C-seven, C-eight, C-nine. After a hearty non-stop jog, we are lucky to see some living souls that aren’t just regular sailors—individual groups of low and mid-ranked staff officers come into view. Slowing down a little to avoid any middle-aged sap from scolding us, I spot golden text with fancy font reading C-Ten. And thus, true to Bernie’s words, the bright red walls give way to a depressing block laced with golden stripes down the middle. There is a larger crowd here—most of them standing in front of two MPs posted on either side of the large, bronze-like door.
Friederika and I slowly worm our way through the crowd and present ourselves before the senior MPs’, saluting them with Sirs’. The one I face, a large-jawed fellow with pasty skin, a saturated peach-fuzz contrasting his skin tone, and deep eye-bags that are indeed awfully heavy. Interesting, his eyes aren’t bloodshot-red, but maybe I’ve been reading too much of Buttermilch’s literature to expect an obvious cliché.
From his name tag, it reads HOBSAND, and his emerald eyes dart between me and Friederika. “Sorry, chaps, I was wondering if it’s not too late for some certain guests of honor to attend the conference that’s happening behind your door?” I ask, twirling my bangs. Hosband and the other lad’s eyes are a little unnerving. But mum never said to judge a person by their cover—and for all I know, these two could be extremely shy introverts who never saw such beautiful maidens before.
Hosband shares a glance with his buddy. The fact that they refuse to utter a word and the murmuring going on behind us makes me more anxious. But Hosband sighs heavily and takes a step to the side—which his body does as well. And finally, Hosband speaks with a husk tone, “I received word some time ago that in the case an eccentric blonde brat and her equally bratty sidekick ever stopped by and tries to charm their way in, it was left to my discretion to let her pass or not,” there’s a disturbed yet understandable scoff from Friederika. Hosband’s captivating eyes lowers to me, and I can’t help but shiver. But is it shiver from Mazzareli referring to me as a brat, or Hosband lacking even an ounce of hospitality for his guest?
In any case, Friederika and I give our thanks to Hosband and his friend and step inside into the strategic conference room. It’s rather dimly lit with the only real source of light from a bluish-white projection shining from the large rectangular table situated in the middle. On the holographic display are tiny, polygonal dots representing the armada on a corps level and various points of interest highlighted in yellow or red.
The most highlighted points of interest are Lagrange points or certain satellites in the Brenaco star zone. On one end of the table is the nearby star zone of Chabon and some parts of the Lebon zone. In either star zone, there are more acute cases of red and orange points of interest. Curiously, it makes me wonder if there were more Frankish bandit forces in the Realm? Was Chal’s belief of them being only in Brenaco wrong this time? Or maybe they expanded after we departed from the ill-fated disaster in Toscana.
Around this table is a large cast of officers of all ranks than I’ve ever seen assembled at once. All of them sit in tall red metallic chairs, but some stand next to as adjutants or are situated further away. Some lower-ranked officers line the walls in partial at-ease postures, joined by one MP on all sides. It’s professional here, to say the least.
Lingering memories of that fateful day dictating the proposal of Lucky Alphonse resurface. Looking back on it now makes me believe it was the embodiment of a casual atmosphere complete with suffocating nicotine from officers like Chal smoking. But the conference here is tenser—one that pales to the brief confrontation with Hosband.
Standing at the opposite end of the table is a man in a fancy overcoat—distinguishable from the others. His back basks in the glow of the projection, but upon our entry, he turns around to face us. It is, of course, the Admiral of the fleet, Ramsay DeRyck. It’s probably been a year and a half since I’ve seen the man since our graduation at the academy. But knowing he is alive and well is a sort of relief. Although it’s been a year, Ramsay looks like he has aged prematurely by a fair amount—he also has sagging eyelids and soft, yet calculating eyes.
“And moving on, ah,” the Admiral pauses upon registering our presence. Quietly, Ramsay gives a solemn salute—then a rub of his beard. His pearly eyes shift to Mazzareli, who sits just off to his left. And as if on cue, the sitting officers get up one after the another and with deafening sounds of boots smashing against each other—the whole room is saluting us.
They’re saluting me… but why?
The Admiral continues in a soft voice, “Lieutenant Happ-Schwarzenberger and Sub-Lieutenant Trachenberg, rather unexpected of you two to drop by for this occasion.” As if struck by lightning, I return a nervous salute and some of the staff officers can’t help but chuckle. “If you wish to take a seat, you may do so,” Ramsay hand guides to a seat next to Mazzareli—and though I hallucinate it, a mirage of Buttermilch sitting back in the vacant chair.
Stiffening up I answer, “N-no, um… I will stand here at attention, but thank you, sir.” I share glances with Friederika, who takes a thoughtful sigh and remains by my side. All eyes are on us and my heart beats at an unprecedented rate; just what am I here for, exactly?
Ramsay smiles heartedly, putting his hands behind his back and pacing his side of the table. “Fair enough, if you ever do change your mind, either of you is more than welcome to take a seat at the table. I wish that under better circumstances I could congratulate you for your double-promotion and the Victorian Cross, but regrettably,” Ramsay glances over at an officer a few seats away from Mazzareli, “it is because of commodore Hugo’s shortcomings that I am forced to preside over this operational briefing in the first place,” Ramsay says. There’s a slight chilling, and I am left to wonder if it is from being formally recognized as a Lieutenant by the supreme commander himself, or Ramsay’s caution about the urgency of this conference.
Ramsay clears his throat before continuing, “Lieutenant Commander Hoffman, am I inclined to believe that Happ-Schwarzenberger is certainly not a substitute for sir Hugo, in more ways than one?” Ramsay says laconically. The Admiral addresses the officer from before—a scrawny man who is skeletal in physique and facial features, with the tiniest of glasses hanging high on his nose. Hoffman, as if caught momentarily stunned from being cast on the spotlight, recomposes him by pushing up his glasses. The reflective starry-blue shine obscures his eyes.
“The Commodore’s health has been… unfortunate,” Hoffman declares in a rather ear-grating tone, “he has been having terrible stomach ailments as of late, and it leaves him in horrible agony indeed. So much so that it ishighly difficult for him to manage the day-to-day activities of our fleet. Thus, having him embark to the Trinidad would do little for him to make a gradual recovery.”
