BACK IN THE PRESENT AUGUST 15TH, 220, 1:30 AM DISSENLAND TIME ADMIRAL DERYCK’S MSN TRINIDAD
When I enter the bridge with a tray of coffee I find it packed more than it normally is. Over the last few days, more lenient shift breaks were given after enough complaints got through higher staff’s thick skulls. This means that normally around this time it would—under normal circumstances—be a skeleton crew. The past couple of weeks have left us on edge and the cracks were starting to show; the bridge staff were experiencing burnout—the higher-ranked officers claim it’s a necessity—the pirates could attack any moment now, and we have to be prepared.
But nothing has been happening. Not now, not earlier, and not since we arrived here back in July. Everyone was eager for action—but it turned out to be a whole lot of nothing. Is this for the best? The pirates have no incentive to attack us—they have the geographical advantage. They have an asteroid belt, a narrow hyper lane corridor, and a meteor shower that would make advancement difficult.
“Lieutenant Descartes!” The high-pitched voice of my friend, Vinnie Kuenstler snaps me out of my rambling. She jogs up to me from a flight of stairs after scouting me out from a passerby group of junior officers. It seems whatever is attracting attention is at the communications station. “Over here! Come on, come on!” She seems mildly excited despite the bags under her eyes. Poor thing has no sense of pacing herself when it comes to working. It may tell the higher-ups she’s a hard worker, sure, but to me, it just generates worry.
“Vinnie—” I put the tray down on the console next to us and hand her one of the plastic cups filled with lightly textured coffee “I don’t like having to remind you that you don’t have to be so stiff about formalities with me,” Vinnie receives the cup from me to take tiny sips from it and wincing all the same from its overpowering texture. I’ve known Vinnie long enough to know she isn’t mature enough to drink coffee black. And yet, she perseveres because we happened to run dry of other goods like caffeine tablets. And although Vinnie wouldn’t ever tell me outright, they are easier to bear with than what the Trinidad logistic officers state is coffee, but compared to Terra or even back home in Side Pallet, the Trinidad’s stores of coffee is an even greater insult to regular ersatz. “Also, I’m not even a lieutenant yet,” I waggle a finger at Vinnie “they are considering it—so I’m still just a sub-lieutenant.” Though with that said, it’s not really a secret that I am a full-fledged lieutenant in all but formality. To me it doesn’t make much of a difference anyway, it’s just a few extra knuckleheads to babysit aside from a greater sense of responsibilities.
“Um… sorry, Alexa,” Vinnie replies mellowly, staring into the green cup’s contents. The next moment, though, she throws her head back and empties down the shoddy quality coffee. Vinnie returns the plastic cup to me and shows her appreciation with a smile. “That aside, Alexa,” Vinnie looks a little more lively—excited even “we’re starting to get news from the reconnaissance craft that was sent out an hour ago.”
“The scout ships?” I utter in response and Vinnie nods. “That’s reassuring to know it wasn’t an operation in vain, at least,” I draw a sigh of relief knowing that those brave pilots have at least survived their mission long enough to send back a transmission. It was a risky mission done without any real escort—since anything larger than even corvettes would be detected by the pirates. It’s a mission Admiral DeRyck deemed a necessity but one that Rear Admiral Garofano objected to. Garofano openly expressed concern because the ones selected for the task were drawn from the colonial pool of servicemen and he fears that in the event their sacrifice is in vain it might cause discord in this hot mess of a fleet. It was only months ago DeRyck had to butt serious head with my father over the requisition of Ruthenian ships, and it was a situation only coolly defused with the help of Garofano—who himself is of Frankish descent and found common ground with my hotheaded father.
But even still, bravery can only get you so far when you don’t have so much of a means to defend yourself—and scout ships are only equipped with the equivalent of pea shooters which is only capable of scaring away crooks with converted trash ships; not Mafia pirates. Life would be so much easier if we used artificial probes, but unfortunately, we don’t have that cut out for us. “Are the transmission guys still decoding it?” I ask Vinnie as we make our way the way she originally came from.
“I think so… it seemed like a lengthy message,” Vinnie replies as we reach the lower end of the bridge. There are the two technicians there and what seems like guests trying to catch wind of what’s happening. They must be warrant officers or leading seamen at least since they snap to attention with salutes upon seeing me and Vinnie. It sometimes feels like everyone treats me differently when word got out I was the daughter of the Mad Dog of Ruthenia but I find the whole idea ridiculous. “At ease, you lots,” I mumble “Warrant Officer Manche, I heard from Ensign Kuenstler here that we received a transmission from the asteroid surveyor team?” I ask Manche, who has briefly slid the headphones down his neck when he addressed me.
