’t it? Why exactly would they retreat without the Federation baggage? Yes, the two parties hate each other, but in hindsight, if they wanted to win this battle they would need to work together even if it meant putting aside their clashing differences.

My eyes dart all over the map in search of an answer that seemingly appears obvious. Have I been looking at this fight the wrong way? I accuse my men of having their heads in the clouds when it comes to overconfidence, but could it be I am behaving hypocritically?

The rest of the Federation fleet—that is, those that are currently about to envelop us—are a few steps away from firing at us from all sides. Even the Ruthenians should be aware of the implications in the redundancy of retreating despite the odds being in their favor.

With a stinging face-palm, I realize the harsh truth: there’s no point in retreating when you are winning. I believed the illusion that I am winning, but it’s quite the contrary—I am merely prolonging the slide into defeat. I didn’t win the engagement here, I am a fool to believe that I have the edge over the Ruthenians. This see-saw didn’t end; they are simply biding time to deliver the killing blow. Simply put, this isn’t a rear-guard action—it’s to draw me further into encirclement.

And in my moment of being foolishly blindsided, it worked.

“I want all ships to decelerate and reverse movement, now!” I nearly strain my throat “the colonials aren’t retreating— they’re bracing for a frontal charge!”

And almost on cue, with my eyes planted to the strategic map; the digital blocks representing the Ruthenian formation abruptly stop in place—and then advance. But before they do, they unleash a fierce barrage that rips through our ranks and sinks ships by their dozen.

Have I been had again? For a brief moment, the grinning blonde ensign appears in my mind, but I shake my head to snap out of it. No, this time I was able to predict it. I can prevent another mishappening. But then that begs the question: have I been able to predict it in time?

Latching onto the railing in light of the Castelforte’s abrupt stop, I watch with bated breath as most of the fleet manages to save face in the nick of time and reverse course. But to my horror, the order fails to be relayed to several ships that continue to doggedly pursue the colonists. I watch in total helplessness as many are cut down by the subsequent enemy fire and sink to the all-encompassing Rouen sea. “What the hell are our couriers doing?!” I angrily exclaim while rubbing my neck. Upon realizing the uniform look of horror across the bridge room, I stiffen up and avert my gaze amid the guilt running down my spine.

Shouting isn’t going to solve anything. That is something I should very well be aware of. All it does is instill fear, and fear is not something that I want to rule by example. Lashing out at others for my shortcomings is unbecoming of me; one look at Brutus is enough to speak for itself. If Olga were here, she’d be disappointed in my attitude, too. What’s done is done. Valuable ships have been lost because of communicational error—there were merely shuttles out that either could not have relayed the message in time or were caught in the barrage and died. As tragic as that may be, it just can’t be helped.

But that matter aside, the close-call managed to reach most, and if I happened to be a second earlier then all hope would have been lost. It would seem as though my prediction about the Ruthenians were on the mark as well. The Ruthenian counter-attack begins to unfold, but they perhaps find that their bold attempt at engaging us at close-range goes up in smoke before their very eyes. I can only imagine the horrified looks on the staff officer’s faces when they realize the tables have turned on them. For them, it is but a mere fleeting moment as more colonial ships meet the similar fate of those they sunk.

It’s not long before the Ruthenian counter-attack crumbles. Most meet their fate by sinking into the vacuums of space. Others attempt to turn-tail and make good on genuinely retreating, but my men are quick to cut down stragglers like the distasteful cowards they are.

At this point, I would relax in a brief moment of celebration—but the sinister movements of both reinforcing Metropolitan formations give me no time to even sigh in relief. Glancing at the tactical map, it’s clear enough to me that they are now in optimal firing range—and because there are no allies left for risk of friendly-fire, they have more than enough of a dual-sided killing field. And there is always the issue of reinforcements that were flowing in from either the Trinidad’s protective screen or the front-lines themselves. I don’t want to admit it, but we are far from being out of the woods just yet. Though, with the colonial ships all but dealt with, it’s only a matter of time before we crush the inferior quantity of the Federation mammoth.