A soft warmness wraps itself around one of my hands. I glance to see a worried Friederika trying to caress and loosen my stiff fists, making me realize how worked up I’m getting, compelling me to cover my mouth with my other hand and release a pent-up sigh into it. I can’t take Hoffman’s testimony seriously. It sounds like complete and utter bullshit. On the other hand, it is telling poetic justice, but poetry that does little to stem my ever-growing frustration—everyone’s anger at the Toscana debacle. Even just the sight of this miserable, sickly-looking Hoffman leaves me sick to my stomach.
“It is rather unfortunate indeed,” Ramsay runs a hand through his beard, “for it means Hugo will be avoiding holding accountability before a court-martial, at least at this time. However, rather than try the Commodore in-absentia and because of some voicing of a possible unjust trial, I feel it is reasonable to have him answer to the Senate instead,” Ramsay says. The Admiral paces around the table and addresses an adjutant to change the projection to a view of the galaxy. While the adjutant does so, Ramsay continues, “I want enough evidence and testimony to amass to have a proper and just trial…”
“For the record,” Hoffman interjects, “I believe, too, that Lucky Alphonse was a doomed venture from the start,” Hoffman shrugs, “I warned him that it would have disastrous consequences had things gone awry. Not just for the fleet and relations with our Frankish hosts, but repercussions for his very career as well. I vetoed his decision to split our fleet—which further engineered our catastrophic defeat at the hands of the Madame Scarface.” I couldn’t believe what I’m hearing. The longer I glare at this Hoffman, the more I believe he is responsible for our debacle, and not the Commodore. Mazzareli folds his arms, our eyes meet briefly—and he merely shakes his head.
An officer behind Hoffman remarks, “and yet, it took a mere Ensign to avoid losing an entire fleet—and a possible incursion into the Frankish Realms. If that isn’t a testimonial to Commodore’s incompetence, then I don’t know what is.”
“In any case, Admiral,” another officer comments, “a civilian court under the jurisdiction of the Senate will not yield a favorable outcome, will it not? I believe we should proceed with a court-martial of Hugo’s misconduct here and now.”
“A favorable outcome,” Ramsay whispers, a scoff, “but for whom? The Senate thinks highly of Hugo. Once it is public knowledge that the up-and-coming Commodore has created a debacle on an unprecedented scale, people will lose faith in the military—and their government. I objected for Hugo to even be appointed the mission here in the Frankish Realms—that was for Garofano, who I believed would’ve done a better job interacting with his compatriots,” Ramsay glares at Hoffman, who clears his throat, “my concerns were overturned, and as a result of that, perhaps, here we are now. A result of the Commodore and his chief of staff misconducting themselves in dialog with the Frankish realm, much less after his fleet withdrew from the Toscana star zone.” There is an air of silence in the room, and I realize that Admiral Garofano isn’t present.
“The Admiral, where is he, in any case?” Mazzareli speaks up, broadcasting what I assume are the thoughts of Chal’s officers. There are several points of interest highlighted on the map—various orange systems highlighted in both Ruthenia and some North, in the Île-de-France region, like Lebon and Lusatia. Just what is going on?
Ramsay clears his throat, “Garofano offered to reconcile on my behalf with the regional government in Lusatia. Not even a second after we entered port at Albeonia has the consulate there approached me about commodore Hugo’s affairs for the last year,” Ramsay glares at Hoffman, who against coolly adjusts his glasses by the bridge, “and more specifically—his drafting and execution of Lucky Alphonse. As it stands now… the more extreme members of the Lusatian parliament have called for the immediate expulsion of Federation forces from the Frankish Realm.” The sudden goosebumps leave me speechless as Ramsay continues to pace the room, “’if we are to house and accommodate for a naval force, only for them to abandon us at the mercy of the League Militaire, then the continued presence of an even larger force—who we doubt will not provide us security in these increasing troublesome times—what is to say we will not be abandoned again?’” The Admiral pauses, turning to face us and the galactic map.
“Extremists?” Mazzareli remarks, his hands clasped together over his face “I have heard nothing of this dilemma in Lusatia,” a glance at Hoffman, who pushes his hands together. “If I may ask, I assume this urgency of action against the League Militaire—against Brenaco, is more grim than expected?” I follow his gaze to the points of interest in the Ruthenian star zones—where there is more red than orange. The Admiral gestures for his adjutant to focus the holographic display on Ruthenia.
“As it stands now,” Ramsay begins, “I am walking over a flimsy line with two counterweights on the stick I wield. After both our supply division and Ruthenian corps were all but wiped out at Rouen,” the color drains from my body as the Admiral continues, but before he gets the chance to do so, Mazzareli stands up, sending his chair flying. Shocked murmurs among Chal’s fleet officers circulate.
“Rouen?!” Mazzareli utters, “you don’t possibly mean that—“
“I engaged in a pitched battle with the Wulf der Ruthenia and the Madame Scarface,” Ramsay says, adjusting his naval cap, “cross-checking the reports I had compiled for me, my suspicions were correct—it may seem that while we were deceived in the corridor, the Scarface moved to intercept your fleet. Unbeknownst to me at the time, we indeed had the Mafia in the palm of our hand. Had things gone differently, perhaps commodore Hugo and I would not have nooses around our necks right now. I reckon that the Senate will indeed come to a decision that will save face for both parties once this is made abundantly clear,” Ramsay takes a seat at his chair, placing the cap on the table: a heavy sigh unlike any other.
“Sir, if I may,” an officer begins, “with that news in mind, should we not renew an invasion against the Mafia, then? To avenge our fallen and preemptively save face by restoring Federal order in Toscana?” All eyes were on him—but mine were on Hoffman, who sits back in his chair with arms folded. There is a long moment of silence, prompting me to snap out of it and observe the Admiral. The man remains deep in contemplation as he sits there with his hands steepling, obstructing his lower face.
“The answer to that question lies with the situation unfolding in Ruthenia—“ Ramsay sighs once more and rests his hands on the table, “due to the losses we sustained, the Ruthenian authorities were unable to comply with serving us any further. This is due in part due to pressure from their military—which I suspect is because of influence from Tory Dolz,” if I remember correctly, that was Alexandra’s father, does she know about this, perhaps?
