They Shan't Grow Old

Lawrence, crushed like everyone else under the weight of fear’s avalanche, could only look in horror as great, big, spherical temporospatial rifts, bright and furious as a thousand suns, flashed, then ruptured, time and again all throughout the vicinity. All along the rims of these vortexes were many electric tendrils flailing wildly like the arms of a raging octopus. They gave away to concentrated mists, from which forth the dogs of war sprang—black beaked ships Lawrence was all too familiar with: Imperium Star Dreadnoughts. More and more of them!

“This isn’t just the Garrison fleet,” Lawrence said. His voice shattered the prison of pure cosmic horror, “it’s the whole Imperium Armada!”

This was truly unlike anything Lawrence had ever encountered. Yet the truth was now abundant once the coils of shock was loosened. He peeled his gaze off the Star Dreadnoughts to glance at the tactical map projectors—there was a red crimson dagger bleeding presently into the Third Star Fleet’s overall position. The Imperium had exited tachyon jumps directly above their positions!

Yet Vice Admiral Drake remained immobilized, poisoned by the lies fed to him that the Imperium was too focused on the Bulakbashi affair. His horseshoe commutations interface flared with flurry for requests for orders, yet reality proved all too much a stern drug to swallow. The very integrity of their plan were now in shambles. Lawrence sighted the documents floating without reservation, as if mocking him, and felt immeasurable regret. We’re doomed.

Presently, the communication specialist shouted: “Imperial transmission intercepted, sir, it’s being universally broadcasted.” A pause, a long pause, and after clearing his throat: “It’s... from the Xanadu!”

The mere mention of the Star Dreadnought brought forth a new wave of sickening discomfort. Everyone knew without a doubt what that name entailed for it was none other than the Emperor’s personal flagship. The longer this went on, the more they felt this was one sick cosmic nightmare.

Richard had a resigning aura to him as he leaned on the Command Station’s railing. He lifted his head, gesturing for the communications specialist to put the video feed on view. Without another word, the lights dimmed, as was the norm when there was a occasion. A titanic figure fizzed in the center of the bridge, as if the God of Gods himself materialized before his children. There was a certain mist which added to the atmosphere, but Lawrence found it deeply unsettling. The holographic projection was a easy blue and Lawrence had no difficulty with adjusting it despite the glowing orbs popping off still in rapid succession in the backdrop of this hellish fever dream.

The holo-feed stabilized, albeit there were still some hitches. The bridge was silenced, staring in shock and awe at this massive god-like figure superimposing itself in their space. Lawrence had no issue recognizing deep-blue robes as the figure stepped front and center into view. The video feed was from the waist-up, yet it truly did seem like a Goliath of old standing before them. Lawrence knew, as the others no doubt did, a cosmic titan who ruled the other half of habitable space. Lawrence blood frozen in an instant, capitalized, ensnared, by a net cast by a fisher who demanded nothing less than your attention. Lawrence’s breathing drew heavy, and he feared his visor would be fogged before long.

Lawrence felt certain, here and now in this unfolding chaos the imposing god before them was none other than the Emperor of the Imperium: Mikhail the Fifth of the Barbarossa Dynasty. At once, the immense figure with his dark cloak and full silver face mask where no bare flesh was exposed, metallic gauntlets protruded from either long, quilted sleeves. His hands were at waist level, barely bursting from the limitations of th visual feed. The silence continued, until the rumbling baritones voice shook Lawrence to his core: “Today, the rebellion will end. Today, my subjects, we will prevail! ... Let none live ... leave... no quarters!”

The Emperor raised his chin, and raised his right arm in total triumph. The mystical manifestation of this god-like titan was gone but the terrifying spectacle of glimmering beams cutting through space forced Lawrence back to his senses.

One aid’s frantic voice speared through the grappled silence: “Magnitudes of electric heat sources detected... Admiral... it’s ... my system is getting overladed with Sarissa and Tacoma signatures!”

Richard was still caught in the web of anxiety. All eyes were on the man now, unsure of their collective fate now.

“Dick, we need to make a move, now,” Lawrence said. He angrily gripped the man’s shoulder and shook him violently. “Snap out of it!”

Richard raised his head, though Lawrence could not read his expression. If there was anything he muttered at the moment, it went unnoticed even in the lingering dead air.

The camera feed glowed orange for an uncomfortable long time, and Lawrence turned to see what horrors awaited them now. He got one good look as Hoshiga fighters changed course to intercept their Imperium counterparts. Shinra MAVs joined the fray shorter thereafter. But what good did any of it do now? He should be out there himself, fighting the good fight. But his presence demanded he be here now, sitting ducks as they were. His consciousness tore and clawed at him like a starving crow with its great talons.

There was something deafening, Lawrence’s ears rung violently, his skull rattled. Were it not for the railing and the magnetic boots he would’ve been thrown back. The ringing cleared, and all he heard was: “They’ve shot our shielding to bits!” Then: “Tacomas gunning straight for us!”

Like a nullified spell, Richard came back to his senses. The shock was no more. He turned sharply Lawrence, wordlessly, looking him up and down. His gaze darted all around before he pressed a green button on his horseshoe console. “What the devils are our gunners doing?” Richard said. The demand was high in his tone. “Focus fire on those damn Tacoma!”

“It’s... no good, sir, they’re broken through the point defense picket!”

Lawrence’s jaw dropped as he saw before his very eyes on the vantage feed the small eclipse of a single Tacoma fighter effortlessly spinning its way through intense laz barrages—and it become bigger, and bigger... until it practically occupied the entire camera feed. “They’re coming straight for the Yilan!” It was a shrill voice ballooned by sheer panic.

