One hail to a harbor cab later, I find myself strapping in with two other passengers. Bracing in my seat as our taxi bumbles, chokes, and stutters. “What’s wrong, miss?” The passenger next to me asks, a tanned man in a flowery summer shirt. A grin under his deep-black beard. I can’t help but break a smile—a nervous one betrays my embarrassment. The passenger next to him laughs. A burly man in tight overalls, hair tied back, and eyes obscured by a faded yellow-colored flat cap.

“Where I’m from, these… automobiles belong in museums,” I answer. And it’s true. Maybe it’s a little too honest, or too blunt. They don’t say much besides that: but it seems the tanned one does want to say something but refrains. Maybe to avoid a scuffle. Don’t want to avoid any trouble with a military officer of all things. As peaceful as the scenery may be, they’re still tense after all. Yet another reminder we’re paying in blood and sweat to feed you lot.

Gripping the steel frame of the flaky antique car, I wonder. Maybe I am simply overthinking my being here—not me, but the uniform. For what it means, for who it stands for.

This is modern for them. The faded yellow thing lets out a lousy honk as the driver yells in gibberish, probably the angry equivalent of a road-rage Aussie in the Old Outback. It’s a whiplash of culture I simply can’t comprehend. They make state-of-the-art modern space warships, yet culturally they’re stuck restarting over, so to speak.

The traffic encompassing us is filled with bumpy old things like these, and antiques that make you wonder how they are kept so pristine and still running. Old-fashioned pedaled bikes. Yet, at the harbor exit, it is otherworldly, modern inventions. This is the point where new and world analogy differences collide. It’s the absurdity that baffles me.

We drive past a corridor of pyramid-like silos and crane systems, then one of the elevator lifts.

After the bumpy road to the elevator, the driver parks and waits. I pay no attention to the others as I look back as the scale of the harbor gets smaller—and disappears entirely once we are inside a dark, imposing tube of sorts.

Before long, the weird little domed vehicle reaches the top—and for a brief realization I find myself blinded as my vision readjusts to the colony’s artificial light bulb… and I stand in awe at this lush… this virgin land. A scenic reminiscent of the short but sweet time in Lepanto… chilly, vibrant strokes of villas dot and spring out among the artificial legions of forests. The aggressive nature of forests and imposing hills that snake and swim into the edges of this world. There are patches—so many patches!—of golden wheat fields scattered about. A necessity for Gasson-bound colonies, given their anchor planet is a simple ball of eternally raging ball of gas. Every solar system has its Satursol I suppose.

And every solar system, every land, has its Paradise Lost.

I’m simply at a loss for words. I stumble off the edge of my seat amid gasps. The tanned harbor hand jumps out of his seat, rushing around to kneel next to me. He asks in broken Anglish if I’m fine, but I merely nod. I instinctively reach out for his supporting hand to keep my balance stable.

The bronze chap turns to face the driver of the bizarre contraption called a four-wheeled moving vehicle. “It’s still a long way out to Ègara,” or something amongst those lines, as much as I could decipher his not quite Francien, but not quite Anglish accents. “Relax,” the man says, “I deal with a lot of true blue marine heads… so I’ve been forced to pick up quick.”

I blurt out. “Where would I find Federation troops off-duty?” Adding. “Where could I find the Legion’s eighteenth corps?” I give the man a moment to process what I said. It might be a stretch, given he’s a civilian. He looks back over the horizon, and points. My heart sinks a little—it’ll take a whopping bit to get to even if I were to jog. But watching the man steadily lower his pointing until he reaches what I assume is Ègara. The smack middle of Terrassa. Likely the hub point with the most attractions.

He presently explains. “The legion,” a glance at me “—this is from what my father said to me once. According to him, they established themselves deeps in the forest many years ago. Even the hunters who love to sport are warned not to trespass. But starting recently, they emerged and marched with their gear and tools to the harbor. And more are streaming down even now.” Only recently? Reflecting on the Admiral’s conversation with Brigadier General Ishikawa, it’s possible, then…

“Do I tell the driver you wish to be taken to Ègara?” The question snaps me back to attention.