The Admiral continues, “this owes to the fact that the expansionary unit was composed of units from his jurisdiction. Needless to say, because of the ongoing setbacks the Federation faces with the construction of the Hsing-T'ien orbital fortress over Valcolis, our loss at Rouen has caused some friction among the Ruthenian populace. It wasn’t long before there were reports of widespread Anti-Federation demonstrations,” a holographic window pops up when Ramsay pauses. The video feed is somewhat garbled and fizzled but displays a bird-eyes view of swaths of people in a Side protesting. Many among the demonstrators hold protest signs I do not comprehend, some with long banners that are more clearly anti-Australian, to say the least.
There are murmurs in the room as Ramsay has his adjutant show more displays from across Ruthenia—many are more violent, such as a shield-wall of anti-rioters being cobbled with bricks by pedestrians on a street, overturned burning personnel carriers, and anti-riot personnel hosing down protesters. Statues of Galland are vandalized—in some videos they are torn down to the cheering of crowds.
As Ramsay lets this footage unfold he continues, “from Valcolis planet-side, to as far as the Picardi star zone, Ruthenia is facing an increasingly dire situation. But because of the immediate logistics issue I faced, maintaining a presence in Ruthenia with a large fleet would, I believe, cause unforeseen consequences—as such, I have left the Hsing-T'ien garrison in the hands of captain Rubenfield, along with a supplementary squadron of cruisers and a few marine divisions at his disposal. Any more, I believe, would further strain relations with the Ruthense.
“And as I departed for the Kongriega corridor, I received word that these mass demonstrations materialized into open revolt. Rubenfield said in messages that these originated from Valcolis and her Clusters. In the coming weeks, they spread to the rest of Ruthenia like wildfire,” another round of murmurs after a brief pause from Ramsay, “by the time I was in the Bwyenda system, there was news of naval yards going on strike—then localized cases of Ruthenian naval mutinies.”
A larger video feed pops up over the others, showing a man overlooking a city in flames. Perched atop a crowd, this individual waves over his head the red, white, and red-crossed flag of Ruthenia. “in the spiritual Ruthenian capital of Vardini,” Ramsay continues “Rubenfield reported he lost contact with the government there—and after some lengthy back-channels, was informed earlier this week that it had indeed collapsed and restructured a provisional government of sorts stylizing itself as the Emergency Committee for Ruthenian Security.” Ramsay stops, leaning into his seat and stroking his beard. He reaches for his cap and gestures for the adjutant managing the holographic display, who changes it back to Brenaco and portions of the Frankish Domains. There is an eerie silence—not even murmurs to break the tenseness. Finally, Mazzareli speaks up for the rest.
“Are we to assume that this… civil unrest in Ruthenia has mounted to a revolution? A threat to Federation stability?” Mazzareli leans in, clasping his hands and twiddling his thumbs briefly, “has there been any word of our mission directive from the Senate? Has Prime Minister Lawrence Preece made a statement on the crisis?” Ramsay glances at the Lieutenant Commander, though his gaze is averted at the holographic display.
Ramsay begins to speak, “the Prime Minister, I am told, has been briefed on the matter a month ago. Yet, he seems to be preoccupied with the heightened tensions regarding the forthcoming general election. For the time being—Sydney, as well as the moderate members of Lusatian parliament—implore me to eliminate the League Militaire through most means necessary,” Ramsay leans back in his chair, his eyes never once averting from the holographic display. “As much as I detest commodore Hugo’s blunder in Toscana, the fact that he still has a supply corp to speak of is a miracle.
“The surviving members of my logistics corp who happened to be on leave were capable enough to negotiate and scrounge together a modest supply corp, enough for me to continue the campaign into the Kongriega corridor. But it wouldn’t be enough to sustain ourselves in the Frankish Domains, and as such, a renewed venture into Toscana is absolutely out of the question.
“The Mafia may be easy to overcome, but the logistics needed for an occupation will be impossible to sustain and would only further sour relations with the still-minority extremists in Lusatia,” Ramsay sighs, gathering his cap and getting up to pace the room. “The longer we stay here in the Frankish Domains, the likelihood a Frankish revolution may occur, and even as we speak, there are naval yards on strike in Lebon. For now, it is not a problem, and I wish to keep it that way. So the better we dismantle the League Militaire, hand over occupation to Frankish forces, the sooner we may finish this overdue campaign and leave the Franks to their devices.”
This is all too much to take in. My head spins, and Friederika holds me steady by the arm. She whispers for me to keep calm, but my body trembles despite her reassurance. I clear my throat, again, and several times—clutching my chest to stop my rapidly beating heart. Why is there so much focus on the Brenaco brigade? Or what he refers to as the League Militaire. Weren’t we sent here specifically to monitor Frankish signs of disloyalty against Metropolitan Sol?
Continuing to tighten the grip on my chest, I step forward into the light. By approaching the table, I startle some of the officers with my presence. “Sir…” I croak, catching the attention of the Admiral and the others. I clear my stuffy throat, averting my eyes around the holographic display until eventually meeting those sad, pearly eyes of Ramsay. I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t bring myself to get words out. I avert my gaze once more, this time locking eyes with Mazzareli. He sighs heavily, breaking off to gaze at Buttermilch’s vacant seat.
Drawing the courage to speak, I meet eyes with Ramsay again. “Our mission here… we were told first and foremost by our superiors—by commodore Hugo that we were simply to remain passive, to only keep watch on this… League Militaire. Notwithstanding Hugo’s decision to mount an assault into Toscana,” I pause, taking a deep breath, “was the mission here, based on observing Frankish activity for any signs of anti-Federation demonstrations… was it merely all a front—were we supposed to target the League Militaire above all else?”
Ramsay goes over to the table, leaning on it to stare at the Lagrange points of interest. He glances at first Mazzareli, then the empty seat of Buttermilch, and lastly the two of us look at Hoffman, who flinches at being put on the spot again. “Commodore Hugo,” Hoffman insists, pushing his tiny oval glasses by the bridge timidly, “we all urged him to take action against them sooner, but… he was insistent on biding time and maintaining a passive approach to our Frankish hosts…” he trails off, trying to hide his anxiety with a smirk, “of course, as we all know now, Toscana weighed heavily on his mind—and he objected to our—“ a shrug, a greater smirk “to my objective view of the situation.”
