THE CASTELFORTE
The spectacle of a million lights. It reminds me of a memory from so many years ago, of a place I cannot recall and with loved ones long since gone. I must have been very little then, and remember finding myself seated on someone’s shoulders—perhaps it was my older brother or my papa. Getting a clear view of breathtaking lights that pop and explode with such rhythm that to a young child, it would surely be a memory they would never forget. One they would cherish for as long as they live—a capsule of simpler and better times, without a worry in the world. To look back on it and feel nostalgic; feel warmth over such a lovely memory.
And to have that memory resurface now—to have a memory dug up by death and destruction is sickening. A spectacle of a million lights—not one of innocence, but signifying the ongoing armed struggle between people. Where each spectacle of fireworks goes off not with rhythm to bring joy to hundreds gathered, but the determined purpose of killing another living being—and more than just hundreds at that.
And it sickens me. It sickens me to the core to have an innocent memory tramped on and become affiliated with this moment. The more upset I get about this, the more agitated my scar tissue gets. My attempts at rubbing my mature mark in an attempt to soothe the tissue fail, and in fact contribute to it all the same. As I hunch over in my chair I can only wish I had asked Olga to stay with me. I feel like I need her now more than ever, but asking her to leave the Taiga at this point would cause inconvenience for the rest of the fleet. It would cause a little bit of confusion in the ships she leads—and I have no other lieutenants capable of filling her position. I could, however, ask Richter to lead her ships. But I’ve asked too much of the man already and I wouldn’t want to fill his responsibilities more than what I ask of him already. I hate to admit it, but Olga’s attention is needed where it is best suited.
As I look on the ongoing barbaric flashes of light, we happen to pass by wreckages of ships that I recognize as Ruthenian designs. I had a suspicion that the unthinkable would happen; of the Metropol fleet breaching the asteroid defense lines. And to think that Jung managed to pull through for this long is impressive… but it feels like this battle has occurred too soon. And to think these metal husks are so far out from the asteroid belt is rather concerning. Was Jung on the verge of defeat, or was luring the Metropolitan fleet into the asteroid belt a part of his strategy? Perhaps I have squandered my ploy by resting over Lübeck, and even so much on the outskirts of Valspon?
A tap on the shoulder. I look up in surprise to see the big oaf Brutus standing over me with a snow-white handkerchief in hand. “Madame… are you okay?” He asks as hands me the pristine cloth “you’re rubbing your face too hard. If Olga saw you now, I think she’d faint if she saw the blood dripping from your face,” Brutus remarks with a stern frown. I must’ve been so lost in thought blocking everything out that I didn’t notice the burning tinge the scar is causing—and examining my slightly crimson palm. Actually, it must’ve been that I was accidentally digging into the scar tissue given the state of my fingernails.
“In comparison to the slaughter unfolding before us,” I reply coolly, “my pain and the oozing blood is trivial.” I offer Brutus my thanks and take the handkerchief from him. I do what I can by being careful rubbing my face and not further instigate the wound. Brutus only nods his head in silence. After that, we both observe the heated see-saw unfolding in the rapids of the asteroid field, particularly in the north sector of it where the fighting is the heaviest. I can only shudder when it’s evident just how overwhelming bearing the Federation numbers are on screen. To see it from a light-second away is one thing; to see it when it’s a few hundred kilometers away is another.
“This is the most intense meteor shower I’ve laid eyes on,” Brutus comments “If this occurred when we were still here in July, I sincerely doubt the Feds would bother, and turn back to bother someone else.”
“It’s because of this storm that Jung has been able to hold out until now,” I calmly note “I have no doubt if this meteor shower was even slightly less ferocious, Jung would have faced a total rout on his hands. Even now, it seems evident to me his men are facing their breaking point.” In the northern sector zone, I observe the center force facing a three to one ratio. It’s clear enough to me that the Metropolitans are only a few steps away from pushing through the pitifully small pirate fleet. I’m impressed that the Federation isn’t pressing their numerical advantage. Is it incompetence, or are the Metropol commanders simply acting cautiously with regards to the meteor shower?
