Lieutenant Leo Hodge dreads it here. Each breath he takes fills him with anxiety and releases cold tension. The young Leo, in the prime of his industrious days, waits with a finite well of increasingly clawing patience next to the ostensibly fortified, blast-resistant door of Admiral Ramsay DeRyck’s office quarters. Leo stands a few paces away from a lone marine, with the absolute resolute determination of everyone in the armada tasked with the seemingly daunting task of protecting the Admiral.

For Leo, it is difficult to determine if the marine—the man—is staring him down. Fully clad in state-of-the-art charcoal Panzergrenadier armor, the marine towers over him menacingly. His full-plating helmet resembles too eerily a charred skull: two huge oval shapes of radiating red-within-red terror stare into Leo.

Just a few years prior, Leo came close to becoming the small but esteemed—and negligibly overlooked—marine corps of the Metropolitan Space Navy. Unfortunately, Leo’s eyesight is eighteen out of twenty, and his physique is deemed not desirable. He missed the mark by a razor-thin margin. But it’s a margin that’s absolute, unrelenting. It is a spartan system for the pool of a genetically blessed crop of talented individuals. And one such result of the program stands before Leo’s very eyes.

There is nothing more fearsome in this universe than being two paces away from a fully kitted-out Federation marine. They say the only sensation of shock-and-awe that comes close is a Legionnaire foot-soldier. Both are apex killer machines. Both have a friendly inter-service rivalry hearkening back to the good old days of Bloody Perdenes as his pops would say: a marine himself in those times. If only he could see this Panzergrenadier armor now, Leo thinks in awe. The tip of the halberd is a mere pace away from him.

The marine’s grip on the mighty halberd is as stern, as unbudging as the nature of the marine—the flesh.

Both ends of the drab sealed fortified hallway are marine sentries, with standard-issue EBR-14 battle on their black, olive-trimmed slings. This is a needless squandering of manpower, Leo thinks to himself.

The Lieutenant returns to locking his gaze to the door’s sentry. Not once does the mechanical trooper budge. Leo ponders carelessly in place of sputtering nonsense to the marine: There is taking extra steps in cautionary measures, and then there is excessive paranoia, Leo ponders.

There are perhaps four platoons worth of marines on this deck level alone. It’s only been some four months since the Trinidad’s hostage situation back in the terrifying depths of the Rouen corridor. Yet, despite the orderly retreat from the battlefields of Rouen, Leo is compelled to believe the uneasiness never subsided.

Leo adjusts his cap with one hand and taps the papers with the other. His thoughts continue: But nothing about this is strategic. It’s a strategic misuse of resources!

When the admiral’s fleet marched back to Ruthenia, the tensions lay exposed. Even on the Trinidad, among the rank-and-file sailors, Leo recalls genuine uneasiness. Leo examines the elite training in the marine across from him, occupying a space between himself and the reinforced bulkhead leading into the quagmire of corridors of marines. How much nutrition and rations were needed, between now and that time to maintain in shape? How many families and kids were denied nutrition for this monster?

Leo thinks over all that happened during this campaign: Before the Trinidad departed for Rouen, they were welcomed at spaceports even in Merica, and the hinges of Ruthenia, at Zonal, even the distant and seemingly archaic Lombardia colonies displayed no open hostilities toward the Metropolitan armada.

After Rouen, it is evident to Leo and all the others adept in keen awareness that the relationship between suzerain and colony is cordially flimsy. With the majority of their supply corp reduced to nothingness, DeRyck was forced into a corner. A corner, Leo ponders, to prepare for a limited form of martial law that Ramsay hoped he never had to invoke. An act necessary to keep a fleet of some four hundred thousand men and women well-fed, and their ships refurbished.

Leo remembers it too vividly: The Merica colonists had a bitter welcome. An almost you’ve-overstayed-your-welcome vibe between them and the Admiral, Leo recalls. A shiver down his coat as he rubs his hands. Ruthenia was hell. And the abysmal tolerance of our presence as Ramsay DeRyck skirted through Ruthenia for the Kongriega corridor. Even our passage through Perdenes’s demilitarized space was unsettling and unwelcoming. Leo ponders, just as the marine lifts his halberd and steps a pace toward Leo, padding Leo down roughly in certain spots and regions.

This abrupt action reels Leo back to the present. And yet here we are, Leo ponders as the marine turns to speak in encryption through a slider on the door—the other marine sentry inside the Admiral’s quarters.