When Hoffman finishes there follows a moment of silence. After Ramsay exchanges glances with the rest of the conference attendees, he begins to speak. “Commodore Hugo’s primary mission as stated by the Senate was through most means blockade, assault and eventually subdue the League Militaire. To liberate the Clusters under its control, and kill or capture its commander-in-chief known as the Il Magnifico; Jonathan Churchill,” Ramsay says.
A holographic portrait of a man appears, titled COLONEL JONATHAN CHURCHILL. He’s a remarkably well-built man, with golden slicked-back hair, and piercing blue eyes that almost compels me to back into the corner. What strikes fear the most, and what I find as the most distinguishable aspect about the portrait is his uniform—it’s eerily similar to that of Bernie’s; a Frankish Legionnaire?
“We…” I mutter “we were lied to, Admiral?” I ask helplessly, glaring at Hoffman. The officer merely shrugs, his gaze averting my burning as his spectacles slide down his nose ridge. His smirk shapes into an uncomfortable grin.
Ramsay looks up at the combined holographic display of Jonathan and the Brenaco points of interest. He says, tilting his head to the side at his Hugo subordinates. Most of them other than Mazzareli are unable to make eye contact with either of us. “I am not explicitly sure of how Hugo or his chain of command may have worded it, but that does indeed sound like the case. My apologies, and my sincere condolences about commander Buttermilch becoming a casualty under Hugo’s utter misjudgment.” My fists strain from the boiling anger, at Hoffman, and commodore Hugo. Buttermilch… why? Did you know?
“Even now, to think Churchill, one of the best and brightest Legionnaire commanders of our time, would simply turn his back on the Federation,” Mazzareli says grimly, “and by extent dragging the tattered reputation of the Legion down with him. It sickens me, really, to know he still walks a free man.” A couple of officers grunt in agreement. Mazzareli glances at me before continuing to speak, “Your action against the Leagues Militaire—what will it be, Admiral?”
Ramsay sighs heavily, placing his hands behind his back and examining the side of the table with Mazzareli and Hoffman. After a few moments of this silence, the Admiral gives his answer. “After careful examination by myself and the marine general staff over the last couple days, I’ve decided to implement Operation Entebbe.”
“Entebbe?” Mazzareli utters, shooting forward in his chair, “Admiral, you don’t mean…?”
Marine staff? That could mean one thing and one thing only. Friederika’s grip tightens; she must’ve realized what this means, too. Operation Entebbe… I’ve heard the name somewhere or at its alternative title: Thunderbolt. It was kept under tight wraps and was ultimately shelved, requiring a high clearance to read. But when has that ever stopped me before? Had I known about our true objective here back then, maybe things would’ve been different.
Ramsay steps to the side to provide a better view of the holographic display. It zooms in and narrows into a smaller sector of the Brenaco star zone, where several Clusters are highlighted in green. “Until fairly recently, the precise location of the League Militaire’s base of operations was shrouded in mystery. But thanks to a chance report of League ships launching a strike on—”
“What?!” I gasp, stepping toward the table again, “they told us these… League Militaire guys were incapable of attacking any Clusters—I’ve never even heard of anything happening since we got here!”
Ramsay takes in the accusation for a moment. With a glance at Mazzareli he continues with addressing me, “one thing I will credit the Commodore for is maintaining a confidential report—a gag rule—about the incident. I was impressed by the speed I received it, given I barely entered Albeonia when the paper was placed on my desk. This is all the more reason for me to act swiftly before any further political incidents stem from it. It would certainly give ammunition for the extremist camp if they ever caught wind of it.
“In any case, we were able to pinpoint retreating League ships to a desolate part of Brenaco.“ The holographic display expands upon a certain zone, showcasing a Cluster containing four Sides. There are two large asteroid satellites on the Cluster’s outer parameter, one dubbed as Ishtar-One and the second one Ishtar-One-A. Many smaller chunks of asteroids surround both satellites and the Cluster. An attempt at camouflage, perhaps? In any case, it must’ve deceived Federation eyes for as long as it has.
“Lagrange point four…” an officer who I believe is Francien mutters, “we’ve always believed it was gone for good!” The officer approaches the Admiral—the MP nearest him tries to apprehend him, but he lets him have his say first, “Admiral! You are absolutely sure of this? You are not getting our hopes up?!”
“I’ve had Francien civilian navigators verify that this is indeed the missing Lagrange Cluster that went missing around the time colonel Churchill’s nineteenth corps went rogue,” Ramsay says, undeterred by the aggressive officer. The Francien relents and calms down enough that the MP also backs off. “Moving on; Entebbe will be divided into two phases. The first phase, Coronet, will involve drawing out the League into open combat, cutting them off, and eliminating any further outside opposition to marine landings.” Marine landings. Those words give me shivers at the implications they entail. If ground forces are involved, and if our direct opposition is Legionnaires… that will mean a bloody endeavor. Assuming a corps is about forty-thousand or even eighty thousand strong in such an urbanized area…
“Will we be committing the whole fleet, sir?” Mazzareli asks, “from what I recall, our reports since August suggest they have anywhere from six to nine hundred vessels… but not all of them are typically warship sized, or bigger than a heavy cruiser at best.”
Ramsay is silent on the matter for a few moments before giving his answer, “as most of my chiefs of staff know, fighting an enemy favoring geography like an asteroid field like this will be tricky in deploying all our assets,” Ramsay says. The Admiral motions for his adjutant to configure something on his tablet, and Ramsay explains, “my staff has been working around the clock devising various plans for the Coronet phase.”
The holographic display shows a simulated course of action against the League Militaire ships. A large arrow indicator sweeps around the sides, spreading our strength around the parameter of the asteroid belt. Our fleet only has a projected total of some two thousand and four ships. And yet, there is a creeping suspicion that it still wouldn’t be enough to reinforce all sectors equally. With this in mind, Ramsay shows several alternative variations of the simulation, from versions concentrating on either side with smaller deployments in between the larger formations to ensure as luring out the League Militaire.
One possible simulation takes into the equation a breakout of the League Militaire from their Cluster towards the Lebon star zone. And if that happens to instigate a Frankish insurrection, then who knows what will happen from there? What strikes me the most, however, is the alarming amount of casualties we will face. No matter the situation we may take—other than the one with forces concentrated on two sides only—the ratio to Federation and League ships is nearly two to one.