Or at least I would hope so.

“Onward! I want all remaining ships to resume advancing at max speeds,” I declare to the bridge “I don’t want another second to waste. If you have to communicate with signal systems, then so be it!” I shoot a glance at the strategic map—both Metropolitan fleets were closing in faster than I expected—I can fully expect a complete slaughter if all three manage to congregate with the right timing. The total strength of all three seems to be still larger than the ships under me at the moment. Biting on my thumb I am left to wonder if it was the right idea to give ships to Richter and Olga.

All it means is beating the clock by at least breaking through the new center formation. That way, we can avoid destruction by using the Metropolitan ships as deterrence against firing on their own. So far, it doesn’t seem like the Federation is willing to fire on their own—even if it means taking out a highly valued target such as myself.

Soon after, the remnants of my fleet reach full acceleration once again and begin to engage the enemy fleet in front of us. And just like their allies before them, the contingent shifts to a defensive stance, but it’s one that comes too late in their case, dooming many to becoming spacial debris at Rouen.

The short-lived skirmish devolves into an amateurish rear-guard retreat. But even that is shaky at best, and the more pressure I apply to them, the more their morale plummets, resulting in many attempting to rout.

It’s almost too good to be true. Simon once told me it’s wise to trust your instincts. But just this once it doesn’t feel right. As I watch the Federations cower before me, I am only left to wonder: is this another layer of deception? A trick to instill yet another false of victory and use it as leverage to deliver a decisive killing blow?

But the state of the Federation contingent before me seems so genuine. Would they risk total annihilation if it meant hoping the same ploy would work twice?

While ponderously rubbing my cheek scar, I glare at the overlay strategic map; if Miss Schwarzenberger was present, would she have realized the fruitlessness of fighting the Scarface head-on, and perhaps concentrated firepower when I reached the Trinidad’s layers of escorts?

A lure to the Trinidad will mean a confrontation with the nucleus of the armada… I can only picture the power of a cornered beast that is the Trinidad once I get into range of it. Then, would it be beneficial to attempt a flanking maneuver and find a weakness in the outer elements of the screen?

It could work, but… after Jung’s seemingly bold attempt at a decisive strike, I can only surmise that the Federation headquarters would want to tighten their lines to ensure nothing gets through. But even so…

A sudden illumination of the bridge room catches me off guard. With a glance at the windows, I can make out in time several of our ships going out in blazes of unfortunate glory. But from the way most sink, it appears to be not from the front but the sides. And the realization dawns on me that the Federation achieved their goal of a partial encirclement: we’re now sitting ducks in a brutal killing field.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. We are still very much a phantom force. All the Federation can do is pray and hope that their missiles hit their intended targets. At best, they might miss and potentially target the other fleet by accident. But I won’t deny that there will be some losses.

“You have been looking pale for a while, Madame,” Brutus states bringing me back to reality “you know you don’t have to shoulder all the responsibility yourself—” he jabs at his chest “I’m all ears for you, for whichever you may need to reflect any ideas off me.”

I nod at Brutus’s kind gesture but only can afford to release a heavy reply. “I’ve been contemplating just how inept the Federation is. Their overall structure is intimidating as it is enormous. They are capable of performing admirable stunts, and yet…” with a caress of my cheek I frown “with one door I kick down, there is only another, and so on. How many flimsy obstacles must I knockdown to achieve a flimsy victory? The Trinidad’s shell…” I utter trailing off.

“It’s nothing less short of distressing,” Brutus replies laconically “but if the Feds are not capable of withstanding our momentum, what makes you think they won’t be pressed into asking for a ceasefire?”