I quickly give a nodding approval, returning to my weathered-out leather seat.

The old cart kicks off with a cough and we head off the tarmac and steel passage onto something I could only feel and describe equivalently as the Old Outback. We pass by a grandiose scale of forests that seem to pierce the artificial sky. But before long, the otherworldly scale of Terrassa’s opposite inhabitable lush plane is lost to the ashen yet artificial sky and cloud the further we descend this mountainous pass.

It’s a slow drive but it gives me ample time to analyze whatever comes into view. The driver sticks close to the rusty-gray physical railings, the only sense of protection from either crashing into and falling to the forestry depths below, or painting the railings grisly red. Back home, rarely are these types of barriers still around. Instead, we have safety cushion paddings and sometimes strong-fiber nets.

I shudder, gripping the car’s frame I use as a makeshift handlebar. There’s a slight acceleration of the car and more aggressive corners, and I feel the incarnate need to simply jump off to save my life—but I persevere. Fast, then slow, and fast again depending on the sharp turns and the traffic. Eventually, we read the foot of this artificial mountain. Presently the harbor chap relays to me that we’ll need to stop at the next way station to check nothing is wrong.

Before I know it, we pull up to the storefront of a gas station, lonely except for the company of the shrubbery and an overhanging tree and a rustic open-bed truck with a faded livery parked next to it. Here, away from the future of the harbor, cinnamon fills my nostrils—the cold air is shivering. A nice breeze for a change of pace. I’m so accustomed to smog and the filthy air back home and spent so much time confined on a ship that I forgot what nice, refreshing air can truly be. Of course, this is merely filtered, recyclable air, much like the Yilan but in the brief moment of it all, it gives me peace of mind.

The driver is first to leave, and I turn my attention to the tanned fellow. “I’ll be back, I need a refresher.” The man with the flowery shirt gives a nod of acknowledgment and jolts off the humble pale little building.

I roam behind the little dull building. To my surprise, there’s a creek in the depression below. There are a few families worth of people simply enjoying themselves. The cinnamon taste fills my nostrils stronger here; a barbecue perhaps? Some of the kids are the first to take notice of me, huddling and whispering, but upon realizing I’m observing them keenly, the kids disperse to the opposite side of the clearing, closer to their family stock.

I stick out like a sore thumb in this uniform and this place, it might make things tense if I linger around. I walk opposite of the gathering sticking to the body of water, I watch as it goes on past the overhanging bushes and tree branches. It’s oddly nostalgic for some reason. Of all the times my father took me hunting in Indo-China before I went to Canberra. It seems so distant now, those days. How I hunted for sport, how my old man would teach me about the rifle that was his heirloom, and how little he cared not hiding his excitement for the one hobby he cherishes. It was nice since he was always brooding otherwise.

Pops…

I stop to kneel, scooping down to cup some of the freezing water. A frowning woman with disheveled golden hair glares back. I raise the lousy cupped water to my mouth for a few sips. And it’s as refreshing and crystal clear as I could imagine. I splash the rest over my cheeks, feeling the blood rush and simply taking in the moment.

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The chirp-chirp-chirp the calming flow of water helps put me at ease. It does wonder to remind me that I’m still yet human, not yet lost to the mad brutality that awaits me in Ishtar-Terra. It’s hard to say though, if the Admiral or the Brigadier general will approve of my assignment transfer. But they must!

The sound of approaching footsteps prompts me to whirl around, splashing my lower legs with shivering water. Just over the ledge above me, blocking rays of light is a kid no more than a few years younger than me.

What was I even tense for? Clearing my throat. I’m not in a hostile environment. These people don’t actively resent us, at least publicly.

