After the assault on the Trinidad hours earlier, the medical bays of our ship have been overflowing with dead and wounded. Every corridor Vinnie and I walk into, we are greeted by the sight of those stuck in purgatory. Many are left unintended simply because there is not enough medical personnel around. It has become such a problem that DeRyck caved in to the demands of his general staff and permitted transferring them to nearby ships for medical attention.

“It’s despicable, isn’t it Alexa?” Vinnie grimly muses “and there’s nothing we can do about it…” one of the wounded we are careful to walk over has had his legs amputated. His entire head is covered in scarlet-red bandages. A woman gently cradles him in her arms, whispering sweet nothings into his ear—or what remains of it. It’s a sight all too common in the Trinidad. And yet, the admiral refuses to evacuate the battleship. We are not out of the fight just yet, DeRyck told us in a meeting not long after the assault subsided, I want every available hand to assess the damage and assist with repairs.

Vinnie and I were dispatched to the rear compartments, as instructed. Since we weren’t sure of pressurized leaks, we had to wear protective Astro-suits along with the few other teams tasked with damage assessment. It would be no understatement to say that what we saw was a glimpse into hell itself. The horrors we saw made Vinnie and other personnel faint.

How could humans do this to each other? I once thought rummaging for survivors, much less any attempts at assessing the damage. How inhuman do you have to be to kill and maim others without knowing the full intention of what you have done? Without so much as knowing what grief you have caused for those who have survived? It’s one thing to participate in simulated naval games—to lead polygonal ships to glory without so much as imaging the horror you subject your pixel sailors to. It’s one thing to train in a war-game and shoot at each other with harmless guns—aside from stings from getting shot at with pellets. Where each shot at the limb or your torso could be shrugged off—never the risk of death or getting permanently disabled. You don’t think twice about your actions or your consequences—it’s all fictional. Whatever happens in either case—simulation or physical war-games—it’s something to learn from. To better prepare you for what’s to come.

And once you fool yourself into believing you are prepared for the real deal, it is nothing short of a rude awakening. It’s a whole different experience—something so surreal that I can only wonder how far we will go to wipe each other out for so-called self-preservation. The glimpses of what I saw in the obliterated compartments are manifestations of human insanity. I once remember how Vick talked about a documentary she saw years ago. About how we, as a species, have fought each other for millenniums over the littlest of things. And just a few centuries ago, humanity as a whole nearly obliterated itself along with Terra for reasons nobody knows.

Yet, here we are, light years away from Terra. Continuing the tradition of warfare that our ancestors passed down each generation. And for what? To protect our loved ones in the name of democracy? To bring down divine punishment on those who have sinned? What good does any of our actions do here when our friends and families back home suffer under the heel of negligent suits in Terra? In Sydney, where the elite dine and enjoy their lives ignorantly blissful of the carnage unfolding across the galaxy?

It’s all revolting. It makes me want to grind my teeth into dust. My stomach churns at the disgust of our collective actions. It doesn’t matter if we win or lose here; for the people who lived their entire lives only to be snuffed out in a matter of seconds, they will find no peace.

But I know I can’t languish about others misfortunes forever. All we can do is act in retribution for the losses we occurred; make the pirates pay for the ones they have slain. And all the while praying that the rest of us can survive and return home. But for now, we move forward; leaving behind the mess and heading for the bridge to give an after action report.

“Mmm , more than despicable, Vin, it’s tragic, but…” I reply wryly and bring Vinnie close to me by the shoulder “just like the Admiral said—we haven’t met the same stardust fate. We’re still more than capable of fighting.”

Vinnie turns her flustered face with widened eyes “Alexa, you agree with the admiral’s decision? I was under the impression you—”

“Want to pester him that we should retreat?” I cut her off with a scoff “So many of our brethren have died already. And it pisses me off that the admiral and even Garofano have done nothing to prevent the destruction of so many of our squadrons. It’s almost like they wanted to let them die!” With heavy breathing, I exhale through my nose “it’s almost like they want to weaken the colonial naval strength to preserve their own!…” Once the colonial government gets word of the events that unfold here—once my father gets wind of the destruction of the Ruthenian task-force he begrudgingly lent to us, there is no telling what hellhole fallout will unfold. It doesn’t matter even if a victory is achieved here: relations between Terra and Vardini will never be the same.