In the south, another detached battle unfolds. There I cannot make heads or tails of it being a rout of ours or a deliberate ploy by Jung to split the Metropol armada. And given the numerical advantage of the Metropolitan fleet, I cannot tell if Jung’s motive serves any purpose when he is overwhelmed on all fronts. Did he intend to lure a squadron away under the pretext that I would arrive in time to eliminate them?
What a frustrating predicament I am in. Without any input from Jung’s perspective, formulating a battle-plan will be difficult given what I am working with. “Brutus, tell the radio handler to establish communications the Wulfhere—”
“The Wulfhere?” He repeats blinking owlishly “are you sure, Li? The Federation might intercept our transmission,” I give my nod. Though what the oaf says is true, of course. But given that the Metropol battle-lines haven’t reacted to my presence yet we might have a chance to remain undetected. Brutus relays the order to the communications technician, and after a while, his shoulders slump with disappointment. It’s not exactly a good telltale sign of what I would want to see or hear.
“The Wulfhere…?” I ask quietly. I glance over to the overbearing strategic monitor for the ship and find its trajectory racing towards friendly lines from the Federation’s.
“It’s difficult because of distance,” Brutus replies disparagingly “and Federation jamming means it’s nigh impossible to contact anything but the ships in its near vicinity.”
“There’s no helping it, then,” I remark trying to mask my disapproval. I look back at the map, and only then does it become apparent to me that something is amiss. Despite its overwhelming numerical superiority, the Metropol battle-lines seem stiff, almost as if they’re… paralyzed. When I skim over the Wulfhere’s overall trajectory, and the ships it passed through, it occurs to me what Jung is up to “the Metropol flagship,” I utter “Jung Lee was trying to disable it, no—” I shake my head “he did disable it!” Notwithstanding the ferocious meteor shower, it’s evident that the Federation command is just as thrown into disarray as we are.
Based on what limited info I can gather from the map, it may be possible Jung landed a direct hit on the flagship—the Trinidad. But without clear evidence and because we are too far away from the front-lines still, our sensors wouldn’t be able to get any clear visual from here. But from what I can tell, it doesn’t seem like the Trinidad is completely sunk given that we are picking up its signal on our systems.
“A message from the Montepuez!” A shout from below; likely the radio operator no less. As unfortunate as it is, that dreadful man I call father is still alive despite all the men and women dying for his sorry existence. I instruct Brutus to tell the bridge personnel to put him on screen, and it’s not long before the overbearing portrait of the ugly excuse for a human overlaps the strategic map.
“My, my! Look who came back to enjoy the lovely fireworks!” Father beams ever so forcefully “enjoy some teatime and maybe a nap over at Valspon and Lübeck, I bet?”
“Cut to the chase, father,” I reply a little with emphasis at the end “what happened before I arrived? What was the Wulfhere doing? Did he take out the Federation high command?—the Trinidad?” Zhui’s forced smile turns into a saggy, pursed frown.
“So many questions! So many possibilities!” Zhui expresses with contempt “if only that lovely old dog didn’t shut me down and went his merry little way to do whatever the fuck he felt like doing—them maybe—just maybe —I could give you a solid answer, eh?” Zhui strokes his beard while tapping his disfigured cheek “but I will tell you this; Jung was yearning to go out in a wonderful blaze of glory —and he got his wish…” Zhui tilts his tilt with a nod “—mmm, somewhat! His ship was hit by a torpedo—”
I spring up from my chair in bafflement “what?!” I nearly scream. It nearly makes Brutus flinch, but he places a giant hand on my comparably small frame and gently pushes me back onto my seat. Zhui raises a palm to the screen as a gesture.
“As alarming as that may be—and believe me—it gave me a good shake, too! But if he had died then and there, then the fleet would’ve died with him,” Zhui finishes with a shrug.
