AROUND THE SAME TIME AS THE IDES FORMATION IS DESTROYED
THE YILAN
Friederika did not stick around on the bridge for long. The scene of so many… limbs and injured is too much for her. She gently tugs me on the shoulder to get my attention.
“Vicky… I’ll go on ahead to see if Mazzareli and the others are up yet,” Friederika says quietly. She tightens her grip on my sleeve, “—be safe, okay? I won’t… be long. I’ll come back as soon as I can,” with my eyes still trained on the floor I only give her a slight nod.
“See you, then Kiki,” I reply wryly. I look up for a second to exchange sad eyes with Friederika, who sees herself off with a brief salute and dragging her feet out of the bridge.
Although Friederika is a rank above me, normally she should be the one to remain on bridge as the highest-ranking officer. But for the time being, she has no desire to have all this responsibility piled on her. The longer she is here on the bridge, the less she acts like Friederika and more like Sub-Lieutenant Trachenberg.
I got us into this predicament. I am the one who inadvertently caused the deaths of hundreds of people as a result of my blunder—and I should be the one who sees us to safety; to allied lines at Side Baltit.
…A blunder, huh? With an exasperated sigh, I turn around and rest on the top of a console machine and listen in on a report being given on our navy’s status report. They are not particularly good news; and each transmission causes me to further sink my head into my arms.
Over thirty percent of our naval force is destroyed. Around ten percent suffered considerable damage. The chief technicians of those in particular expect a few hours worth of repairs for combat effectiveness. In the meantime, most of the crews have been transferred to other ships until they’re fully repaired. As a result, this slows our pace because of the skeleton crews. We’re more or less at half combat strength, half overall speed.
The only good news out of all of this is the enemy isn’t chasing after us. I was cautious in setting up a rearguard squadron, but given that our overall speed has slowed down considerably because of the skeleton ships I gave in to permitting a rearguard action. There were lots of fears at first they would turn around and harass us—or even finish us off for good. But the rearguard action is more of a false sense of security. In reality, there’s no way we will be able to turn all our ships around and give the Scarface a tough time.
I slightly raise my head from my arms. The warrant officers in front of me continue to jolt down relayed reports of casualties. Two hundred total injured here, a few more hundred killed there.
The most we are capable of is giving the pirate fleet a tough time. There’s no way I can think of a way to counter the Scarface. I tighten the grip on my sleeves.
Our doctrine of firing in sections and advancing is not suitable for combat against a well-organized foe—not something as tenacious as the Scarface. The moment they close distance it’s over for us.
But what I can’t get my head around is the Scarface chose not to engage us again. From what we could tell, the Scarface’s navy remained stationary before they changed course for the Ides formation. Were they giving a moment of rest? Deciding on their next move? I will possibly never know. And truthfully, it is not important right now.
A few of our cruiser squadrons demanded to rendezvous with the allied fleet heading for Ides, I didn’t have much of a choice but to accept because they would’ve gone in any case. I managed to keep in contact with them but after a while communications were cut short. Some of the warrant officers suggested sending a shuttle to investigate but I decided it could be too risky and did not give the order to do so.
Looking around I can tell; nobody wants to admit it, but the Ides formation is most likely lost. What ships that were on our radar in their sector disappeared. Some of the technicians surmised they do not have transponders, so it is impossible to tell if they were overrun or not. I can only hope they took some of the pirates down with them.
With a sigh, I push myself away from the console top and proceed to seek out the next officer in charge which doesn’t take long for me to spot. A man at least in his late twenties or early thirties at the least: tired eyes, subtle cheek freckles, and short dark wavy hair, “well then, warrant officer… uh,” I trail off unable to remember the man’s name. I’ve only now been acquainted with most of these lower-class officers, so remembering any of their names gives me a mild headache when there’s so many of them.
The freckled warrant officer turns to me in surprise but provides me a calm smile, “Warrant Officer Casavant, ma’am?” He responds coolly.
I don’t think I can ever be used to being called ma’am, particularly so when they’re much older than me. It just doesn’t feel right.
“Er… Casa—er, Warrant Officer Casavant, if no more reports are coming in, I will be leaving the bridge temporarily. I will be handing over command to you until further notice. I will be joining Kiki— Sub-Lieutenant Trachenberg checking in on the lieutenant commander and bring him up to date if need be,” I finish with a textbook salute, and most of the bridge crew return the favor, “continue to establish communications with the commodore and gather reports from the fleet in the meantime,” if I have to be honest with myself; I don’t feel fit for command. Casavant seems like a more reasonable person to assume command.
