I make my way to the platform’s railing. Leaning on it and observing as an alien the people of Terrassa go about their everyday lives. Despite the heightened military presence, there is no sense of danger or urgency here. Rarely do I spot anything extraordinary: no people clad in police armor trotting about or checkpoints. Instead, all I see and hear are citizens of the Federation living out their lives in total and absolute tranquility.
I tap the freezing bar. Scanning happy faces, couples with kids, managers barking to their employees as they load bulks of goods into rear cargo storages. It’s a harrowing contrast compared to the footage we all saw back on the Trinidad. Slumping on the bars, I wonder if Alexandra has seen the footage, and what she thought of as well when she saw this very same scene before me.
It must be frustrating.
But maybe this is subjective… there could be riots or demonstrations throughout the Federation as news of our endeavor spread. How many people know of our blunder at Toscana? How many will rise in demonstrated danger along their Ruthenian brothers? How many more workers will go on strike in solidarity?
The Federation cannot be everywhere at once. I hope Alexandra comes to the same conclusion, too.
I take a heavy breather. Ready to step away, but whirl around to the railing once a detail catches my eye. Several platforms to the right, I see a mighty conglomerate of woody and gray urban garb—M88 Perdenka uniforms. Frankish Legionnaires!!
I can’t help but straighten up, clearing my throat. Clasping the utterly cold bars. I couldn’t make a precise estimate of the Legion’s formation, but for a casual one, I’ll reason there’s enough manpower to be considered at least four augmented battalions.
The legionnaires stand at attention in four deep columns, taking muster at each end of their docking platform. Down the middle of the massive platform bay, an assembly belt leads into the black swaths of a troop carrier. The goods: dozens of sleek, black, and charcoal trans-atmospheric assault gunship transports—the KH-98 Panther.
The sight of this impressive hardware is one to behold. I’ve seen glimpses of them in military magazines in passing and their specs are incredible on paper—almost too good to be true. A single forty-millimeter auto-cannon lies underneath the exposed underbelly of the thin encased cockpit built with a mixture of ceramics and tungsten. These don’t have them—or they’re being delivered separately, but they can come configured with an incredible array of bombs and missile pods. Under the nose—which funnily enough looks like a snorkeling mask—are two suites of cameras capable of a light-second visual range. First-generation KH models were only capable of half a light-year second of visual reading.
The back of the panther has a ramp capable of supporting a standard-sized squad of foot soldiers and other miscellaneous military goods. Overlooking the entrance ramp is the impressive thirty-five-millimeter rifle, and just nestled behind it are the fuel pods. What a beautiful piece of hardware!
The KH series has always been fascinating to me… and truth be told, I’ve always loved virtual simulation adaptations of them in arcades back home. If anyone were to ask me now what my dream was when I was young, it was to become a pilot for a trans-atmospheric assault gunship.
Of course, a little lass’s enthusiasm can be curbed a little when you read up on first-hand accounts of first-generation trans-atmospheric assault gunships that can simply be summed up as brutal. Excessive to create, and operate. Last but not least, their maintenance and rocketing casualty statistics throughout the NOSP era.
As the last of them load into the mothership, I observe, lost in the medley of day-to-day port harbor life, as the Legionnaires move out in methodical column formation onto the ramps of the troop ship. I can only sigh, and look out in wonder to the harbor’s tunnels leading outside. We will have to assault an environment like this very soon. But will the layout of Ishtar-Terra be much like this, or something completely unimaginable? Is there any hope of predictability in the fog of war that lies ahead?
Thinking back on the incident with Ishikawa, we might have some sense of accountability for the irregulars on board with storming Ishtar-Tera—their homeland. Surely, there must be some archival layout of Ishtar-Terra and her colonies available to us.
If there is one thing I agree with Hoffman, that irregulars are still just that: they can be a liability if they’re not carefully reigned in. That is the only thing I will ever agree with that despicable Hoffman. Just the mere mention of this name…!
And speaking of Ishikawa… glancing at the troop transport now clearing out and readying for departure, it makes me wonder if those were part of the eighteenth corps. I stand aloof with alarm, trying to dart for the gate to the colony… but stopping myself. No, surely, that couldn’t be all of the eighteenth—maybe there’s a chance I can still confront the Brigadier with an offer.
I hop off the platform where Yuri’s shuttle is stationed and make way for the closet booth for directions. This harbor isn’t anything like the one back in Lepanto—it’s a little confusing, and truth be told a little I find myself helpless on how to actually get into Terrassa.
I can’t help but let a chuckle escape my lips. I wonder if Friederika found herself in this very situation in Terrassa. I can’t recall if she ever made mention of coming to this particular Side before. But the image of Friederika looking like a lost little babe in a completely alien world like this is too much to bear.
But alas, I am the fool here, unlike Friederika, I never did have the care to brush up on any of my Francien.
I quickly make note of the directions for the entrance gate and make waves through colorful crowds of citizenry and silk to the steps of the superstructure that dominates the center-back of the harbor. Its closest resemblance is that of a slanted flight of stairs connecting each platform zone. This system doubles as a sort of elevator too from the looks of things. In a wide strip down the middle is an escalator for both ways’ convenience.
The thoughts pass over me repeatedly: about the time limit imposed on us by Lusatia, and how long it could take for us to clear out a massive hanger port like this. Although we were instructed in Side conflict, we were never instructed for Side conflict. It’s a last measure, as there are seldom incursions of Side-side combat. In the past, most insurrections were planet-side, like in the Perdenes conflicts of the eighties or the Mars revolution some forty years before that.
That may be because given the very nature of a protracted suppression of a Side colony warrants harming the locales. In other words, blockades: no more food and other necessities for the besieged. You have no idea if there are innocent people or not, or if you’re starving out a bunch of good-for-nothings. I can only wonder if Commodore Hugo knew this, and went ahead with Lucky Alphonse anyway because of the hurried nature. Because he wanted to get to Lübeck first and claim the prize of the Mafia for himself. Because he was greedy… and we paid the price for serving under an upstart darling of the military.
Upstart darling of the military… it’s an awful ring to it. Once this is all done, I can only shudder that it’s the most horrible thing I’ll inherit from the Commodore.
If I die in Ishtar-Terra, I’ll be a martyr. A talent tragically taken too soon. If I live, it’ll elevate me and the Happ-Schwarzenberger name. It’s a thought that concerns me, to say the least. Either way, it’ll be inconvenient for my old man and mum. Me being here in the navy, away from their warm security is enough worry for them as is, not knowing if their daughter is dead, maimed.
It feels so long ago that mum protested against me joining the military, and how the old man tried to arrange for what he described as a comfortable desk job in SEATO.
SEATO!
What good would that do me, away from all the trouble that plagues our Federation? As Thunderbolt looms over the horizon and weighs on my shoulders, there is a slight hesitation—maybe it’s not too late to step away from it all.
That harrowing nightmare of Paul and I on the beach, how he spoke of a future where the two of us gave up my dreams to pursue a simple, mundane life. There’s no time for hesitation—no time to turn back now. I’ve made my decision and it’s resolute. The only thing that stands now, though, is if the Admiral and the Brigadier General will approve of my transfer request.
I wait eagerly at a crowded carpool staging area. Trying my best to avoid drawing attention to myself. But with this uniform on, I feel out of place. I let my gaze wander until the superstructure keeps it captivated. My mind races, processes everything I know and what I don’t know. It leaves me with wonder if Alexandra ponders the same things I do. About the perils in her homeland, about Ishtar-Terra, about her role in these uncertain times.