We maintain eye contact for what seems like a slow passage of time. His long amber hair, green eyes, striped shirt, and loose jeans. This boy has wrapped snugly around his waist a brown jacket and his arms full of fishing gear—a small red-and-white ice container at his boots—and a mighty bronze rod that’s probably longer than his body. The boy must’ve never seen a Federation officer before to be in this state of awe.

I simply wave, and it’s enough to break the vex I unwittingly cast over him. The lad opens his mouth to speak—but it’s not something I comprehend very well. He has quick wits, at least, because he must’ve realized this. My cheeks flush red with embarrassment. It must be all too evident to him now that I’m an outworlder. I muster the strength to smile, giving him a wave that he reciprocates.

His smile fades, his gaze past me. I follow it to see a troop of blue uniforms strolling to the way station. Without another word, the fisher boy whistles and goes about his day, disappearing back into the forest. I lose track of him not long after. I can only surmise that in his eyes, it’s not every day you see military folk. Maybe he’s a rural folk… living deep in the sticks of Terrassa. But then again, it’s all sticks here! It wouldn’t be far-fetched to assume he rarely sees people in general. I resume the walk along the creek for a little while longer, but I turn around to jolt back so I don’t keep the cab and the others waiting.

I return to the family to find they’re packing up and leaving—some of the adults cast cautious glances in my direction and the gas station. But paying them no mind, I emerge from the depression to find another cadre of officers and soldiers on leave. They too, are returning to their cab, a black car with a grayish hood. While observing this second group, two of them seem to take notice of me, and I do my best to act cool and pretend I’m merely observing others. To my chagrin, they appear to take a deeper interest in me. The man and woman—a leading seaman, wimpy in stature, and a taller woman with flowing red hair, a tint of orange tips. She’s likely a warrant officer. Alexandra? No. It’s someone else.

The pair approach me, and I relax a bit. It’s nice to be with one of my kind again, at least.

The man with thick glasses clears his throat. The red-mane woman, who just until now had an air of confidence around her cowers, a sense of embarrassment, awe even. “Excuse me,” the leading sailor says. He takes off his blue garrison cap, caressing it in his hands. He clears his throat again. Their arm patches are not a ship I recognize… but they seem to be part of Chal’s fleet at the least.

I don’t like where this is going. More admirers. My skin gets goosebumps. The water I splashed myself with earlier still makes me shiver. I straighten up and cross both arms under my chest in an attempt to not give the wrong impression.

“You are, um… ensign Victoria Happ-Schwarzenberger, correct?” The man asks. I squint at his nameplate: LESSAU. I’m impressed they pronounced it right on the first try, unlike most people. For some reason, the thought makes me grin.

I answer. “Not quite,” the capture of disappointment on their faces giving away to embarrassment. “One way or another, I’m a lieutenant now. Lieutenant Happ-Schwarzenberger.” I suppress the urge to offhandedly remark there’s no need for formalities. It’s my turn to act nervous: “er… was there something you needed from me?” How many times will I have to go through this today, I wonder?

The woman, Spiegal, speaks up. “This may be a little strange to ask of ‘ya…” her accent throws me off so hard.

“Well, let’s wait on that for now,” Lessau says, and Spiegal clears her throat, trying to hide her beet-red face, twirling her bangs. He turns his attention back to me. His left hand clasps her hand, his other hand projecting his nervousness. Am I that scary to approach…?

“We’re from the Bataan, and, um…” Lessau struggles to get the words out. So I was right on the mark—the Bataan? The ghostly winds tickle the back of my neck. Hold on, that was part of the…

“We simply wish to express our gratitude, ma’am,” Spiegal chimes in. Lessau twirls his garrison cap in silent agreement.

The Bataan is, apparently, a vehicle of pure misfortune—misfortune that warps into luck, or so I hear. It’s an interesting ship simply because of that fact—how it once took a direct hit but miraculously remained intact, with very few casualties if any.