“Understood, you can count on me,” Casavant says assuredly before returning to work.
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Leaving the bridge behind me the immediate corridors and subsequent areas are just as distressing. Shelves lay toppled, various small items lie scattered about. If this were a more lighthearted atmosphere, I would want to think this was a party that got a little crazy. And with a timid sigh, I accept that is not the case.
As with the bridge, the windows are sealed tight with shutters. Some corpses line the walls. Neatly covered in white or teal blue sheets, others have been done with haste. For some, their sheets are tainted by splotches of dark red. I wound up so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t notice I nearly trip over one of them. Part of the sheet was pulled away from my footing and I kneel next to it to pull the sheets over them—and I pause.
A young woman with long streaks of golden hair and green, dull eyes. Her lips are a light shade of purple, and her skin pale—cold to the touch. Her mouth lies gaping, eyes frozen in terror. The poor thing must have been digging at her neck as there are claw marks dug into it; a desperate cry for help, a fruitless attempt for air. For a moment I feel the need to massage my own. My chest weighs heavy with pain.
I see myself in her—no, she is me. A poor child caught up in the ill-fated decision to split the fleet. An incompetent decision decided by a few that cost the lives of many. My grip on her sheet tightens. I failed her, I failed her and so many others.
Could I ever look at her family in the eyes? Could I—or anyone else—truthfully tell her parents she died with honor—that she died bravely?
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And not just her, but the others among this corridor too—and the many, many more who will never return home to their families, and a proper burial. The thought that so many share the same fate sends a chill down my spine.
There’s nothing I can do for her or the others now. I close her eyes before carefully pulling the blanket over her exposed body. A group of personnel pass by me, but stop nearby and get to work putting the bodies on stretchers. I do not make eye contact with any of them, but I can feel some of them burning their gaze into me. As they get nearer to me and the girl next to me, I get up and give them space so they can put her on a stretcher and move on to the section of corpses.
On the way to the medical bay, I stop by the mess hall—which was transformed into a makeshift hospital. Most tables are cleared so that some patients have a place to lie on. Others are on bedrolls or are perched up against the walls. There is a staggering ratio of patients to doctors—many injured are left unattended and stare aimlessly. Spaced apart by a few meters are medical trays containing bloody shards or other metallic objects I can’t identify. Screams of agony fill the air as doctors tend to wounded—either stitching wounds or amputation—a sight that makes me cringe and look away.
It only makes me a little more angry at myself. Regret. If I had woken up a little earlier… just a few minutes earlier, could I have saved Buttermilch? Could I have gotten medical personnel to the bridge sooner and saved their lives? Even so, would Buttermilch have passed command over to me, or would he instruct me to order things differently? What would have Mazzareli or Prince done if they were revived earlier?
I deflate with a deep sigh. There is no use lamenting over it now. Examining the mess hall more, I do not make out Friederika, Mazzareli, or Prince—although I do see Margot dart from table to table trying to do what she can. But I can’t ask her if she knows where Friederika or our commanding officers went. I’ll just have to find them on my own—most likely they are in the nearest medical station.
With a deflated sigh, I move on.
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I pass by occasional crowds of personnel going about their business and finally come across Friederika. She leans against the wall next to the medical bay door, one arm holds the other up as she strokes her jaw in ponder. She hasn’t noticed me yet, but from where I stand I can tell she is worried sick.
I step closer to her without saying a word. When my shadow catches her eye, she looks up at me with deep concern, but upon registering it is me she gives me a sudden beaming smile, “Vicky! It’s about time you came… you should know better than to keep a girl waiting.”
I’m a bit relieved that Friederika can still keep a positive attitude through all this—even if she is perhaps faking it. “Well, maybe you should’ve told me where you were even going, and I wouldn’t have to play a wicked game of hide and seek,” neither of us so much as laugh, but instead scoff lightheartedly, “is Mazzareli and Prince awake yet?” I ask her as she rubs her shoulders, wincing a bit in the process.
“…Um, yeah, they’re awake now. I told them what had happened so far, but…” she trails off as her eyes lower to the floor.