I don’t believe this, I can’t believe it. Why would Jung risk throwing away his life for a wretched tyrant?! “And yet… judging from the positions on the map, you were in his fleet, and didn’t go with him?!” I ask as Brutus tries to keep me in my seat. The Don answers by tilting his head and shrugging.
“There was a stray Fed squadron in our rear,” he says pitifully “someone had to take care of it—”
“You monster,” I blurt out gritting my teeth “you’re an absolute coward!” The burly hand resting on my shoulder gets a little tighter. The Don first raises his shoulders then rolls his eyes with a sigh of disbelief.
“Monster… coward, I am many things, my wonderful child,” Zhui states “believe me, it wasn’t obvious what Jung was doing until it was too late— far too late,” he shakes his head “I wanted to urge him to reconsider— truthfully! I did. I knew it would be suicidal, but the prideful had blocked all efforts to communicate with me, and…”
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“Enough, I think I heard enough out of you,” I interject, trying to calm myself by rubbing my scar “Brutus, cut the communications.”
“Li!” Zhui leans forward in his seat with a stern, ugly look “don’t make the same mistake as Jung did! You think I want to lose any more officers than I already have?!”
“Cut it, now!” I growl to a hesitant Brutus, who yells at the officer to kill the transmission. “I don’t want to hear another word out of this miserable man I call father.” Just as the Don opens his mouth to interject, the video feed ends abruptly. Brutus glances over at me conflictingly before looking over the railing he leans on.
“Li…” Brutus trails off quietly.
“All that man does is provoke people into doing fruitless things. Don’t let him fool you for a second into thinking he suddenly feels sentimental for any of us,” I say coldly “that wretched old man wouldn’t care less if someone with authority challenging his own would die fruitlessly.”
Brutus cuts loose a sigh and leans with his back to the railing. He glances behind him at the overlay monitor. Not much has changed on either battlefield—the north has become largely static combat-wise. From the actions on the map, I can surmise we hold one clear advantage over the Metropol armada: we’re terribly overstretched, but due to simply smaller numbers we have an easier time dodging the meteorites and taking potshots at the enemy. The Federation, on the other hand, I wager, is still in a state of leaderless chaos as they juggle between taking initiatives, waiting for orders, dodging the shower rapids, and struggling to use their numerical advantage to increase the width of the front-lines. But so long as the torrent of meteorites persists, the Metropol ships will be unable to do anything.
But like the inevitable flow of time, our double-edged advantage will only last for so long. The shower is unpredictable and it could slow down at any given moment. Or it could last hours— days, even. But regardless, will we even have the fuel, willpower, or munitions to continue fighting?
Even so, for the time being, our men there can hold out for a little longer— they have to. The most troubling situation so far, however, is the center—there hardly exists any opposition to the Federation in that space zone. The only number of ships we have present is a small detachment that my father has under his command. If the Federation so much as decided to maneuver alongside the flow, he—and the rest of the lot—would be a goner. And as much as I would care for the man to be dead, I need him alive for just a little longer. If I return to Lübeck without the man alive, victorious, there’s no telling what fate may wait for me.
That just leaves me with the self-contained battlefield in the south. Regardless of Jung’s intention with that tactic, if our ships get annihilated down there then there’s a possibility of encirclement—worst yet, they might march off to Lübeck. I would have to consider this the most mobile element of the Metropol armada—at least for the time being. Whatever occurs down here could prove decisive.
As I heave a sigh and relax my head on the chair headrest, I can’t help but worry that this situation Jung has thrown into my lap is a precarious one. When I see the man, I will have to give him an earnest scolding. Whichever position I decide to assist, the center and opposite flank will collapse. It would be nice if my luck were a little better, but unfortunately, that’s just how it is. My eyes wander around the map screen, searching for an answer to this mountain of a dilemma I find myself in.
Should I divide my fleet? No. If I split my fleet up now, I would be repeating the Metropol mistake at Baltit; I would be playing straight into the tactic of divide and conquer. Similarly, since most of my ships lack transponders—which were transferred to the balloon ships—it could cause a panic and lack of coordination with whichever fleet I decide to send them to. For that reason, I would be better off maintaining a single host of phantom ships. That way I can reliably relay orders through shuttles and communications with the Hugh and Taiga. It’s not the most ideal, but compared to throwing in additional confusion of wandering phantom ships and potential friendly-fire that may transpire, this is the most sensible solution I have.