“O-oh, we never properly introduced ourselves to ‘ya,” Spiegal says, turning to her partner. “I’m Nia Spiegal, a warrant officer assigned to the Bataan, in charge of bridge operations. And this lil’ good-fo’-nothing here…”

The man answers for himself, with a slight smile. “Leading sailor Phillip Lessau,” Phillip says. “Likewise from the Bataan—my job’s more savvy, radar operator.”

“Were you two… at the forefront when it happened?” I ask. The warping of Li’s ships right on top of the destroyer vanguard. Phillip stops twirling his garrison cap, and Nia closes her eyes—and I feel shame for bringing up an insensitive topic so abruptly. “What happened to the Bataan?”

Phillip takes a deep breath. “Because of your leadership, ma’am…” Phillip continues to twirl his garrison cap. Nia adjusts his loose, big, opaque glasses from falling off. “The Bataan and her crew managed to limp to safety. But I wish we could say the same for the rest of our screen.”

It makes my heart sink. The tradition of the Bataan curse is still prominent. I can’t help but rub my shoulders. Behind us, the tanned flowery shirt calls out to me, and I glance at him to gesture that it’ll be a moment.

“Going to Ègara, eh?” Nia’s smile radiates, “It’s a comfy little place I’ll tell ‘ya that.”

“I’m mostly just there to catch up with an old friend,” I answer. Truth be told, it’s also to seek out Ishikawa or at least an immediate subordinate of hers in the eighteenth corps. A tertiary objective is merely to scope out anything that might help me in Ishtar-Terra. It’s a bit of a stretch, given that no Side colony interior likely bears little similarity with one another.

“I hear they’re gearing up for something big,” Phillip says. “That we’re not going home just yet.” The bumbling and sputtering of a convoy of deep-green canopy trucks is deafening. I get glimpses of blobs of M88 uniforms beneath the canvas shadows—dozens of pairs of elusive eyes stare back. The rumbling of engines as a column of light and medium tanks follow suit, leaving behind clouds of dust and dirt. Before long, things settle down again.

“It looks to be that way,” I say innocently. There’s concern written all over his face, and he has reasons to be. Nobody yet truly grasps the hell we will plunge ourselves into.

Phillip crosses his arms, frowning in deep thought. “Do you think we’re being shipped off back into Toscana? Now that the main driving force is with us, I mean.”

“I suppose we’ll find ourselves the answer soon enough,” I remark wryly.

“We don’t want to keep you waitin’ any longer,” Nia says. Indicating that my ride is getting impatient. “When this is all over, and we return home…” she blushes, exchanging glances with the leading sailor. “The two of us are gonna get married. A-and… we wanted to invite you to our wedding.”

Oh. I can feel the color draining from my face. I turn around abruptly amidst their curiosity. “Is that a no?” The heartbreak in the man’s voice grapples at my heart. When this is all over…

Now, I can’t bring myself to tell them. Not of Ishtar-Terra. Not of the League Militaire. Not of my involvement in the upcoming ground operation.

I clench my right fist. But I’m not going there to seek death either…

I turn back to two puzzled faces.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be more than happy to come—for you to have me on an occasion like that. It’d be an honor loves.” I pause, swallowing a lump in my throat. “when this is all over, of course. It’s the least I can do, right?” I smile weakly. The young couple return the smile—smiling as in relief. For them, this encounter must’ve gone better than expected.

I simply cannot get them worried in any way. With that closing thought, I salute the two and head off to my cab. Strapping in and bracing the makeshift handlebar, the words repeat themselves in my mind. When this is all over. I gaze out at the landscape, at all the cottage villages and the virtual sky.

When this is all over. I rest my chin on my left hand, gazing out at this alien world and its vast forests, its many cottage villages, with only that cursed phase lingering in my mind: When this is all over… when we liberate Ishtar-Terra from the influence of League Militaire… what then? Will we redouble our efforts and march back into Ruthenia? Will we simply return home, free of our obligations of Lusatia’s absurd demand of withdrawing to more friendly territory?

When this is all over… what does it entail?