“Did you tell them what happened to Buttermilch…?” I ask but it surprises me when Friederika looks at me with a furrowed brow. Oh—right, I never did tell her what happened to the former commander, did I? Or the bridge crew, for that matter. I was going to, but I was too lost in thought to even think about it. It’s simply not the time for it right now.
“Huh?… w-what happened to Buttermilch?” She asks as if reading my mind. I take a deep breath and tell her about the fate of Buttermilch. I didn’t omit anything such as him being dead before he could actually pass on command to me. Technically this means Friederika should be in charge right now. “I… I had no idea,” Friederika stammers, turning away from me, “I honestly had… I’m sorry.
“That must’ve… been… terrible. Terrible to have to witness that…” Friederika says with a lowered voice, “you haven’t told anyone else yet, have you?”
I shook my head, “of course not. Our morale would’ve plummeted if I announced that to the fleet back then… and frankly, I… don’t know when I should. I think when I tell Mazzareli, I’ll… suggest he do it himself—I think it would be better for him to announce it,” I take a few steps toward the door, just far enough so that it doesn’t automatically open.
“Kiki…
“…Do you think I did the right thing? Do you think I made the right call to have the fleet… charge through the Scarface? They say we…” I clear a lump in my throat, hands pumped into fists, “—they say we have a thirty percent casualty rate… Kiki… that’s not measured in numbers, or lives, or individual names… that’s just a percentage. So many people have died as a result of my decision… so many people died of my incompetence— I’m no better than the commodore or any of his staff, or people higher up in the Federation, am I?
“Buttermilch… he told me he resented the higher brass because of incompetence, he was angry at himself because he was powerless to prevent certain things from happening,” I try to keep my throat cleared, my eyes are getting a little watery “Buttermilch slaved away to be more influential… to prevent the same mishappenings… to reform the navy, and he was powerless to the end… we couldn’t change a damn thing!
“I don’t know if I made the right choices, Kiki… I think… I made a blunder; disastrous blunders that cost us so many innocent lives… and I have to live with these regrets, I have to live with the death of people like Buttermilch, and even though we did so much to accomplish so little… I should’ve done things differently. There would’ve been far fewer losses if I had ordered the fleet to organize a retreat better…
“I should’ve left the fleet in far better hands, what was I thinking? What could I have done better?” I ask, bitterly grinding my teeth. I have to wipe my eyes since the water was dripping down my cheeks, “I’m just as powerless as Buttermilch was…” I choke, and the next moment I feel something warm press against me from behind—and arms that wrap around my waist. Friederika rests her head on my back.
“You don’t have to be so hard on yourself, Victoria,” she says with a crack in her voice “you did all you could, Victoria. There’s no way anyone would have a right or wrong way in that… situation,” her hug tightens if only a little, no matter what…” she trails off for a chance to clear her throat, “people were going to die. It doesn’t matter if it was only twenty or a thousand—people were going to die. You could’ve… beaten up the commodore—and people would’ve still died.
“So please…” her voice is a lot more shakier, “so please—don’t blame yourself too much. Don’t put the blame on anyone—we all screwed up. You, me, Buttermilch, the commodore… this whole thing ended up as a mess. Victoria…
“You managed to save so many lives. The ones that died—they died so that we could live —so that we could… so that we can live on— for them, for Buttermilch and everyone else…” I can feel her shaking her head against my back “I don’t think you did anything wrong—I don’t think you’re incompetent—I don’t think anyone will blame you for what happened.
“I don’t care how many people died, Victoria—as long as you’re alive, nothing else matters to me. If you were among the ones that died… I would’ve… I would’ve given that Madame lady my wrath—no matter what it took, even if I died in the process.”
I’m at a loss for words. My head is spinning from Friederika’s revelations. But before I can fully process what she said, the weight on my back is lifted—and then I’m abruptly shoved towards the door.
As if in anticipation the door slides open with a whoosh, and I practically trip through the open door into the medical bay—the door immediately closes after me. After regaining my footing, I straighten up to a rather quiet atmosphere—almost every bedding is preoccupied.
I look behind me, but it doesn’t seem like Friederika joined me—she must’ve set me up for a meeting with Mazzareli and Prince. The little…!
“Ensign Happ?” The familiar voice of the lieutenant commander reels me around. At the far end is a puzzled Mazzareli, standing adjacent to a bed. At another bed, a curious Prince sits upright.
But the bed Mazzareli stands by is the one that draws my most attention; the resting body of Commander Buttermilch.