In most of these simulations, Federation losses are incremental the more our simulated ships push into the asteroid field. Of course, these numbers are hypothetical. This is all simply virtual. But sooner or later, these numbers will occur. This is going to be bloody no matter what. But the most discerning thing is how unusually fast-paced these plans are in terms of deployment are. There seems to be very little consideration for a drawn-out blockade, where we would evidently be capable of withering the League ships down in terms of logistics.
The holographic map then changes to a closer tactical view of the four sides; ISHTAR-TERRA, MAXWELL, MONTES, and PATERA. Ramsay continues his briefing, “the success of Coronet will be followed up by the second phase of the operation; Thunderbolt,” a pause as a fleet of troop carriers materialize around Ishtar-One. “Our launchpad will be from Ishtar-One, the closest satellite to the Cluster. After neutralization of their anti-ship emplacements, ground forces will strike all Sides simultaneously.” Simultaneously? At all four sides?! That’s insane! “Altogether, there will be about ten marine divisions involved in Thunderbolt. I want it to be explicitly known for commanders on the ground to avoid any unnecessary damage that does not benefit the operation. The Lusatian government expressed that collateral damage to Side integrity is to be left as minimal as possible.”
“We’re forced to fight with one hand and two legs tied together, huh?” The grumbling voice of none other than Putsch catches me off guard. I must’ve been tunnel visioning so hard that I failed to notice his presence. “Are we to assume there may be a civilian presence, as well? Collaborators with ol’ Johnny?”
Before the Admiral gets the chance to answer, I step toward the table and lean onto it. “And what if we are unable to score a decisive victory by drawing them out?” Those words—my voice—echo throughout the room. “If we have to risk so much… would it not simply be beneficial to keep a tight defensive blockade ring centered around Ishtar-One and Ishtar-One-A?” I glance around the room to curious listeners, “thereby saving lives and slowly starve out the League Militaire? Maybe… maybe even with surgical strikes on logistic ships to further reduce their fighting spirit? We would be able to avoid any costly marine landings!
“We’re not facing any old enemy, are we not? We’re not even facing pirates, and even those were a tough nut to crack at Malabo and Baltit, supposedly. If we’re facing Legionnaires…” I clutch my beating chest, a deep breath before continuing, “Admiral, we’re facing an enemy that’s probably formidable facing head-on. These aren’t just measly pirates and outlaws who are untrained for ground warfare. And we’re facing these fearsome warriors on multiple fronts,” slamming fists on the table, a slight blue flicker, “I’ve had one commander ignore my pleas to avoid a bloodbath—I… and so many others won’t want another to occur!
“If Thunderbolt doesn’t prioritize fewer Sides to better concentrate our forces… undertaking the entire Cluster at once is practically suicide!” Balling my fists, “nobody wants another Lucky Alphonse… nobody wants more widows and orphans to answer back home” When I finish, I take several deep breaths, the redness in my face makes me dizzy. Friederika tries to keep me steady with a hand on my shoulder.
Major Putsch clears his throat then speaks up. “The lass does have a point, Admiral. Had the Commodore gone with Entebbe before Lucky Alphonse, I would be more than happy to put these traitorous scum in their place. Unfortunately, I’ve lost a fair share of men in the ground offenses in Toscana and I’m only left with half an officer corps to work with as a result. Attacking multiple Sides when we don’t even know how big the nineteenth corps is, would be tantamount to another disaster…” Putsch clasps his hands before continuing, “and from the sounds of it, a disaster is like the only feasible outcome of Entebbe, as it stands now. Surely, there is no way we can implement the Lieutenant’s suggestion?”
The Admiral strokes his well-kept but silver-lined beard. With continued silence the Admiral turns from the conference table, his hands clasping together behind his back. With his head turned halfway, he addresses us. “Operation Entebbe hinges on Garofano in Lusatia. He is biding time for us to carry out our mission here lest the minor extremist camp in the parliament grows. Had I not lost my supply division in Rouen, I would have been further inclined to maintain a stranglehold on the Leagues Militaire,” the Admiral turns to face us, sinking into his chair and setting his cap down.
Ramsay runs a hand through his beard and crew-cut hair, where there is additional graying. “Must I stress Entebbe was meant to be carried out by commodore Hugo first and foremost. By the time I was supposed to originally arrive here, the fleet was supposed to oversee the end of the operation.”
“And now,” I whisper, my gaze falls to the starry-blue holographic table, “and now…”
“Garofano had this to say,” Ramsay continues, pinching his nose ridge, “the Lusatian parliament gives me until the end of January to accomplish the scope of our operation,” a round of murmurs and gasps fill the room which the MPs’ attempt to call for order in the room. After the commotion calms down, Ramsay continues, “they will consider further Metropolitan presence in the Domains unconstitutional. To avoid being at odds with Lusatia, it is thus a necessity to accelerate plans for the operation to commence no sooner than December fifth.”
The color drains from my very body. The lightheadedness leaves me merely speechless. So soon…?!
“And as for Thunderbolt…” Ramsay meets eyes with me, a slight but sad smile, “I will look into revising the technicalities of it with my general staff with those suggestions in mind.” The Admiral’s reassurance is comforting, but the pain in my chest still lingers. To think we would be in such a horrible predicament…!
From behind us, the door slides open leading to a bit of commotion outside. I reel around to see a female officer wearing the all-too-familiar tiger-striped uniform enter the room at Hosband and the other’s protest. The woman, slender in physique, has long, pinkish hair tried into a ponytail. Her oceanic-green eyes, serious and unflinching, meet mine momentarily as the room gets stiff salutations out of the way. The Legionnaire begins to speak, “brigadier general Ishikawa—Admiral, I’ll make my presence here brief. I couldn’t help but understand that my eighteenth corps will not be participating in the Thunderbolt phase?” I look back at the Admiral, who nestles the cap back on his head. Ramsay leans into his seat, hands steepling on the table.