“The Federation… issuing a call for a ceasefire?” I tap my cheek, grimacing at the slight tinge of pain, “do you truly believe they would negotiate with scum and villainy?” Brutus says nothing and merely sags his shoulders. It’s a far-fetched idea—fantasy even… at least that’s what I want to tell myself. I don’t want to shoot down Brutus’s suggestion so rashly. Perhaps there is merit to enforcing a ceasefire if the conditions are met? In that case, if the situation allows for it, it could be done.

As the Castelforte along with its host tramples through the shredded remains of the butchered foe, we come under increased scrutiny from not just the tightening encirclement, but from the outer and mid-layer of the defensive fleet protecting the Trinidad. There are so many in-depth firing lines that I find it momentarily breath-taking. This is truly what I would expect of Federation doctrine, but perhaps there is a hint of crippling overspecialization. A fact that I feel has been cemented all too well with the previous local engagements.

I likened the armada as being backed into a corner with nowhere to run unless they desire to wade into the harsh torrent of the asteroid shower. If I squint hard enough, I can make out intense flashes of radiating lights on the opposite end of the asteroid belt. Is it possible Richter and Jung have been pushed out of the asteroid belt already? If so, it would surely mean the Federation might mill more men around to engage me.

“Clyde reports numerous sightings of new formations joining the battlefield from the asteroid-side,” Brutus solemnly announces as I hover over the holographic tactical map.

The closer we get to just the outer parameter of just the first section of defense, the more brutal my fleet takes a beating. These losses are anything but sustainable. Frankly, I want to believe that it simply doesn’t justify the costs of penetrating their lines of defense—even just their first outer lines. No matter how much kinetic force we throw back, it’s as if the ships we destroy—sometimes by daisy chains of explosions due to the bizarre concentration of ships—is simply not enough to cause a dent anywhere.

Since the Trinidad is more or less in a circular shell, they are more than willing to tactically maneuver whole squadrons facing the asteroid belt, as if content about an assault not originating from there. From the looks of things, it seems that the Federation lines are rather quick in adapting to the situation. With each layer of ships I thin out, the Metropol troops don’t seem to move into vacant spots. Rather, they replenish starting from the back while maintaining a steady reverse traction to give the illusion that not only are they continuing to widen the gap, but they are making it easier to reinforce depleted lines with shortened distances.

With this tactic though, it does seem as though they are not only slowly pulling more ships from their positions facing the asteroid-belt but pressing harder against the outskirts of the asteroid belt the further they keep stepping back. This exposes the Trinidad to greater danger from both sides but mostly from the asteroid fighting in particular. I would so much as say that if Jung is waiting for his bold chance at striking again… I feel as though now would be the time.

But with each passing moment, I’m convinced it simply won’t happen. Or rather, neither Richter nor Jung can afford a bold counter-attack. For all I know, the salient could have evolved into an encirclement by now. The Federation certainly has the resources at their disposal to undertake a two-front battle. Just the fact that additional Federation reinforcements are coming in from the asteroid battle is enough to tell me my impression of them being pressured is not all that impactive. They are more than capable of moving men and matériel around at will.

The bombardments all around us do paralyze the fleet, and it seems as though our momentum has been halted for the first time. By the time we reach the first layer of the screen defensive lines, there is so much carnage that it seems even the Metropolitans lack morality in launching panic barrages even when there is the risk of friendly-fire. In the entanglement that ensures, there are several close calls of missiles miraculously missing our ship by what Olga may describe as a skin of our teeth.

“Madame,” Brutus utters abruptly “given the Castelforte’s position at the forefront, I suggest we slow down and let the other ships take the lead,” he says “our ship and the Hugh are the only ones with transponders. If we recklessly expose ourselves—if you go down—the Mafia dies with you,” he finishes with a stern look.

I turn back to give the oaf a faint smile, “my, what an insightful revelation,” I reply warmly “if I didn’t know any better, Brutus, you would want to throw Sergi under the bus… but humor aside, it’s not an idea I’m opposed to. Though if I have to say, it doesn’t particularly matter where the Castelforte is located—we are encircled after all. I think it’s rather cowardly to hide behind my men, but that said do feel free to let the navigator know to slow down and signal to the other ships to take lead.”

