With the Yilan echelon more or less back from their short field trip, it was high time for the MP to strike from the shadows and smite all the evil-doers… really though, the atmosphere of the hallways and the strategic planning room was no longer casual. The MP only sometimes smacked people upside the head and told them to behave. If Commander Buttermilch certainly got wind of what was going on behind his back I imagine the brig would be at overcapacity.
“Fall in!” One of Buttermilch’s adjutants, once powerless with the support of the MP, barked. No one dared disobeyed, and before long officers, both junior and senior muster into double lioness around the room. “Remain at attention!” The adjutant barked again with the meanest of glares. I suppose this must be collective punishment in retaliation for us running amok, but isn’t this stance a bit too unfair? It’s not likeeveryone was chilling out ignoring regulations, you know! Talk about sadism.
I haven’t even been standing around for long and already my knees are beginning to hurt a bit. The adjutant and his gang of grumpy MP are going around giving everyone brief inspections of their uniforms. There’s the occasional loud back and forth interrogation between the adjutant and whatever unfortunate officer is at his mercy. Which is followed either by a ‘very well! Carry on!’ or a smack across the head. Seriously, just because you’re Buttermilch’s teacher’s pet doesn’t mean you should abuse your power like that!
But, boy, this sure isn’t helping the atmosphere. Instead of casualness it’s just really stressed out, and come to think of it… the adjutant isn’t at me yet, so risking a quick inspection of my uniform… they’re a bit wrinkly. Plus, if I squint real hard enough there’s a tintsy-wintsy splotch of dark purple that stands out far too well just around my waist. Oops. Well, I’m sure he probably won’t notice i—why is there suddenly a shadow cast over me?
“Ensign Happ-Schwarzenbergerrr!” The shrieking voice of the adjutant makes me shudder. The collective gulps from the other officers add to the goosebumps.
“Y—yes, sir!” I salute him rather feebly, “Ensign Happ- sh—shortsenburger present and accounted for!” Oh blimey, now I’ve done and flubbed it. The adjutant steps in real close —too close!— I can, involuntarily, smell his stench breath… dude, learn to brush your teeth, or take breath mints, or something. He proceeds to eye me from top to bottom.
“Ensign, you forgot to address me with sir after presenting yourself. On top of that, your uniform is unusually poorly maintained!” He shrieks in my face again—the closeness means some loose spit gets on my face too. Gross.
For some reason, this suddenly brings back repressed memories of headmistresses being witches and doing cruel and unusual punishments to us kids. The only difference is… that was her job. She had to do that to make us ‘better members of society’.Though her methods were a bit too extreme sometimes, maybe a bit too extreme for poor little kids like us back then. In hindsight, I guess you say her efforts were kind of in vain, though. But this guy…
“Ensign… there is a dirty splotch on your jacket!” He nearly screams with bloodshot eyes. Good lord, this guy is just being an asshole for the kicks of it. This adjutant is even more of an asshole than Commander Buttermilch. And that’s quite the feat to accomplish. Buttermilch, in Mazzareli’s words, is a hard-ass, but this guy is just a plain and simple asshole. If the likes of this guy climb up the ranks of the Metropolitan Space Navy then I fear for the future, and for the future crop of youth who have to endure the likes of this adjutant. “What do you have to say for yourself, ensign?!” The adjutant is so in my face now, that if either one of us even leaned forward even slightly, we could press lips together, and I’m not about to lose my first kiss to the likes of this guy!
“I think you’re a piec—” I utter without thinking, but before I can even finish the sentence, the sounds of boots clacking against each other cuts off a potential punch in retaliation.
“Parade rest!” One of the soldiers nearby orders. The spell cast upon by the red apple-fuming adjutant is undone, with some collective sighs of relief throughout the room. The adjutant clicks his tongue and does an about-face away from me to resume his former position next to other adjutants and his gang of MP.
The relief is only temporary. Almost at once, a new spell of cold tension fills the room once the familiar sight of our CO and XO—Buttermilch and Mazzareli—with their tow of general staff shuffling close behind. Each officer and soldier he passes is a wave of well-executed salutes.
They all look tired. A bit glum even. Neither Buttermilch nor Mazzareli makes any attempts to look in my direction—in fact, they seem to be staring lifelessly at the floor, avoiding eye contact with everyone altogether. Once they reach officer Asshole, Buttermilch informs him he is relieved of acting commander, and gestures for him to fall in line with the others. I watch with trained eyes as rows upon rows of eyes give him bloodthirsty gazes as he takes his place in line. It would not surprise me if something nasty happened to him later—karma for treating others like trash. An Eye for an eye and whatever.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Buttermilch and Mazzareli do not say a word to us the whole time. It’s eerily quiet, and my heart thumps faster against my chest. Only a cough breaks the silence here and there. There’s no reason that our CO and XO returned in such poor spirits, is there? Of course, there is the possibility of a worst-case scenario—but I shake my head. No… Buttermilch could not have failed, could he? He would have fought tooth and nail to persuade the commodore to change his mind. He has to! The fate of a thousand sailors rests upon his shoulders—Chal’s shoulders. He even went as far as to take a copy of the simulation with him just to show what happens if you take the wrong turn of events—if he was impressed by our play, then there’s no doubt Chal and his general staff would be, too! So then…
Buttermilch clearing his throat brings me back to reality. “—Well then, without further ado, I will now provide a briefing on the next phase of Operation Lucky Alphonse,” Buttermilch activates the over-head blue holographic projection of the SideBaltit and the Chal fleet, which I assume is a live feed of our current situation. “Due to the delayed actions of our situation at Side Malabo, the timetables for Lucky Alphonsesuffered considerably in the eyes of many. Some expressed fear we have missed our window of opportunity for a speedy occupation of the Cluster colonies and the immediate push for Lübeck.
