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NEAR THE PLANET OF GASSON, THE FRANKISH DOMAIN EARLY AUGUST, 220 UC
Our stay near the Clusters at Gasson is spent undergoing many grueling sessions of on-site training. These are done in the form of simulations and strategical planning. At first, these were intended to keep us preoccupied and further accelerate our academic training. To echo the words of those that came before “a bored occupying army with nothing to do is a scary army”.
These are pre-determined scenarios ranging from suppressing a Frankish destroyer unit gone rogue to being caught in the middle of a full-fledged Frankish revolution, and an invasion from the Kongriega corridor, and so on. At one point, we are given simulation prompts such as joining forces with the Franks in a hypothetical war with Metropolitan Sol. Some of the details around these ranged from being rather simple to elaborate war games.
Eventually, these become dull. What was novel at first would become increasingly mundane once results yield predictable results. Among the Yilan’s cadet officers is a yearning for something new, something that gives meaning to our deployment. We start to miss our loved ones back home… everyone is miserable and wants to go home. It becomes a consensus among us that there is no point in being here… if the Franks are not going to revolt, then where is the precious taxpayer money going to? Why would we not join the armada as it undergoes its pirate campaign? Though, for that question, I guess we have a side objective of observing the pirate nests in the Brenaco star zone.
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August 10th, 0600 hours, it’s the usual call to muster. Of course, when you’re in a ship drifting in space, it’s kind of hard to distinguish what’s day or night when you’re not looking at your wristwatch. A lot of folks show up grumpy, and for good reason. We have no idea why there happens to be muster when it is supposed to be an R&R day. As we board the shuttles leaving commander Buttermilch’s MSN Yilan we can only wonder what Hugo has in store for us. After we arrive, we drag our feet into the officer's strategic planning room.
After a while, commodore Hugo arrives, and after we salute and come to attention, the Commodore orders us at ease. Hugo takes his seat and begins smoking a cigar, “I imagine you’re all curious why I ordered a summon without prior notice,” he pauses, partly to suck on the cigar and probably to confirm our silent acknowledgments before continuing, “I will get this out of the way now. This has nothing to do with amateur war games or any drills for that matter,” Hugo says after puffing a few rings of smoke, much to the disgust of some of the younger officers who weren’t broken in by the excessive fumes yet.
“No. This is something far more important than any theoretical training,” Hugo gives us a smirk “believe me, if I had my way, I wouldn’t force you guys through it but it was necessary. Between you guys and me, I hated that bullshit in my time at the academy. I valued my time in sports,” as Hugo continues, I notice some of the senior officers twitching their eyes in unison when Hugo makes that remark “as many of you may not be aware, our liaison officers operating in the south have forwarded us intelligence regarding a developing situation there.”
“And that is?” It is my Yilan CO, Buttermilch, that asks the question. The Commodore shifts in his seat, turning to face the Yilan commander before giving his reply.
“A fleet is assembling down there. Our guys weren’t sure at first what they were—pirates, vigilantes… but as more intelligence was squeezed out of the local Frankish garrison, they finally made an important discovery.
"They were Toscana pirates. Specifically, the warlord Dong Zhui’s Mafia regime.” Toscana pirates? Mafia regime? From what I remember, we have very little knowledge of them. We were sometimes given snippets on them during our planning exercises: vicious barbarians who terrorized the Merican regions and are led by the larger-than-life figure, Dong Zhui, along with the fearsome Madame Scarface that serves under him. But they are never a big factor during the simulations—the fear of hypothetical war came from across the Kongriega corridor, never the Toscana region, I believe.
And yet, still, a chill runs down my spine. Somehow, I know where this is going. There is an unsettling aura in the room as Hugo continues with his briefing and the purple haze of tobacco suffocates us. “Naturally, this makes our Frankish friends feel a bit uneasy—uncomfortable, even,” Hugo says with a wave of his hand “I’m sure where I’m getting at is making some of you nervous as well. We don’t want to repeat the troubles our friends are having with the Ruthenia folk by ignoring them in their time of need.” Out of the corner of my eye, I notice my Yilan XO, Mazzareli, leaning over to Buttermilch to murmur something. I can’t hear what they exchange, but deep down I suppose all three of us arrived at the same sentiment.
Commodore Hugo continues, “…Indeed, the liaison officers believe this movement is the springboard for an invasion of the Frankish domain. Naturally, we do not want that to happen,” Hugo gestures to a lanky fellow standing at attention at the entrance, “secretary, if you may,” Hugo says. With a salute only a mother would love, I watch in total silence as the secretary passes by each attendee to hand out slips of paper.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
When he gets to me, I hold out my hand expecting a copy. But with a stern, scary gaze, he hands it to the girl sitting beside me—a sub-lieutenant and my best friend, Friederika Trachenberg. “Sorry, miss, there is not enough for everyone. Please observe from other’s papers,” the secretary says in a condescending tone. I give a nod, but it still kinda stings. It was definitely one of the more thick Francien accents I heard during my time in the Frankish domain, but I understood what he is saying, if barely.