Brutus is correct, however. If the Castelforte so much endures a minor scratch, it could spur a wildfire of fear and lead to the crippling collapse of cohesion. Even if I were to declare my safety in such an event, it would most likely fall on deaf ears. I doubt even Sergi would be able to maintain discipline in this chaos. The lack of transponders and the carnage ensuing around us is rather troublesome indeed.

At Brutus’s suggestion, the Castelforte decelerates briefly to allow for the Hugh along with a majority of the herd to pass through. To my mild surprise, however, the Federation is quick to adapt to this and attempts to close in from all directions, with a fierce slug-fest that decimates many pirates and Metropol ships alike. Regardless the fleet manages to successfully pierce the outer wall of ship defenses and steadily advance to the middle layer of screen ships. For a while, it does seem as though the momentum picks up.

But it sadly is only for a brief stint. The assault slows down to a crawl, as we are forced into nearly suicidal close-range combat with ships that are capable of causing a chain reaction of nuclear holocausts. I consider myself lucky that there happens to be almost no Ruthenians left. The bloodbath that would ensue if they participated would be astronomical. But even without the colonials, the pressure we face only increases as more Federation ships trickle in from the Asteroid belt.

Does the Metropolitan admiral lack morality? Does his strategy consist of nothing but utilizing his ships as cannon fodder for the sole purpose of wearing me down—of depleting our reserves of munitions? It’s despicable—it’s astonishingly despicable how these numb-skulls lack any sense of self-preservation. If the blonde ensign were present, she would be equally—if not cosmically —infuriated if she saw the massacre that her comrades subject themselves to. But this is what the Federation commander and I have committed ourselves to. It just can’t be helped. If things at Lübeck had gone my way, none of this would need to happen.

Seven-hundred kilometers. That’s the rough estimate of the seas of ships that divide me and the Trinidad, give or take. At this distance, I could very well order the fleet to unleash a desperate barrage on the Trinidad, but there’s no telling any of them will find their intended mark—the Trinidad would still have ample time to maneuver. Failing that, one of its escorts would take the blow for it—since that is their purpose of the Metropolitan screen doctrine. And for better or for worse, we don’t have the same nuclear munitions as the Federations do—most of ours are simply explosive warheads. So there’s no way that we could rely on luck and hope for a devastating explosive radius.

As I gaze at the overcrowded strategic overlay full of blue Metropolitan blips, I can only wonder if using our precious ammunition would be worth the risk. Despite our rearmament at the Lübeck Clusters, there’s no telling if we’re already in a similar boat as Jung may be—any moment now, our fleet will have to resort to ramming. Would it even be worth plowing through the horde of Federations just to kill the admiral, in the bleak hope that it will compel his next-in-command to sue for peace? I pull out the crimson-flaked handkerchief that Brutus offered me some time ago. As I twirl it over in my hands, I can only wonder just how much more drops of blood I will need to achieve as ridiculous as a victory. What would victory be in this case?

“Madame! I’m receiving a faint signal from the corridor!” The cries of the communications operator reel me around to face the strategic map. The corridor? My heart racing, I frantically scan the map for the emerging guess from the corridor. And once I locate the single blue blip with the all-too-familiar ship identification code, I cut loose a long sigh.

“Do we hold out for Olga? Or perhaps would breaking out be a better alternative?” Brutus asks in a rather hushed tone.

A breakout? Now?

“Don’t be absurd, Brutus!” I retort “we’ll continue to advance and ride off of Olga’s momentum once she arrives.”

“You don’t think Olga’s force would be better suited for a flanking maneuver?” He asks, stroking his chin.

“There’s no time for elaborate maneuvering now, the Federation won’t let anything in or out,” I grimace “if Olga can provide an opening for us… I can get closer to the Trinidad,” Brutus looks at me in awe, but says nothing.