“Then there are those who believe that, given the lack of response from Lübeck, that there is, in fact, no relief force coming—that Lübeck is, in all probability, not even aware of a Federation force in their sphere of influence—or perhaps bogged down by Rear Admiral DeRyck at Rouen. Given the latter, as well as an analysis of the simulation provided by Ensign Happ and Sub-Lieutenant Trachenberg…” All eyes shifted to us very briefly, and I felt an unnerving swell of embarrassment in my chest from all the gazes giving me validation. A part of me feels relieved, though, that my actions mattered somewhat. It wasn’t all in vain, but even still… this doesn’t explain why the XO and CO are so…
“—Commodore Chal was impressed by the results of the simulation brought on by splitting the fleet and informed us that we will maintain a single host until after the Cluster capital fell. However…” However… what? Don’t just leave us hanging you dolt! My poor heart can’t handle this cruel anticipation! Don’t you know better than to leave a girl hanging?! My chest is going numb from the rapid beating, and it’s hard to maintain proper breathing.
“…There was some criticism of Commodore Chal’s decision to maintain a cohesive force. In light of there being no counterattack from the Mafia, one camp viewed the lack of pirate reinforcements as a benefit and tried to convince the commodore to split one force to act as a vanguard to Lübeck.” There were some murmurs of objection to this from the others. I feel a cold hand clasp mine that nearly makes me jump from being startled, and I turn halfway to find Friederika looking worried sick in her eyes. She’s biting down on her lip in distress, as if to tell me this isn’t looking too good, Vicky.
Mazzareli gestures for the crowd to quiet down and Buttermilch continues, “…Commodore Chal attempted to appease both camps by holding a democratic vote; to split the fleet, or stay as one: yay or nay.” There is a brief pause from Buttermilch, whose gaze lowers to the floor. Friederika’s gradual warming hand squeezes down tighter on mine.
“The results of the democratic vote…” The voice of the CO trails off after a few more moments. His gaze shifts to the officers… then to his XO, then to officer Asshole… the holographic projection… and then right at me. The look of sadness in his pupils is enough to make my heart sink. I feel lightheaded. My knees get weak and my arms shake from lack of energy.
“Were a yay for splitting the fleet.” Buttermilch’s words are just loud enough for the room to hear. But at the same time, it doesn’t feel like the words reach me at all. His words make me feel like I’m in a fever dream. This is all a dream, and I’m going to wake up any minute now in the medical bay, with a dozing off Friederika at my side. Any minute now I will turn back time and relive those experiences leading up to meeting with Buttermilch again. Any minute now… I will beg Buttermilch to let me go with him. Any minute now… any minute now… I will beat the shit out of whoever maniac objected to an inch of their life. Any minute… any minute now… Any… minute now, I will prevent a catastrophe from unfolding. We’ll all go home. Together. Nobody will have to die. Lucky Alphonse will go home as a brilliant victory of Commodore Chal. Any…
But that moment never comes. This fever dream doesn’t end—it’s gotten hazy, but it doesn’t end. I’m stuck in my coma for just a little longer. This hallucination just goes on and on. That’s it, this is just one elaborate hallucination. There’s no way there would be an overwhelming vote for yay. There’s no logical explanation that it wouldn’t be a nay.This isn’t reality anymore—it never was after that explosion knocked me unconscious. It’s one long, big, lucid dream. Just like the one with Paul and the terrifying inferno. I can do whatever I want and wake up from this coma without consequences. I’ll be right back in the medical bay…
My legs move on their own, straight for Buttermilch. “V-Vicky?!” Someone calls out to me in complete surprise, but I don’t know who. Friederika? Paul? Officer Asshole? It doesn’t matter anymore. None of this is real. This is just some prophetic dream that I have to prevent.
The look in Buttermilch’s eyes. He’s surprised, for sure, but at the same time… he looked relaxed—perhaps he expected this. Maybe he was anticipating me to act out of line. Is it characteristic of me to be such a lousy subordinate by now? But none of this matters. I just want to do this before I wake up from this terrible dream. I want to give Buttermilch a piece of my mind so I don’t have to do it for real. Even if this wasn’t a hallucination… none of it will matter if we’re dead. I’ve said it a dozen times already, but the fact still remains. And it’s all the more true now… but it doesn’t have to be true. I lift one of my arms, palm outstretched and with great strength…
SMAACK!