My eyes drop to the now-discolored cloth being rubbed in my vividly-red hands. Sensible solution. Just the thought of it makes me scoff. Is there any sensibility to be had in getting my hands bloodied to achieve my goals? If only I was more assertive at Brunsbüttel . If only I tried harder to convince Simon of the righteousness of a coup. Nobody would have to die for empty victories. Nobody would have to pay the price of ensuring an old scoundrel like Zhui to continue his bloody reign over Toscana!
“Madame… er, Li,” the indication of a throat being cleared brings me out of my agonizing thoughts. “The lieutenants in the other ships are asking for your next order,” Brutus states flatly. I give a nod and my gaze drifts to the map standing behind Brutus for one last decision on the next course of action. If that young blonde was here—that Victoria Happ-Schwarzenberger—what would she do? Would she seek to eliminate the mobile squadron on the left flank, or take a gamble on the Trinidad much like Jung has done before? Or maybe something entirely that I haven’t thought of? From the looks of things, there is still the decoy fleet—albeit smaller than I left it, but still tactfully useful.
I cut loose with an exhaustive sigh, and then make eye-contact with Brutus. “Inform the fleet that we will set out as one for the southern zone—we will relieve the fleet, which is led by the Kafraiya from the gist of things—and then engage the main Federation dogs later,” I state coolly. Brutus’s face turns pale as he blinks owlishly.
“W-we’re not going to relieve captain Lee in the north?” He says stammeringly. I give a shake of my head.
“It’s too risky to split the fleet now. The Metropol ships in the southern zone pose a great tactical risk to the overall flow of the battle. If the Kafraiya loses there, then I will have to engage them head-on… and I can’t afford any losses. Jung is a man like none other—he will understand my decision and hold his ground,” I remark as I rub the edge of my cheek scar “it’s a gamble I’m willing to take… if only because I have no other valid options. Also… instruct the fleet to probe the Ruthenian debris for any stragglers. Who knows if Jung wasn’t cautious about ships that survived this massacre.”
With a hesitating salute, Brutus heads off to deliver the orders. I sink into my seat and gently wipe my face with the red cloth.
Hang in there, Jung. Hang in there for just a little longer.
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Against all odds, our phantom fleet manages to intercept the southern Metropol contingent without issue. This grand surprise attack could not have been accomplished if it were not for the spearhead lead by Olga’s Taiga. Thus, the Federation lapdogs remain none the wiser until the last possible second. I imagine they perceive us as just another part of the asteroid torrent heading downstream. And the subsequent horror when they realize in their dying moment that this isn’t a mere Federation battleship coming to their aid—but a Mafia fleet led by the Madame Scarface.
Oddly, the annihilation of the Metropol squadrons feels so swift and with such sound execution that a part of me leads me to believe this couldn’t be the same Federation military that I encountered at Abassi all these years ago. Have the Federation been training their men so poorly since then, I wonder? Perhaps their overeagerness to blindly take advantage of my absence contributed to their downfall.
Perhaps I overestimated the Metropol commanders. If I was facing Miss Happ once again, would she have protested the split-up of these squadrons? I can only wonder if I overcommitted to the south. If the squadrons here were so weak-willed, then perhaps I could’ve handled it with even a fraction of my fleet. Maybe sending the rest of the fleet to assist Jung would’ve been more beneficial. Regardless, the mobile task force is gone, and all that I need to focus on now is the battle in the northern space zone.
After examining the aftermath and ensuring that no Federation ship remains, I lean over the railing and look down at the bridge staff below. “Establish contact with the Kafraiya at once,” I shout down to the radio handler as I lean over the railing. It doesn’t take long before a grizzled old man with a distinct handlebar mustache appears on the mainframe screen.