“The Admiral will have you now,” the marine says through the polarizing filter. He steps to the side, the locks hiss as the machinations of the blast door open slowly, some protruding from the pistons hard at work. Steam occludes Leo’s vision as the Lieutenant side-steps upon the recognition of dark silhouettes emerging—which shape into a scurry of blue uniform officers passing by. Two Commodores and an adjutant most likely.

Leo waits for the marine’s affirmation a second time and enters a room betraying his expectations. Where Leo expects a lofty little office space, the impressions of a chamber fill him instead. A roofed courtyard of sorts. It’s rather a gloom of gray, Leo muses. Occupying the huge space in the middle is a three-dimensional layout of Brenaco and several Lagrange points—among them highlighted elements of Lagrange point four—Ishtar-Terra and the belt of asteroids surrounding it.

Elsewhere on the sprawling projection are meta-details of Ishtar-Terra itself. The details, the maps, the excruciating mundane details go on forever. Projected casualty estimates—leaving the calculations of death in machine hands! Leo ponders without a second to shudder—certain data windows float in places among a zig-zag of overlapping data and analysis leading to the Admiral.

The only thing more eerily about this room is the marine out of Leo’s peripheral—the soulless skeletal eyes piercing into his soul. He must’ve moved to watch me closely. Leo shudders, why must they design such ferocious helmets? Was it the designer’s intention to invoke fear in friend and foe alike? Leo thinks back on the memory when he read a manual for the marine power suit once. The large, oval eye is suitable for displaying archaic calculations and data. But there is no basis for its outward appearance—a charcoal skull.

Ponder does Leo’s mind.

“Lieutenant Hodge, I take it?” The baritone voice of Ramsay brings Leo back to alert. Leo, in perfect fashion despite his failed spartan candidacy, snaps to perfect attentive form.

“Sir,” Leo addresses the admiral. Behind him are dozens upon dozens of monitors—all displaying the same sort of data and more. Leo catches glimpses of happenings back in Ruthenia. Happenings that seem different—newer. Leo wishes he could find a way to press this matter, but his missive here is meant to be brief. “I have the dossiers of all officers and their subordinates here and finalized, in paper and flop drives for operation Thunderbolt, sir,” Leo adds lastly, “This includes the last-minute additions of selected admission of volunteers.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Hodge,” the Admiral answers. He approaches Leo and relieves him of the documents and the handful of flop drives. In brief and short order, the ordeal is done. Leo salutes Ramsay and performs an about—

“Not yet,” Ramsay says. Leo is left confused, glancing at the ominous marine standing at perfect attention behind him. He scans the dark, gloomy room radiated only by the glow of the holographic projections and the scattering of glowing monitors.

“You speak of late additions?” Ramsay continues. “Volunteers—from whom, precisely?” He asks, he flips slower through the stack of talents.

Something about the question seemed off to Leo. “Only a couple, sir.” The officer answers. “I was told of one from—“

“Ah-h-h-h,” Ramsay stops flicking through the pages. Leo catches a glimpse of surprise, evident by the sudden bulging of his eyes from beneath weary eyelids… a smile at the crevice of his mouth. “What an interesting development…”

Suddenly, a ringing echoes through the window. Leo stiffens. Above them, a large, translucent meta window flashes an impending call from the governor of the Lothian star region—encompassing Gasson, Gaul, Albeonia, and Iswanda.

“Put it on visual call,” Ramsay straightens up, stuffing the contents into his jacket. He gestures for the marine and Leo to stay where they are.

The video screen flickers then to a golden-wood desk of a man no older than the Admiral—slick, professionally slicked back hair, a tail of white hair twirls around his forehead. This man wears a caramel-colored business suit with a clever little teal tie against a peachy dress shirt. The muscle is still there, but he’s a glum man past his prime, something of a split between university professor and door-to-door salesperson of old Terra, Leo muses. “You are a. . . difficult man to reach. . . Admiral Ramsay.” The hefty tone fills the deafening room.

Ramsay clears his throat. “Governor Tiebold,” tilting his head back. “If this is about the—”

“Of course, it’s about the media blackout!” Tiebold snaps, dropping all pretenses of cordial talk. “The press, the media. . . They demand answers, Admiral,” he puffs with a sigh, “I’m at my wit’s ends with these fools! Sooner or later, they will frame this as extra judicial—as martial law!“

“It is necessary given the state of affairs,” the Admiral says calmly. “Garofano keeps me informed of the situation in Lusatia.”