“Alexa!” Vinnie cuts me off with a hush “don’t be so loud! People might get the wrong idea and jail you, you know?” Vinnie whispers harshly. Being so lost in my rambling, I didn’t realize we were already in the bridge room. Some personnel stop to eye us, but once I come back to my senses and return glares, people quickly return to minding their own businesses. Do they do it because they know I am right, or do they simply want no trouble with the daughter of the Mad Dog of Ruthenia?

Thankfully, it doesn’t seem like any of them are middle or senior officers. Vinnie and I quickly ignore them and head down the flight of stairs to lower decks. We find a crowd of officers around the Admiral as he listens closely to a debriefing by some technicians. When DeRyck spots us, the mustached Admiral motions for us to come and the crowd gives salutes before opening a path in the gathering for the two of us.

“Sub-Lieutenant Descartes?” DeRyck politely asks with those brown calculating eyes of his “the damage to our storage and engine compartments?”

“Sir,” I utter “the engine and storage cabins are in bad shape, but given enough time we can expect the surviving crew to bring them back to operational levels. From what the other task members told me, it does seem most of our perishables rations have been lost. It does also appear that we lost more than half of our munition racks to the vacuums of space.”

It’s overwhelmingly daunting knowing even one of those missile containers could detonate from faulty wiring if they so much as bump into an asteroid—or even another ship. I can only imagine if the pirate’s projectiles didn’t over-penetrate, every single one of us would have been instantly evaporated in violent infernos of well over millions of degrees Celsius.

“Our main turret is disabled, and several of our launch platforms are inoperable,” DeRyck remarks dryly. His eyes shift to his adjutants before looking back at me and Vinnie. “The engine crew?”

“Over thirty killed and sixty more are in critical condition,” I mutter biting down on my bottom lip. Compared to the casualties here, it pales in comparison to the whole colonial squadrons lost to the pirate scum. “At least twenty suffered minor injuries but can resume their duties… and a dozen more are in vegetable states,” when I finish there is a spell of silence over the crowd. Several officers look away and many clutch their caps to their chests.

Vinnie is right. This is despicable.

“How unfortunate,” DeRyck agrees with my thoughts with a pained face “it will be strenuous finding capable manpower to replenish losses… I had hoped for more positivity, but it can’t be helped.” When DeRyck finishes and just as he dismisses us, an adjutant runs up to the group with a panting salute.

“News from Commodore Cope that most of his ship’s sick bays are at full capacity!” The adjutant recites from a slip of paper “Cope suggests Commander Brechkosky may be able to withdrawal some ships to act as hospital wards.”

I turn my attention to the admiral, who strokes his curled mustache. “Brechkosky… he’s too close to the salient—and I need all ships we need for that space to spearhead the salient,” DeRyck looks behind him at the tactical map. On it, a complex situation unfolds at the ballooning salient amid the fierce asteroid shower. Many of the holographic formations flicker in and out owing to the fierce jamming occurring in that space zone and the unstable weather. “It might cause some confusion among the troops if I pull out any right before the offense begins, and I want to avoid adding any more fuel to the chaos…” DeRyck heaves a stressed sigh “both the injured and offense will have to wait for the arrival of the supply fleet.”

The air gets tensely quiet. Everyone is left speechless at the Admiral’s rather whimsical decision. “Admiral—you—” I start grinding my teeth before I know it. But before I can get another word in, I am cut off when someone from behind leaps forward at the Admiral.

“You intend to leave our wounded out to rot?!” The man bellows, clenching DeRyck by the collar “men who are clinging by a thread of life—and you want to deny them immediate medical attention?! Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” DeRyck, who remains unfazed, calmly clasps his aggressor by the wrists. The Admiral’s mouth opens several times but remains speechless. All the while several of the adjutants attempt to pry DeRyck from the assailer. “Perhaps I should kill you here and now— and have you meet all those killed in your name!”

“Enough out of you! Take him away to the brig!” One of the adjutants shouts in DeRyck’s stead. The excessive shouting spewing from the man becomes fainter as he is dragged out of the bridge by several bystanders. Still in shock, I look back at the Admiral and the others giving him words of reassurance. He looks composed—if a little troubled. He pinches his nose bridge, and with a mountainous sigh walks away from us to lean over the railing.