“Aye! If it isn’t the star of the show!” The old codger bows on-screen and twirls his snow-white mustache “I would say that I am relieved to be rescued… but me and my tired men are also inclined to curse you for arriving so bloody late! To be rescued by a fashionably-late wrench… it’s a dreadful thought! I was fully capable of handling the situation myself!” He retorts hoarsely. But with an ear-to-ear grin like that, I find it difficult to be irritated by the captain.
“Captain… Emmanuel,” I squint drumming my thoughts for his name “I’ll let your insult slide this time—so long as you rush to the aid of Jung Lee in the northern sector. I’ll send a few of my ships to reinforce you, as well.”
“Hooo…?” Emmanuel squints at me with pursed lips “you intend to throw me out of this hot-shit mess into another fiery pan? You have some guts, lass… not even a moment to relax these brittle bones of mine,” the gray-haired captain groans. Even after all the hardship that his fleet went through, he still has the positivity to be casual with his remarks.
“My apologies, Emmanuel, I promise that you will have the chance to rest for as long as you’ll like when this is over… but for now, I merely ask that you direct your complaints at the Metropol fleet instead for as long as possible,” I say warmly with a wincing smile. Emmanuel glares at me with narrow eyes again.
“And what do you intend on doing, lass? Kick back and relax while me and the men lie down like the dogs we are and take our beatings?!” Emmanuel says shaking his head “don’t be surprised if you see my head on a stick, lass.”
“I need you and Jung to hold out long enough for me to sweep behind and snipe their flagship. If I can take out their chain of command, I believe I can bring a swift end to this battle.”
Emmanuel looks off-screen at his monitor and cuts loose with a sigh. He looks back at me with a brief nod. “I have faith in you, Li. Once I reorganize my men and stock up on munitions, I will march out to the north as soon as I can,” the Kafraiya captain concludes with a fist pump to the chest which I also do, and the transmission ends.
“A sweep behind the Feddie dogs, eh?” The voice of Brutus as the oversized bear makes his way up the flight of stairs. “Do you think you’re capable of pulling it off, Li? Would it not be better to reinforce the front-lines directly?”
“If I start to doubt myself about it,” I remark as I gently stroke my scar tissue “then even I won’t be able to fool myself into thinking it’ll work. I believe I make a crucial mistake of overcommitting here. I don’t want to add to the list of blunders I’ve—”
A scream from below cuts me off. Jolting back to the railing, I peer down to see a crowd of people forming around the radar console. A Federation attack? No, that shouldn’t be possible. There shouldn’t be any ships left in this zone, and it could take the Federation at least another hour to react.
“A Federation cruiser! It’s a single Federation cruiser!” A crew member shouts with panic.
“What the hell are you waiting for, take it out! Spread out before it can strike at us!” I angrily massage my mature scar tissue. Just what the hell are our ships doing?! Did they lower their guard for even a second, thinking that there would be no more stragglers? I should’ve been more thorough!
A camera sensor shows on the mainframe computer screen of a single gray ship as it emerges from the large swath of wreckage drifting aimlessly amid bodies of asteroids. Just before it readies to discharge its batteries, the Federation cruiser is struck by a single projectile—then it swerves, nearly capsizes, and finally crashes into the nearby meteor. Immediately afterward, several more projectiles pummel the side of it and blast the asteroid behind it.
And it should’ve ended there, but it doesn’t. And as time slows to a crawl, I watch in horror as just before it goes up in a fiery reddish ball, several stray missiles are discharged in time to avoid the resulting shock-wave—and most of the missiles spiral out of control and detonate harmlessly.
But one propels towards us, and despite most pilot’s best attempts to steer clear of its path, it races past most—and detonates on the broadside of one unfortunate enough to maneuver out of the way. And with a gaping mouth, I—as well as the Castelforte bridge—watch in shock as the ship in question sinks and drifts out of control.
Fate. It respects no one and treats everyone with equal cruelty: the Kafraiya— the old and seasoned captain Emmanuel—has been sunk.