“This is not about Lusatia,” Tiebold counters, “this is about Lothian—about your quarantine of the free passage through Frankish lanes… this is not only about the press! It is a violation of free speech, of trade, of…”

“I understand the resentment the Metropolitan fleet generates,” DeRyck says, “and the measures I implemented to contain and reduce harm… serves as a double-edged inconvenience for the populaces of Lothian. It is disparaging, governor, that I need to resort to curbing such freedoms. However—“

“However?” Tiebold sneers, cupping his hands together.

“You as well as the public need to grasp the greater picture here. We are not dealing with simple pirates, governor, you must remember we are dealing with a far greater adversary…”

Then, Tiebold leans back in his chair. To Leo, it seems the governor finally realizes the military plans are all too plain to see.

“Ishtar-Terra!” The governor’s eyes bulge wide—a glance off-screen. Leo is off-guard when the governor slams his desk as he straightens up. “Why was this detail never revealed to me sooner?!”

Leo observes as the Admiral relaxes, reaching into his jacket to procure a few of the roster slips. “Have you heard the saying before, governor? Loose lips sink ships.”

“Are you meaning to indicate . . . That there are . . . Renegade. . . Legionnaire agents about?” The governor asks, hushing tone. Tiebold rises from his chair to lean into the camera. Despite the blurry low-quality transmission, Leo spots precipitation forming on the governor’s forehead. “So it is true, then?”

The Admiral exchanges glances with Leo, before answering. “That may be the case, governor. I can’t rule it out, but I can’t say for certain, either.”

“Is that why I had to go through. . . So many. . . Channels to reach you. Is this. . . Correct, Admiral?”

Leo ponders on this. This explains the need for a physical courier and the risks of intercepting and decrypting long-distance communication. Leo clears his throat, a tug at his tie. His hands were suddenly free of contents and without purpose. The pronounced marine security detail, the tight lease on media and civil rights… it’s all a measure in place because who truly knows what the Legionnaires are capable of?

We trained and disciplined these tools of efficient killers with the most prestigious and spartan training a modern warrior could strive for, and now we must fight to destroy what we made. Leo’s thoughts consume him for the next couple of minutes, drowning out the conversation between Ramsay and Tiebold.

“I will give the order to relax news from the outside world,” the Admiral declares, ripping Leo from the depths of his mind. “I believe the timing for it is now. It was not my intention for the gag to last forever—only until military operations were close to the starting line,” the subtle tightening of his lip and squinting tells Leo this is not the case. If DeRyck was younger and ambitious like that Chal Hugo fellow, Leo wonders carelessly, there’s no telling how long it’d be until Ramsay loses himself to the inescapable throes of dictatorship.

The Admiral continues. “Is there anything else you desire of me, mister Tiebold?”

“You know of the strikes unfolding in the Lebon star zone?” Tiebold asks, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief presented to him by an off-screen aide. “Of the incident at Side Tebourba?”

“The situation in the Frankish Domain is just as dire here as it is across the galaxy,” the Admiral answers.

“How . . . Do you plan to deal. . . With the troubling there?”

“Which particular case bothers you, sir?”

“Do not be coy with me, Ramsay!” The politician says with agitation, slamming his table. “Lusatia is . . .” Tiebold stops, his eyes flicker as he clears a lump in his throat. Is he jumping to conclusions on Lusatia? Leo wonders. The governor continues, “It would make Lusatia . . . uncomfortable that these villainous zealots are capable of such long-range strikes! You could’ve prevented this, Admiral—“

Ramsay glances at Leo and the marine before he counters the politician. “It is because of the fellow Chal that has defied my expectations—the missive of the Senate . . . here. I had him posted here to act as my eyes and ears over Brenaco—and he veered off and has put enormous pressure on the fleet as a result of his misdemeanor.”

Only a misdemeanor! Leo protests.

The governor of Lothian leans back in his great big brown-and-black leathery chair. “Does the senate . . . Know yet of Hugo’s misdeeds?”

There is a spell of silence in the room, interrupted only by the low rings and beeps of circuits and computing machines. Finally, the Admiral answers. “They will by now. I left no error, no misleading hiding in any of my after-action reports since arriving in Albeonia.

“In any case, governor, I am rather reluctant to draw from my available force—though at this time,” a click of his tongue as the Admiral strokes his chin, “it would ease the burden my fleet imposes if nothing else. I will arrange for three divisions of three cruisers and two battalions of marines. That should be enough to cover your doubts at the expense of providing foodstuffs, governor.”

Leo notes the precipitation forming on Tiebold’s face again. A slight draining of his cheeks. “I…” Tiebold mutters.