Vinnie and I exchange puzzled looks and join our admiral at the railing. DeRyck doesn’t say a word or pay us any attention, but merely strokes his mustache several times in contemplation. “Perhaps a few ships could suffice…” he murmurs glancing over at us “that was a liaison officer from a Ruthenian cruiser… he had departed when its commander rushed forward to death. Perhaps he feels I am responsible for not only their deaths—but also the men here, even though he has no strong connection with them,” DeRyck faces his gaze back to the bridge “and I am sure many feel his sentiment. But lamenting to you two serves no purpose.”

“Admiral…” I express softly, and Vinnie places a hand on my shoulder. When I look back at her, she looks sorrowful. From the corner of my eye, I see a man leap from his seat and reel around to face us with a grave look.

“Admiral DeRyck! I’m detecting an exchange of artillery in the same space zone as Captain Schloppe’s squadrons and an unidentified fleet more than eight-hundred kilometers in front of it!” If memory serves me right, Schloppen is at the helm of the MSN Pixoyal. It’s one of the battlecruisers leading the squadrons sent as additional protection for the supply fleet.

“I’m getting several incoming distress signals from Schloppen’s fleet!” It’s a fanatical shout from the communications officer, sitting across from the radar technician. The three of us stiffen in place at the railing. The hairs on my neck stand up at the urgency of the duo’s voices.

“Patch him through,” admiral DeRyck sternly orders. We exchange glances before looking at the mainframe screen.

But nothing shows up other than static.

When we look at the communication officer for answers, he only returns a look of horror. His mouth lies gaping, trying to formulate words that never come. The headphones press closer to his ear as the man tries to make out the situation with the Pixoyal task-force. He blinks several times before clearing his throat. “Signal lost with the Pixoyal,” the communication officer declares with uncertainty in his voice “the ship second-in-command… the Mallapampa… has visual confirmation that the Pixoyal has been sunk—all hands have been lost.”

I take a few steps back in a daze, trying to take the information in. An attack in our rear? That’s practically impossible. There hasn’t been any detection of ships slipping through—all the pirate ships are contained in the asteroid field. With our overwhelming numbers, there’s no way any ships could slip through. Even with the poor signals coming in, we would’ve at least noticed something…

But then it occurs to me: out of all the ships that we keep communications with, we haven’t been able to contact the southern fleet at all. The one that was pursuing the Kafraiya pirate ships. Even as the fleet pushed southward to link up with it, there were reports of a greater number of ships joining the fray. And yet…

“Mallapampa has visual confirmation of the unidentified host rapidly approaching them!” A stray clump of asteroids? No, that can’t be right. We don’t even know if the ship was sunk from the rear or not!

“Put it on the screen,” DeRyck utters as he glances back at me. Everyone waits with bated breath; our eyes are glued to the mainframe screen. The air of choking suspense leaves us with anticipation for a truth that none of us want to realize. None of us want to have our worst fears come to fruition. And so, we stare at the mainframe hoping for the damning revelation.

A rather blurry video feed appears on screen. It is rather unstable and cuts to static every few seconds. Despite the quality, one can still make out the subject matter. After a few seconds of letting it sink in, there are gasps one after the other. And like an uneventful quicksand, we are slowly pulled into despair.

A sleek, obsidian ship with a design so minimalist it leaves me breathless. With its intrigue coating, it practically blends in with the cosmic seas—the perfect camouflage if there ever was one. If it were not for the subtle trinkets of reflective stars, I would’ve had a difficult time even noticing it at first. And behind this mystical ship are several formations numbering in the hundreds. The horror that so many avoided detection makes my skin crawl—and it suddenly feels awfully cold in here. How could this have happened?!

“The Castelforte…” admiral DeRyck whispers “the Madame Scarface has made her move,” it’s muttered with such sincerity that I cannot help but shudder. DeRyck pinches his nose bridge several times before uttering an agonizing sigh. “Give the order for commodore Cope to initiate the assault to push through the salient. We will crush the pirate force once and for all. This will be operating on the premise that the supply fleet has been sunk—we can expect no further rearmament. If the enemy tries to fall back to the Cluster colonies, then we will pursue them at all costs. Let nobody escape.

“Have the commanders on the flanks withdrawal a few squadrons and redirect their firepower at the Castelforte’s formation… relay a message to Rear Admiral Garofano as well. He will direct his resources to the main star of the show, as well.”

And with that, DeRyck turns his back to the bridge and faces Vinnie and me. With a trembling hand, the grim-faced Admiral adjusts his cap. And after a few more deep breaths he clears his throat and utters one last thing before departing.

“The Scarface is right where I want them to be… I’ll settle this rematch once and for all.”