“Well then, what’s this all about then, hm?” Peeking over Friederika’s shoulder, I skim through the contents since I want to get out of her hair as quickly as I can.
OPERATION LUCKY ALPHONSE ... SORTIE to VALSPON, ... INTERCEPT MAFIA FLEET ... and OCCUPY TOSCANA CLUSTERS… …AHEAD of DERYCK’S ARMADA …For FAME and GLORY
“Right, sorry about that, Kiki.” I scoot back into my seat to give Friederika back personal space. An operation aimed at venturing into the 217 Mafia? It doesn’t seem like a bad plan… but was that last bit, ‘For fame and glory’ really necessary? Wait a minute… Brenaco. Come to think of it, I didn’t see any mention of it in there. Did I skim too fast? I turn to invade Friederika’s personal space again. But before I can, I look up in time to catch a glimpse of Buttermilch clearing his throat, and standing before his peers.
“Commodore Hugo, if I may.” Hugo met eyes with his vocal subordinate.
“Yes, I noticed something about this situation was bothering you and your lieutenant. What is it, commander Buttermilch?” Buttermilch puts the slip of brochure down and turns to present a 3D map of the Frankish domains for the room to see, and points to one of the systems we were all too familiar with in simulation sessions.
With another clear of his throat, Buttermilch begins to speak, “regardless of the developing situation with the Mafia fleet, lieutenant Mazzareli and I believe it is imperative to subdue the Brenaco pirate haven first. If we are forced to take initiative against the Toscana mafia, they may take advantage of our absence and raid nearby Frankish settlements.
"There is also the issue of them siding with Zhui and striking at us from behind. I also noticed—as many of us did—there is a distinct lack of the pirate haven in the operation file." There is a murmur of agreements after he concludes. Hugo takes a puff from his cigar and exhales more of the fumes that remind me of the forecast back home.
“Commander Buttermilch, is that all you are concerned with? Well then, if nobody else wishes to add anything else. Then allow me to explain some things.
“Simply put, there is no reason we will need to worry about Brenaco. Why? Even before our arrival, I was informed by senior government officials they have been surprisingly dormant. As I’m sure many of you have experienced firsthand, the Franks have state-of-the-art anti-ship weaponry installed in their Clusters. I would dare say it is better than the ones installed above our beloved Terra!” Hugo lets out a scoff akin to a chuckle before continuing, “if the Brenaco brigands dared sally out they would most certainly be unable to harass their neighbors.
“Regarding their possible allegiance with Dong Zhui, I do not believe it is feasible. The liaison officers operating from out of Bordeaux suggested there is no evidence that the 217 Mafia has ever set their eyes beyond their Northern borders. It seems from their theories that the Don has been more interested in consolidating his authority in Toscana than outward expansion.
“Furthermore, the Brenaco fleet is estimated to be fairly larger than our size. It would indeed be unfortunate if they dared attack us from behind, but that operates on the assumption they will be aware and are willing to face attrition from Frankish Clusters to challenge us. Not once have they dared to engage us in pitched battle since our time here, either.
“That is why I decided to order a preemptive strike against the Mafia forces. I had personally examined the files procured by the liaison officers and determined that their strength is favorable for us to strike at. If we stood by and allowed them to enter the Frankish realms, it would put us more at odds with either force if the Brenaco brigands sided with them—which Dong Zhui would certainly want to do, no?” Hugo finishes by sucking on his cigar once more. It sounds like a solid counter-argument… but something was nagging at me still. Something wasn’t right and it was making my stomach turn. With another glance at Buttermilch and Mazzareli, it would seem like two of them feel the same way.
“Victoria, are you okay?” Friederika whispers, glancing over at me out of concern. Being the wonderful friend I am, I lie, of course, and nod.
There is a moment of silence before Buttermilch sighs and sits down in his seat. Hugo blows fumes before addressing us, “if that's satisfactory for you lot, then please return to your flagships to relay the operation plans to your crews. I want the fleet to depart for Valspoon by the 13th.” With a final puff of his cigar, he exclaims, “for fame and glory, gentlemen. Dismissed!”
In the shuttle back to the MSN Yilan, I sit with Friederika in the cramped passenger area. Some of the officers are mildly excited for the things to come. Glancing around, it’s evident others had quietly gone over the facts in their heads too. When I look at my watch again, it was a little past 0900. Maybe it’s not obvious to us now, but I am left to wonder if the assembly of a few lasting a few hours has dictated the flow of history and the fates of thousands.
“For fame and glory, huh?” I muse, rolling a few of my lockets of hair, Friederika looks at me puzzled.