“I hope you understand that this not is an oversight and that this is a matter of security,” Ramsay answers coolly, “to have Frankish Legionnaires combat Legion—“
“Those traitorous vermin are not deserving of being called Legionnaires,” Ishikawa retorts, “they are besmirching our very name! Admiral… despite the shortcomings of commodore Hugo in Toscana, my men were this close to achieving victory—and the withdrawal decision is seen as a stab in the back by you naval bastards. They—we wish to redeem ourselves in Ishtar Terra, we want to fight and save-face for our shortfall in Malabo and Baltit… for many of the rank-and-file, it is the only way to restore honor to the Frankish Legion—and I agree with them. I implore you to let the eighteenth corps participate in the invasion if manpower and available officers are an issue in the slightest.”
“The eighteenth was once a core element in the nineteenth, was it not?” Hoffman remarks, adjusting his glasses, “what is there to say they won’t join their brothers in arms?” When Ishikawa huffs her chest and approaches Hoffman, two MPs step forward to the Legionnaire. Hoffman, on the other hand, trembles, but scoffs. “Violent brutes, all of you…”
“That’s enough, lieutenant commander Hoffman,” Ramsay says “Brigadier Ishikawa… I understand the frustration that you and the eighteenth corps have. Manpower does indeed remain a concern for the Thunderbolt phase, and I will take into consideration the employment of the Legionnaires at our disposal, so please rest assured.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ishikawa says, saluting, “another thing—and you may have heard of this already, but the eighteenth corps has received over several thousand volunteers from the Gasson populaces alone. The majority of them happen to be first and second-generation civilians formerly from Lagrange point four,” admiral DeRyck nods, leaning back in his chair with a muse, “we’ve been training and drilling them for a few weeks now—some of them years, Admiral. If you permit it, we can arm and incorporate them as ad-hoc units in our corps.”
“Trained or not, they are still civilians,” Hoffman says, to the tense chagrin of the room, “please consider the liability they pose if we incorporate them into the invasion force. We’ve already accelerated the timetable of Thunderbolt, but if we haphazardly throw in civilians on such short notice—“ a glance at the Brigadier general, “constituting a few weeks of training, and I’d liken their years of training boils down to nothing more than to amateur ‘training’ sessions a few times a month, it might prove a hindrance!”
Ishikawa grunts and tries to lunge at Hoffman, but she is held back by two of the nearest MPs’. At the same time, the outspoken Frankish officer from before is also constrained by an MP next to him. “You would never understand our commitment to reclaiming our homeland!” The officer shouts. Hoffman, on the other hand, adjusts his tie and turns his attention slightly undeterred to the Admiral.
“They have some sense of training,” Hoffman continues “but it wouldn’t be enough time, Admiral. These irregulars—if you want to call them that—might compromise the operation with their inefficient civilian training… and failure to comply with military procedure and chain of command will—”
Why this guy…! The grinding of my teeth leaves me more unnerved than the words coming out of this moron’s mouth. “Hoffman,” Ramsay sighs, “it is an interesting insight, however, we have no geographic understanding of any of the Sides. Those irregulars will prove invaluable in providing reconnaissance on the ground for our regular forces,” Ramsay clasps his hands tighter, “our marines and Legionnaires will need all the assistance they have at their disposal to reclaim the fourth Lagrange point,” his eyes shift to the Brigadier general, “it is the least I can do if it means restoring the Legionnaire’s trust in me and the navy.
“Miss Ishikawa, I will authorize you to create provisional battalions as you see fit, and I trust you will appoint any capable talent from the irregulars to act as liaison and overall commander of these battalions. True to what the lieutenant commander here suggested, it would appear disastrous if an untrained mob does not act according to military regulation.”
“Understood, sir,” Ishikawa says with a pristine salute, “the volunteer Francien corps will be overjoyed at their inclusion in the operation to retake their homeland.”
After an air of silence, admiral DeRyck gets up, adjusting the cap atop head before signaling his adjutant to turn the holographic display off. The room goes dim for a moment before the light is illuminated by a ceiling light. “Now, then,” Ramsay begins, “this concludes the briefing regarding both phases of Operation Entebbe. Further adjustments will be expected to be minor,” Ramsay glances at me with a nod of approval, “and updated operation plans will be disclosed at a later date before the execution of Entebbe. In the meantime, I want the fleet to continue its current day-to-day business until December fourth,” a slow raising of his hand for a salute, “session dismissed.”
The room slowly but surely shuffles out. Friederika tugs on me indicating for us to beat the crowd, and I obediently abide. Outside the curious eavesdroppers have dispersed, and Hosband and his MP buddy have also scattered with the crowd. But the moment we’re out in the hallway, my legs are sluggish, and Friederika tugs harder to no luck. “Come on, love,” she mutters, “I wanna get out of here as much as you do… Vicky, you do wanna head back, right?” The attendee crowd passes by us with little talk yet occasional murmuring. Ramsay is still in the room with some others, discussing some trivial matters that I can’t be bothered to pick up on.
I couldn’t do a bloody damn thing. What did I expect, exactly? If Buttermilch was here…
“Vicky, come on, or I’m going to leave you behind. I’m starving, you know?” Friederika is nearly pleading, but I can’t bring myself to act as her comedic straight man. I have no energy to do so, no willpower left. If Buttermilch was more outspoken, if I had gotten to Buttermilch sooner… would we have taken the League Militaire out sooner?
“Vicky,” Friederika says, a little softer this time, “I’ll be in the Trinidad’s mess hall for a bit. Try not to get lost without me, okay? Don’t mope around for too long,” Friederika is quiet for a while as if expecting a last-minute rebound of energy from me. Of course, Friederika expects too much of me, and she pats me on the shoulder, passing me going about her way.
Who knows if Ramsay will go through with the proposed changes? What’s to stop him from being persuaded and sacrificing so many lives for the sake of pleasing some grumpy old beans in the Frankish Domains…?
I turn around, taking a deep breath and intending to head back into the conference room—
And a flinching lieutenant commander Hoffman jumps back in surprise. His eyes nearly bulge out of his head, but he is swift to recompose himself. “E-erm ensign… er,” Hoffman scoffs, a rapid adjustment of his spectacles, “l-lieutenant Happ… Happ-Schwarzenberger was it?” His decrepit eyes are shifty, and he forces a creepy, unnerving smile trembling at the edges. “If you don’t mind, you’re sort of… uh, blocking the doorway I should say?” I glare at a bead of sweat rolling down his frail, sunken features, “er, hum… miss, now, if you excuse me, I have a shuttle to catch.”