Six-hundred kilometers. Five hundred fifty kilometers. I hold my breath and listen to the sound of my heart-beating in between glaring at the Taiga’s warpath and the last dense line of the Trinidad’s defenses.

As we advance, the encirclement tightens like a coiled snake with increasingly worrisome concentrated fire. It doesn’t seem like the Metropolitans are aware of the Taiga yet. But there’s no way I can risk sending a signal to Olga now. The instant the Metropol fleet intercepts it, our last trump card will be wasted.

The moment the Castelforte pierces through the middle lines of defense is when the gates of hell unleash an unprecedented storm of missiles. Whatever doubts I had of the Federation having a shed of humanity evaporated when they are crazy enough to fire upon entire firing lines of their own. We’re between three hundred fifty to four hundred kilometers away from the Trinidad . And it’s at this point where I am compelled to order the fleet to withdrawal from the open into the middle screen of Federation ships and debris. What lies beyond is without a doubt no man’s land and a testament to our high water mark.

But in less dreadful news, Olga enjoys greater success. I watch in awe as a single blip rips a clear path through the encirclement towards us. When I look at Brutus, I can only wonder if this is truly our last chance at breaking out. It is, however, a question that I don’t dwell too much on. All I will say that everything that we did—all the men I willingly let die young—would be in total vain if we tried to break out now. I have to make their sacrifices meaningful one way or another—and a retreat would render it redundant.

Once it’s clear that Olga has sortied into the encirclement itself and is not far off from us, I give the order for my fleet to sally out of our makeshift defenses for the final line of defense. Olga’s fleet continues at max speeds and it isn’t long before her ship overtakes us overhead. The bridge room rumbles as several dozens of Olga’s contingent races past us and nearly zips out of view.

Isn’t Olga going a bit too fast? Our ships still have yet to match her speed. If she maintains this overall speed, she might get wiped out before we get the chance to capitalize on her momentum. “Brutus…” I mutter “before it’s too late, have the radio handler order Olga to slow down, if only a little,” when I finish Brutus gives me a glance of perplex.

“Madame, I understand that you’re concerned about Miss Olga, but…” he clears his throat “if she slows down now, not only will she be easy pickings, but it’ll snowball into us getting slaughtered as well.” I rub my scar in frustration. I’m hesitant to admit the man’s right. I can’t afford to let my feelings for Olga get in the way now. I just wish she wasn’t always so reckless with her endeavors.

Three hundred kilometers. Then two hundred kilometers. Little by little, we advance closer to the Trinidad. Many of my men suffer horrible fates, and many more Federation ships are sunk in kind. This attritional hell-scape does little to deter our determination. Or at least that is what I want to fool myself into thinking. Most would be at their breaking point and I could be none the wiser. Do they go on because I am the beacon of hope, or would they have initiated a mutiny by now if it was any other captain?

“Interception of Federation messages originating from the asteroid formations!” The radio technician declares “reports of mafia forces breaking through in record numbers—local forces in the center unable to turn the tide…” Is Jung finally making his move!? Looking at the strategic map I can only wonder if it’s a gamble or if Darcy is using the decoy ships as a last-ditch distraction. Whatever the case, it seems to work as some Federation ships from our sector attempt to turn around for a strategic redeployment. A decision that cost many their lives.

One hundred kilometers. Maybe more, maybe less. Any one of the small beads in the cosmic distance could be our target, and it’s only a matter of time of finding the right one. But even so, despite our allied efforts at pulling troops away from my side, the rest of the Federation stubbornly stand their ground in concentrated positions. No longer do they slowly traverse back like the previous lines of defense do. Rather, some advance to bring the fight to us. Others dig in leaving us with no real choice but to cut through them head-on—even if that means ramming. Something that would be a very Olga thing to do. And something that I quickly realize is what she most likely intends to do.