“Or would increased military presence trouble Lusatia, too?” Ramsay continues. “More tightening of hyper-lanes, more shifting of the trade routes. The restriction around Gasson will relax, sir, but its influence steeps and bleeds elsewhere,” DeRyck pauses, turning his back to Tiebold and Leo. He touches the roster papers again, padding his breast. “I can maintain the peace—protect the innocent. That is the mission of the Metropolitan Space Navy. But it could entail disruption of everyday lives as that expense,” Ramsay turns to the monitor. “I will provide what rations I can allocate for this task force, at least half.”

“Half?!” Tiebold gawks, jaw hanging low from the proposal. An extended sigh deflates him as the politician sinks onto his seat.

“It’ll be modest compared to the price that the locals pay here,” Ramsay says.

“There truly is no other way?” Tiebold mumbles. The man is ghoulish now, his cool, combed hair unraveling from the sweat.

“This will only be a temporary measure, governor,” Ramsay says with coolness. “Lusatia has given me a deadline before the fleet’s presence here is ruled unconstitutional.”

And then what? Leo wonders. There is peril at every corner, it seems. The navy cannot be everywhere at once, where it goes, it vanquishes and restores order. Where it departs, trouble and tensions take root. Ruthenia is fundamentally a case of that as we speak.

“Unconstitutional!” Tiebold barks. Leo is taken aback by his renewed frustration. “Do you have any inkling of what they say of you in Ruthenia…?”

“I merely perform my duties given the circumstances,” Ramsay counters, seemingly ignoring the question. “Continued Metropolitan presence in those systems is a powder keg, sir. I have spoken with Tory myself. He uttered to me: ‘What the People need—what they desire, is a Ruthenian solution to a Ruthenian problem.’”

“And yet you had the gall to trespass and trample on Perdenes autonomy—their demilitarized space.”

The Admiral remains silent for a minute. “It was done in proper procedure,” Ramsay finally answers, wincing. “Legally, per Perdenes’s Toto Concord. Dismantling and an auxiliary transportation of armaments.”

“Brenaco, Ishtar-Terra…” Tiebold muses, leaning forward and cupping his chin with both hands. “What if you fail? What then, Admiral?” He leans back and throws his hands to the sides. “What if all these measures you speak of are for naught?”

“Then I will testify before the Senate of my wrongdoings and accept without fail whatever sentence they impose on me,” Ramsay answers with coolness. “I have accomplished, for the most part, the campaign’s goals. It was not in my mission directive to pacify Ruthenia.”

Upon the mention of the mission directive, Tiebold takes interest and sits up straight. “Prime minister Preece doesn’t object to your handling of the Ruthenia stability?” The tone, Leo notes, is full of genuine surprise.

Ramsay shakes his head. “You must understand that communication with Terra is slow, governor. Even now,” Leo and the Admiral glance past the governor’s video screen at the televised mounts depicting a plethora of Ruthenian news coverage. “We are receiving, here, events that have happened in the time frame of a couple of weeks ago, at least.”

“The situation worsens?” Tiebold whispers. His eyes widen.

“You will have to see for yourself in your spare time, governor,” Ramsay answers. A deep sigh as he adjusts his cap. “Is there anything else you need from me? I already told you I will relax the gag on media outlets and such, and send a security detail to Chabon and Lebon. If you feel the need to interrogate me further, save it for another time. The time you robbed me is equivalent to the ships and lives I’ll have lost in the upcoming military operation.”

The governor sighs and wipes his forehead. Tiebold flashes a smile and clasps his hands together on the desk, as though it was all an act. Typical politicians, Leo muses.

The Lothian governor signs off, and the blue luminescent window shrinks to nothing. Leo once again finds himself surrounded and in awe by the layer-upon layers of strategic planning and simulations.

Leo clears his throat, curiosity fuels him to take a pace forward. “Sir—what was that all about regarding perfect timing?”

“Oh, Lieutenant Hodge—you’re still here,” the Admiral says, his back to Leo. The marine watches Leo closely. Do they still hold me as suspect? Leo wonders.

Ramsay says. “Do you remember Alexandra Descartes-Dolz, Lieutenant Hodge?” The question catches Leo off-guard, but how could he forget about the Trinidad’s Ruthenian idol?

“What about her?” Leo inquires, and then, suddenly, it occurs to him the correlation between releasing Ruthenia news now and the Ruthenian officer.

“Currently, she is at Side Teressa,” the Admiral says. Shifting from his desk to a nearby floating holographic console. “And it’s only natural to assume that the daughter of Vincent Happ will be there as well.” He holds up a personnel sheet of a young blonde woman. “What wonders will stem from this encounter of theirs? And particularly, what motivations will grapple Alexandra?”