A nervous salute and the Lieutenant Commander slips past me into the hallway. Yet, something eats away at me. A fiery pain throbs in my chest as I watch—as if in slow motion—this officer slips away from the doorway. His smile, twisted as it is, makes me believe he grits his teeth. It is as time itself stops for me to reflect on Hoffman.
And that moment feels like hours. As I study this unbelievable buffoon, a torrent of thoughts overpowers me. Am I led to believe that he has wholeheartedly told the truth about the Commodore’s decision to focus on Lucky Alphonse? Has he really tried to convince Hugo not to go ahead with the operation over the League Militaire? What’s there to say that Hoffman isn’t saving face and avoiding being dragged into a court-martial with his superior? What’s there to suggest he wasn’t part of the democratic vote that vouched for the splitting of the fleet at Baltit?
If I let this chance opportunity slip, could I ever look the families of those left behind square in the eye? Could I ever visit Buttermilch’s grave or even his family, and let them know that I failed in delivering my own sense of justice? If Yuri was here right now, would she take her chance in letting this measly subordinate of Hugo know full well of what he’s caused?
Without realizing it, I reach out for the Lieutenant Commander. I nearly miss, but the follow-up swipe I am lucky to grab him by the sleeve. Hoffman lets out a startled cry under his breath, or maybe it’s my imagination at play. At first, he tries to move—but the iron grip prevents him from doing so, and he is quick to give up any hopes of escape. He sighs deeply but doesn’t so much as face me. He’s stiff as a board.
“Um… uh,” Hoffman stammers, using his other hand to adjust his tiny spectacle by its bridge. “Lieutenant… Happ, is there… is there something the matter?” A forced chuckle, and a clearing of his throat. “Have you perhaps, uh, lost the way to the shuttle bay? I do believe… your little friend there, she, uh…”
“Lieutenant commander Hoffman,” I say softly, and the man flinches. I raise my gaze from the ground to burn my vision through the back of his shaven head.
“Y-yes…?” Hoffman answers, he turns his head partway. To my surprise, he maintains a flimsy poker face, but it’s obvious he’s still gritting his teeth. It’s that despicable innocence he maintains that only fuels my anger even more. None of the MPs have taken notice of us yet. And even so… why must Hoffman pretend to play dumb? What compels a person to weasel their way out of deserved justice?
What is justice in this case? What would justice be in this case? What would let Buttermilch rest easy in his grave?
“You were present at the Malabo meeting, weren't you?” I mutter, my grip never once lessening. Hoffman opens his mouth to speak—but he responds with nothing. His speechless lips tremble and curve into a smile. His glasses slide down his nose ridge, but he doesn’t attempt to adjust it. And, yet, Hoffman distinctively avoids eye contact with me.
“Huh? I, well, uh, yes,” Hoffman finally answers, trying to keep his cool by adjusting his tie, “of course I was. W…” Hoffman clears his throat: his eyes meet with mine for a split second, “what about it, Lieutenant?”
Tugging on his sleeve, my fingers curl into the fabric. “Did you by chance, partake in the vote to split the fleet?” The very color drains from this man’s already pale features. The red from his lips fades to a lighter shade of pink. His eyes quiver, he fights the trembling in his lips, and he turns ever so slightly for eye contact.
“Well, uh,” Hoffman mutters, “well, well, you see…” his breathing gets quicker, and his gaze bounces around as if hoping for a way out of this debacle. And at that moment, the conference room door opens behind us. It’s Mazzareli, as sternly as ever.
“Lieutenant commander Hoffman,” Mazzareli declares, folding his arms, “is the one responsible for encouraging commodore Hugo to split the fleet in the first place!” Hoffman turns his head fully to me at the shocking revelation. Hoffman’s mouth twitches as he forces an apologetic—an insincere smile.
There was nothing I could’ve done, Victoria. For fame or glory my ass! That slap from earlier was merely deserved karma for punching the lights out on one of Hugo’s shit-faced subordinates… even now, the warm reassuring voice of Buttermilch echoes in the back of my mind. Of course, Buttermilch is long gone. Dead. A casualty of war. Hoisted by the one flaw in the chain of command he hoped to change for the better.
I forcibly reel Hoffman to face me directly, the Lieutenant commander lets out a startled grunt but has an iron well in fighting back. But all it does is add fuel to the frustration. I grab him by the collar, bringing him closer to my level. His composure persists albeit just as feebly.
“Buttermilch is dead because of you!” I scream with all my energy—all my hatred, all of everyone’s frustration and sadness. “Your actions have caused so much pain and suffering throughout the fleet! And yet, you have the gall to act so high and mighty!” Not once does Hoffman react, he stares past me, like a deer in the headlights, frozen in place, that ugly smile curling ever so lightly. I hate it. I hate it so much. That dreadful smile.
“We nearly faced annihilation because of you—because of your and Hugo’s quest for fame and glory… and look at what it has caused! Look at what your incompetence has caused!” My vision blurs from a surge of tears, “so many good people died, so many more people will die because of what you achieved… because of what you failed to achieve. I hope your fame and glory was bloody well worth it dammit!” I pull Hoffman closer to me, “does it not frustrate you of your shortcomings? Do you not feel remorse for what you caused—the sacrifice of a good, well-intentioned man like Buttermilch and so many like him for something that failed catastrophically? Did you hope to use him as a stepping stone to plague the chain of command with your diluted goals? You selfish cunt! How do you live with the crushing guilt over what you’ve done!?”
And yet, no matter what I threw at Hoffman—he remains mostly unfazed. Unable to bear with his placidness any further, I let go with my right hand, curling it into a fist—putting all my weight on my right foot and hip, then swinging the ride side of my body briefly. With the horror in Hoffman’s eyes unfolding, I swing forward and deliver a blow to the face. Hoffman lets out a startled cry—and despite his scrawny appearance, crashes to the floor with a heavy thud bringing me down with him.