“Order Olga and her ships to avoid crashing into ships! If she can’t destroy them with guns—then slip past them!” I retort to the terrified radio technician. But when I look out the window at the Taiga, my world freezes. Like a slow-motion train wreck, I watch in horror as the Taiga —and many other Mafia ships—crash irresponsibly into a herd of Federation ships. Ships of either force spiral out of control; among them, the Taiga. Some violently set off a chain of fiery balls. Thus, leaving behind a tremendous gap in the formation… the pathway to the Trinidad and a token number of ships circling it.

But it doesn’t matter to me now. The Trinidad is the least of my worries. The only thing that floods my mind is that good for nothing lanky blonde.

“OGLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

I nearly throw myself over the railing—but an enormous arm wraps itself around me. Another wailing scream to which there is no answer. Any rationale I had quickly evaporates, and I find myself beating on Brutus before I know it.

“Brutus!” An exasperation that comes from me “the Taiga… we have to rescue Olga!” But after enough prattling, Brutus pulls me away by the shoulders and grips me tightly.

“…Now is not the time to falter, Madame!” He hoarsely retorts with grievousness in his eyes “she… there’s still a chance Ola may be alive! But for now, we have to march on—march on and end this once and for all!” His grip on my shoulders tightens “we had hundreds of men throw away their lives for this very moment! Olga is no different!” I stare Brutus straight in the eyes while balling my fists. A radiance of intense heat resonates from both my chest and mature scar tissue. And yet, I can’t bring myself to lash out at the man. “Olga would have wanted you to continue on without her,” Brutus says shutting his eyes and gritting his teeth.

Yes. That’s correct. One way or another, I have to end this whole nightmare. I have long accepted that people will die—including myself. But now that it has come to this, I feel as though I lack the strength to go on. And without even knowing it, my body gives out and I slump into Brutus’s strong hold. “M-Madame?” I hear him utter in surprise.

“Madame!” Someone calls out to us from behind, the way Brutus moves tells me he looks up dumbfounded at the subordinate. “The enemy flagship is less than twenty kilometers from our fleet—the enemy guns have all gone silent… captain Sergi informed us that all guns are trained on the Trinidad and its escorts… but he awaits your order to give the signal to fire.

“…Your orders, Madame?”

To fire on the Trinidad or to take it hostage. To fire on the Trinidad, and risk getting completely slaughtered in relation. Would they still be sane enough to do something as absurd as a ceasefire with lawless bandits? Or would they capture me alive—torture me, laud me around as a hard-earned trophy?

If the dead could see me now, would they be full of regret for decision I’ll make? Would they feel regret for the sorry state I am in now? Is anyone capable of shouldering this decision? Simon… Sergi, everyone… what would they do in my shoes?

Regaining what little composure I have, I lift myself from Brutus’s warmth and turn to face the equally puzzled subordinate. “Encircle the Trinidad —” I state trying to quell my shakiness “but refrain from firing… even if provoked. The Castelforte will position itself adjacent to the Trinidad.”

Dumbfounded, the subordinate obliges and I follow him without so much as looking back at Brutus. When the two of us arrive at the radio console, the subordinate takes a minute to relay the information. The operator, in turn, looks at me with aghast before adjusting some dials and confirming the orders into his headpiece.

In the meantime, I observe in solemn silence as the source of so much pain and suffering of all those present and those who have perished, either to destroy or to protect, slowly comes into an ever-increasing magnifying view. From here, I can make out the damage that Jung himself inflicted on this spectacle of a beast. Traversing around the Trinidad are shuttles nearly microscopic in size, most likely repairing the damage dealt. This imposing warship is hardly more than what I would call a throw stone away or three. Before long the bridge room is captivated in the imposing shadow of the Federation’s flagship. On the opposite side, the sparkling of the distant stars utterly pales in comparison to the majestic presence of the Trinidad.

For a fleeting moment, I find it a remarkable shame that such a well-crafted ship would be used as a vessel for war.