“Affirmative, ma’am!” The shaggy-haired man answers “I received the transmission about two minutes ago and asked Ensign Kuenstler to notify a higher-up as soon as possible,” Manche puts the headphones back on and adjusts the microphone piece “they have been on radio silence up until then—and radio operators throughout the fleet had also reported they had no contact with it once Sub-Lieutenant Lievmann and her crew entered the proximity of the asteroid belt.”
That’s odd. Only the sub-lieutenant sent back a message? She was among the lowest ranking sent out as a shuttle leader, wasn’t she? If memory serves me right, there were at least four other lieutenants with her. “No other messages from Lieutenant Commander Goldwasser and them? Ah, well,” I remark as I cross my arms and take a step closer to the monitor, attempting to read off the screen—but before I can, Manche jumps from his chair.
“Huh? No, that can’t be right. Sub-Lieutenant Lievmann, are you sure?” Manche asks sternly, his eyebrows raised in suspicion “is there any way to send back visuals… Sub-Lieutenant Lievmann?” A single orb of transparent sweat beads down the side of his face. The sandy-haired warrant officer blinks several times and opens and closes his mouth repeatedly without uttering a word. Manche looks back at me with unsteady eyes as another drop of uncertainty races down his face. His Adam’s apple bobbles nervously in his throat.
With growing impatience, I rip the headphones from Manche’s head and press one of the earpieces against my own. “Sub-Lieutenant Lievmann, this is Sub-Lieutenant Descartes of the Trinidad! Get a hold of yourself and report status, over!” Even as I speak, garbled noise is the only response I get. Are our efforts to maintain communications in vain? No, I shake my head and a dawning realization gives me shivers. By breaking radio silence, they’re risking getting exposed to enemy search teams! “Lievmann, can you abort the mission?! Cut radio frequencies and return to the fleet at once!” But once again, there is only loud static. Was it all hopeless?
Manche sinks back into his seat in silence. Not a single one of us says a word—only the eerily crackling emitting from the headset drowns out thoughts. “Warrant Officer Manche…” my trembling voice cuts the silence “what was Lievmann able to tell you about what happened at the asteroid belt?” It’s a question we all know deep down—but it’s one we want to deny. Manche is silent for a moment and turns to speak but an interruption from his adjutant snaps him back to the console.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“I-incoming communication from CS-104!…” Manche stares closely at the monitor with dilating eyes “Lievmann’s shuttle?!” A light-brown sheet of paper is spat out from the console port and I step forward to rip it out before Manche can get it himself. And with intense bated breath, I look down at the sheet of paper with wide eyes.
PIRATE FLEET CAMOUFLAGED LARGE QUANTITY OF DUMMY BALLOONS GOD SAVE THE FEDERATION.
I can hardly believe what I’m seeing—this is so absurd I can’t take it seriously. But it is nonetheless most likely the last transmission from Lievmann, and they have no doubt put their lives in enormous danger to send this last message. As I start to register the note’s contents, boiling anger crumbles what was seconds ago a pristine piece of paper. The cigar has blown up on us— we’ve been had! I look up to see Vinnie and another looking over my shoulder drawing the same realization, teethes grit.
Admiral DeRyck needs to know about this immediately. I tear myself away from the group and sprint up several flights of stairs. Curious onlookers crane their heads as I rush by, leaving behind a blazing path of murmurs in my wake. When I reach the top deck, I skid to a halt to change direction and head for the elevator hub just outside the bridge room.
I skid to another halt in front of one of the elevator doors and rapidly smash the button to summon the lift. An eternity must have passed when I finally hear the humming of the cage as it responds to the query. And as the twin doors open, I instinctively try to burst in—only to take a few steps back in surprise. Standing before me, flanked by confused adjutants is the man himself with his deep-blue coat and signature mustache that curves like elegant handlebars.
“Hm?” The admiral looks down at me with calculating eyes “Sub-Lieutenant Dolz… er,” he clicks his tongue “my apologies, I remember you held that surname in disdain… Miss Descartes, is something the issue? It’s unlike you to be seemingly running around amok.”
After regaining my composure I return the admiral’s fixating stare, “I… we received a confirmation from CS-104—from Sub-Lieutenant Lievmann about findings from the asteroid reconnaissance team,” I press the slip of paper into his chest “it’s not much, but…” DeRyck carefully takes the paper from me and examines it closely. Likewise, his grip tightens on the abused scrap of paper and his cautious eyes turn to concern. The mustached admiral mutters something under his breath as if to cast doubt on the transcript.
“Sub-lieutenant, the CS-104?” DeRyck calmly asks as he slides the piece of paper into his breast pocket, then motions for us to walk briskly with him to the bridge. “Has the bridge staff been able to contact any of the other shuttle officers?”