I immediately get on top of Hoffman—grabbing his collar and pulling him up with all my strength. But this pain that Hoffman endures is nothing compared to the endless thousands that died horribly. It’s nothing compared to the lives he inadvertently cut short—those who died perhaps painlessly, who never had the time to realize their fate. I intend to deliver another crucial blow. For one punch wouldn’t be enough to speak my mind, to broadcast the feelings and dashed hopes of all those who committed themselves to the misfortune of attaining one man’s blood-stained fame and glory. I want to punch this pathetic excuse of a commander—this inexcusable human. Again, and again, and again and again.
“Victoria!” The shrieking of Friederika spurs me out of my induced frenzy. Her weight crashes onto my back as the Sub-Lieutenant wrangles her arms around my struggle to deliver justice to Hoffman. Despite my perseverance, Friederika is more than capable of dragging me off Hoffman to some avail. There’s a torrent of wetness on my back as Friederika tightens her grip around my chest. “Victo…” Friederika gasps, getting me to my feet with relative ease, “what the bloody hell is wrong with you?! Are you mad?” Friederika wails again, spinning me to deliver a stinging smack that leaves me seeing bright stars.
There is a commotion as officers and MPs alike crowd around us. I can’t make out what any of them say, and I only watch in solemn silence as Hoffman is helped up by an MP and another bystander. The hallway immediately shushes when the Admiral enters. His stern gaze monitors the room, before falling on me and Friederika.
“Admiral! With your permission, I’ll escort this Lieutenant to the brig over this mishap,” Hosband says. The security officer takes a few steps closer to me, reaching out—which Friederika moves to intercept, but the two of them pause once the Admiral speaks.
“There will be no need for that,” Ramsay says rather calmly.
“Admiral?!” The officer holding Hoffman sputters, “this is unacceptable behavior! Even if she is a Victorian Cross recipient…! This is still insubordination—an assault against a high-ranking officer!” There are several quips from the peanut gallery. Ramsay takes in the scene; a heavy sigh. He glances at me before having his say.
“It does not take a genius to recognize there is a tense social dynamic particularly among Hugo’s naval staff,” Ramsay declares, hands resting behind his back, “Miss Happ’s disobedience is merely a manifestation of that. If she didn’t act, another would’ve done the same. To have this sort of incident transpire before Entebbe would only lead me to sow seeds of further discontent among my officers,” Ramsay says calmly. Indeed, I never paid attention to reading the room, but a lot of people share the same sentiment towards Hoffman and the Commodore.
“Admiral…!” Hosband hisses, but Ramsay holds up a hand and shakes his head. Ramsay takes one glance last at me speaking to Mazzareli.
“With that said—Lieutenant Commander Mazzareli,” he begins, “I leave at your discretion how you wish to reprimand Happ-Schwarzenberger for her misconduct towards a superior. I will not withhold her commemoration for the Victorian Cross nor a demotion at this time. However,” Ramsay pauses to glance at me again, “if you are inclined to recommend her for a demotion and strip her of her valorous receipt, I will not object to it,” Ramsay salutes—and Mazzareli does the same; like a wave, the rest of the room reluctantly does so too. “Carry on.”
“Understood, sir,” Mazzareli says, taking a step back and then an about-face. The hallway fans out slowly once more, and Mazzareli watches as the disgruntled MP shuffles off after the Admiral, leaving the three of us alone. Mazzareli has the typical stern face gazing at us until the others are out of sight—and to my surprise, he relaxes into a smile—more of a half-hearted smirk. “What exactly am I going to do with you, Lieutenant Happ?” Mazzareli begins to walk, and Friederika and I walk behind him. Wiping my stream of tears with my sleeve, I sigh and grin weakly at Friederika—and wipe her slightly black-smeared tears away. “I never expected you to actually sucker punch a superior officer like that. You should be thankful that the Admiral is a moderate man, Happ.”
“Mazzy,” I gasp, “y-you’re not going to throw us on the Yilan’s brig again, are you?” Buttermilch… if he was here, I wonder what his reaction would’ve been? Before I ponder any further, I bump into the Lieutenant Commandeer and stagger back. Mazzareli turns around with an unamused frown.
“On second thought,” Friederika and I wince, “maybe I should throw the two of you into the brig—that is an offense I am not willing to overlook,” Mazzareli says rather coldly. Friederika gasps, clasping her arms around one of Mazzareli’s.
“What?!” She whines, “why me too? I didn’t do a bloody damn thing, you jerk!” Mazzareli can’t help but crack a smile. It seems so rare to see the Lieutenant Commander smile—and for some reason, I can’t help but burst out into a tearful laugh—one that Friederika also joins. Mazzareli reaches out to the two of us and gently nestles our heads. He flashes another heartfelt smile.
“I’m sure Buttermilch is likewise spinning in his grave, with a big stupid smile across his face,” Mazzareli says. Frankly, I’m conflicted on how I’m supposed to interpret this statement. “If he was still with us now, I wouldn’t shy away from the possibility that he would likewise head-butt Hoffman himself, if presented the opportunity,” Mazzareli stops, a sad scoff as he turns around. “If either he or Hugo were together again, I’m certain Buttermilch would risk a court-martial over it. And I can imagine the Commander would say it’s a matter of justice.” Mazzareli deflates with a heavy sigh and begins walking again. Friederika and I glance at each other—and obediently follow him again.
“Um…” I ask, “how exactly are you going to reprimand us, Mazzy?”
“Again,” Friederika whines, “why am I being included in this punishment?!” Mazzareli doesn’t stop nor answer us immediately. But after a while, he turns his head to look out into space at the shuttles zipping away from the Trinidad.
“It may be light, it may be nothing at all,” Mazzareli answers, “I haven’t decided so don’t go getting your hopes up too high just yet. But the more you call me that, the more I might seriously consider what the Admiral offered,” that stings a little, old man. “Yet… I don’t want to be haunted for the rest of my life by the former Commander if I give you anything more than a slap on the wrist,” Mazzareli says, “so maybe I’m willing to let you off the hook—if it means not facing the same criticism that the Admiral tossed onto my lap on the Yilan.”
“Mazzy,” I utter… “I never took you for being so soft; so having a sliver of kindness in that heart of yours, y’know?” Expecting Mazzareli to complain about the Mazzy nickname again, he merely scoffs in defeat. Friederika and I glance at each other—chuckles, then shrugs.
Yep space is big, in fact possibly infinite because we can observe "only" 14.7 milliards of our Universe.