I turn to face the radio operator and without another word I extend an open hand out. Baffled, he turns to face his fellow crew, but none offer anything to say. “The receiver,” I state warmly “I wish to broadcast a message to all the fleets myself.” With a wordless comply, he carefully hands me the receiver. I wait for him to adjust the dials, and after confirming that it is indeed on a public frequency I turn away from the gathered crowd. After withholding a long exhale, I cut the sigh loose and clear my throat. Then with a seriously trembling hand, I turn on the receiver.

“To all present ships—this is the voice of the Madame Scarface speaking! Those that swear allegiance to the Mafia, and those who fly the banner of the Federation. And to those to continue to spill blood across the seas of Rouen. I beg you… no, I order all ships to cease this madness!

“After much senseless struggles—a struggle that has dragged on for much too long, and one that has claimed the lives of thousands, I now hold the Trinidad flagship hostage. But I do not seek to destroy it or let any harm come their way. I swear not by the honor of a pirate, not as a pirate and not as the elusive Madame Scarface —but as myself; Li Chou. I will exercise everything in my power to ensure that no one disobeys an order on my part. I merely ask for the same of you! This brings me to my ultimatums…

“One! If I detect so even the slightest of movements intended to rescue the Trinidad, I will storm the Trinidad and kill all aboard. Failing that, I will give the order to blow it up—along with everyone else caught in the crossfire. All the Federation ships present will stay as they are.

“Two! The Federation will withdrawal from Toscana entirely… as soon as the last ship crosses the Rouen corridor, I will safely release the flagship. No harm will come to stragglers left behind, and no prisoners will be taken for that matter.

“Three! I will give the entire Federation fleet five hours to comply with these demands. If they are not met I will proceed with boarding the Trinidad and negotiate with force—and if that fails, I will not hesitate to kill every last one personnel—the high command staff included.

“And now, with that said, I beg you—not as sailors, not as officers, and not as soldiers of the Federation—but as fellow men and women to do what is right in the name of self-preservation!”

And with that, I click the receiver off and let it drop. Turning back to the bridge crew, I notice Brutus has caught up and gives me a somewhat puzzled expression as he nods in approval. With nothing more to do on the bridge, I motion for Brutus to walk with me outside. “Madame…” Brutus says lightly when we are alone “do you truly believe that the Federation will comply with your ultimatum? When I suggested taking the Trinidad hostage, I never imagined it would end up this way.”

This is how it should be. This is how I want it to be. We have no other chance at survival other than what amounts to a gambit. Will the Federation high command bow their heads to such needless commands? Or will they obediently do as they are told—even if being told to fire on more of their own?

“There’s no room for doubts now, Brutus,” I remark laconically “either the Federation will, or they won’t. They might just regroup, rearm, and invade again even if the ultimatum succeeded. They still have the ships and matériel. We might have won here—now, but whatever action the Federation undertakes thereafter will cement this battle’s legacy. The one who can’t tough it out to the end is the one that loses, Brutus, and I don’t believe I can tough out any more than what we endured.

“For as long as humanity existed, Brutus, there has been no shortage of victories scored by great men of history— but have suffered losses so unsustainable that the victory they yearned for was their undoing,” I pause for a brief moment as we turn a corner “in those days, I believe the term for them was called a Pyrrhic victory—named after some ancient king that fought a war against an empire with such immense strength that it was akin to that of the Federation.

“Even if the Federation withdrew, Brutus, and never followed up with a military campaign, this would still be nothing less of a victory. If they so much as returned a few months from now, or even a year or more, I would not stand a chance against the Federation juggernaut. One day they will learn their lesson to coordinate a simultaneous attack—and when that happens I will have lost.”

Brutus remains silent for the rest of the walk but speaks up once we stop in front of an all-too-familiar door. “Madame? This is…” I turn to face Brutus as I activate the door panel.

“That was a bit of a long-winded answer,” I state warmly “but to keep it short—no, Brutus, I don’t expect the Federation to comply with the ultimatum on peaceful terms. I fully intend to storm the Trinidad and deliver my demands by force.”