“I ran out as soon as I read this note, so I’m not aware if they did or not,” I clear my throat, “it’s likely that Sub-Lieutenant Lievmann and her crew died in the line of duty. The radio operator who maintained the line with her—Warrant Officer Manche— he was unable to get any more out of her. That slip is all we currently have of the situation.” When we enter the bridge we exchange salutes with the staff present and make our way down the decks, but are stopped on the steps when someone frantically calls back to us.
“Emergency video transmission from CS-92!” One of the lieutenants shouts “it’s being sent to the whole fleet!”
DeRyck frowns, and likely shares the same thought as me: not just the Trinidad, but the whole fleet as well? “What are they doing out there? That will only induce a panic… very well, put it on the main screen,” DeRyck orders. A video feed is broadcasted on the largest screen—but it’s near impossible to make out. Either the signal is so weak or the shuttle has been damaged since the quality is garbled and somewhat white noise. I can barely make out an individual with a dark stained shirt shout something, but it’s rather difficult to make out what they’re saying. DeRyck returns up the steps “are we able to stabilize the connection?” He inquires as the staff scrambles to improve the video feed’s performance.
Finally, the connection does seem to get better, and to my chilling horror, the individual is gravely injured. “This is Lieutenant Commander Goldwasser… of the…” Goldwasser holds on to something as his shuttle violently shakes, and ducks momentarily. For a while, the signal is disrupted briefly before it is restored albeit to poorer quality. “I’ve lost contact with Lieutenant Freier of CS-424, Lieutenant Chanter of CS-89, and…” Goldwasser’s eyes widen as he turns his back to the screen to shout something, but it’s impossible to make out what he’s saying. The lieutenant turns back with sunken eyes “Sub-Lieutenant Lievmann’s shuttle suffered several direct hits…” he takes deep breaths and wipes sweat from his brow “our craft is all that remains of the reconnaissance team….”
I slam down on the stair railing. We should’ve sent escorts!
The signal gets a little more garbled and we are unable to make out what Goldwasser says from then on, but we are quick to try and stabilize it more.
“The pirate fleet…” Goldwasser gulps with bulging eyes “our worst suspicions were confirmed; the pirates aren’t at Valspon! We were fooled… as we were all fooled by the Scarface’s ruse!” Goldwasser gets closer to the screen “we couldn’t believe it ourselves… we flew too close to the sun for the forbidden knowledge, and suffered! The Castelforte… the Madame Scarface — she left Valspon!
“All that is left are a fleet of decoy ships! WE WERE FOOLED!” Goldwasser is thrown back and we can hear the wails of sirens from his side. Gasps fill the bridge room—powerless to do anything about the CS-92’s misfortune. The video goes pitch dark before a flashing red siren illuminates the room. For a few seconds, Goldwasser is nowhere to be seen after he was thrown back, but we see him struggle greatly to support himself at the console table. He looks off-screen in horror and only offers a scoff to his horrified spectators, “So they finally found us, huh,” the edge of Goldwasser’s mouth turns up in a grin “it was only a matter of time…”
Goldwasser pushes himself from the console and clacks his boots together. He snaps one hand flat over his temple and raises his chin slightly. “This is the final transmission from the CS-92 under Lieutenant Commander Rolando Goldwasser… Long Live the Federation! God Save the Federation!” And with that, the transmission cuts out.
My knees give out and I slump onto a part of the stairway step. People shout over 8ne another but it makes no difference now. Dozens of servicemen lost their lives over negligence. We got too confident they would slip in and out without issue. I run hands through flowing red hair. This is despicable!
Out of all the yelling, I selectively hear an exchange that gives me total chills.
“Commodore Schopp reports that his 19th and 37th Heavy Destroyer Squadrons are breaking formation and heading into the Rouen corridor!” Using the railing as support I weakly help myself up and gravitate towards the urgent staff officer relaying the news. “—The 5th Cruiser Squadron has also—”
The admiral surprises me when he slams a balled fist onto the console, “what the hell is Schopp doing?” DeRyck spits out “those are Ruthenian formations… where the hell is the discipline?!” More and more news of Ruthenian squadrons acting on initiative “I should’ve kept them in the rear…” DeRyck grunts “I will see to it their officers are faced with disorderly conduct,” for a brief moment DeRyck glares at me without a word before turning his back to me and heading away “Regardless… inform the fleet to assume battle-stations; we will begin engaging the enemy at Valspon! It is now or never. If only I had a little more time to contact Commodore Chal…!”
Once more I sink onto the stair step. Vinnie jolts up the stairs and crashes down to me, speechless. Will this be an easy victory, or have the curtains risen to a bloody brawl?