Richard seethed and slammed a fist on the railing in anger. It was the most furious Lawrence had ever seen the Vice Admiral. “I said focus fire on that Tacoma!” Richard bellowed. Lawrence couldn’t budge, his eyes wide as dishes, mouth so too.

“It’s too late!” Lawrence screamed. He threw himself on the Vice Admiral, gripped him by the shoulder and tackled him to the floor.

There was a massive quake on the bridge, like it was the Gods themselves furious at the indecisive situation. Lawrence was knocked back by an overwhelming typhoon. All were spun like locusts swarming up in the air, whipped by rushing fire, powerless as mortals may be against the tides of a furious river—the tireless fire blazes, scorching them all with hard, explosive blasts of flames claimed many. Gusts of smoke swallowed Lawrence and the others whole. Lawrence landed on a hard surface, his vision blanketed with a dark veil. Silence, then, the screams. Blood-curdling cries from helpless victims as the plight of survivors overwhelmed what little consciousness Lawrence had left. He felt a tug—a terrible, harsh tug like he was being grabbed by an uncaring, ruthless biblical being. With with strength he could gather, Lawrence reached out and clung to something metal—rather or not it was the Command Station’s railing he had no idea of knowing. He knew in this instant he risked getting sucked into the vacuum of space. There was nothing Lawrence could do—there was utter despair at the helplessness anyone could do. Lawrence’s eyes burned from the scorching smoke as he saw silhouettes of his comrades zip overhead. Dozens of his comrades tunneled, sucked through like crabs in a seabed’s exposed pipeline, and claimed by the deadly abyss. Never to return home, never to see their loved ones again. The only thing that would be left of them would be empty gravestones and meaningless, wasted medals.

Lawrence’s own grasp on reality weakened. The empty vacuum of space lurched onto his being. His body quickly enveloped in its numbness, until he could no longer feel below his neck. The darkness swept over his eyes.

The next thing Lawrence knew, he awoke, drifting in the void. There was a golden stream just below him, leading upstream to a fountain with sprayed streams of the mystic stuff. “Here I am, the House of Death at last,” Lawrence thought he imagined himself say. No longer will he face leading soldiers into a losing warm, march them into the fires of the meat grinder. Free from the shackles of life and all its horrors. Lawrence let himself float. And so he drifted . . . until a million voices surged through his mind, calling for his name. But among them, only one spurred him. He was sure of it, he knew that voice all too well.

But just as his soul and manhood was hurled down the River Styx, inexplicably, Lawrence’s essence found itself stuck, frozen in place.

Lawrence wasn’t sure how, but he opened his eyes.

He was seemingly suspended in place, practically in zero gravity, clinging onto God’s know’s what, he fell through the sea of nothingness—the terrible cruel crash to reality. He felt powerless, and indeed, there was a invisible, heavy blanket which kept him pinned to the cold, icy metal floor plating embracing his face with a deep freeze. There wasn’t a single muscle he could budge, and in this very moment Lawrence felt immense dread realizing the real possibility he did get severely paralyzed in the debacle.

Lawrence dwelled for a moment on the thought he may have lost a limb, and despaired. The alarm had wailed for his return, and it drowned out his ability to recollect his thoughts. He heaved himself up to avail. Again. And again. Lawrence reached a state of panic—overwhelmingly horror at the prospect of losing even one limb, and completely paralyzed; his mind scrambled to cope with this very real new reality. His new life as an military invalid, straddling the state with yet another burden. Why didn’t I die? The thought frolicked across his mind, why must the House of Death deny me entry so? This intrusive thought **was like a wild boar, carefree in the great plains. But if there was ever a pitiful god watching over his misery, they must’ve granted him a special offering of renewed vitality. Using any and what strength he could accomplish, Lawrence was barely capable of making the nerves in his right shoulder awaken to his cries of desperation. He pushed, in extremis, his lead-weighted body onto his back. Slowly, he was able to sweep the invisible steel blanket off his body starting with his right arm. He raised his hands, slowly. It was pitch dark and the main systems must’ve been knocked out. He brought his hands closer to his face, then instinctively reached down to his legs. “Still in one piece,” Lawrence said. He couldn’t help but laugh, a mere chuckle under his breath.

The auxiliary power kicked on soon after. A little too unexpected for Lawrence, but the argument remained regarding if he truly had a grasp on time or if he remained disoriented. He could’ve sat there for minutes—maybe less than a hour. He had no way of knowing, the alarm howled and its nonstop wailing continued to keep his thoughts as a merry-go-round in disarray. But in any case, it was dimmer than before. It was a gradual, very gradual process of the luminance reverting to normal.

And just as a last-ditch reassurance, Lawrence smacked his face. Yup—no concerns this was a nightmare. He was awake, now shocked repeatedly, vulnerable to the abrupt pain. But thankfully, after the surge resided, only minor tinges lingered in his lower body. Yet Lawrence found it too dangerous to get up and move around. He instead dragged himself, carefully, as he wormed around for the Vice Admiral. Overhead made visibility lacking, but thankfully it was already getting fanned out by the Yilan’s emergency systems. Lawrence glanced nearby, but saw no one other than Richard nearby. He couldn’t see past the outline of the Command Station. He squinted and uttered: “Vice Admiral Drake? Dick?”

There was no response. There was only the wail of the siren. Woo. Woo. Woo.

Lawrence heaved himself with all his strength, hugging the floor as if endless beads of laz gun fire was sprayed overheard. Survival instincts from basic training all those years ago kicked in. The cold, hard, metallic grating clawed his cheek as he peered upward, outwardly at the theater-sized cockpit. There were thick, white wads covering a portion of it, as moment’s before the self-repair turrets undocked to seal the openings to the vacuum of space.

“Dick, this is no time to rest,” Lawrence said. He groaned as he wormed his way across the cold, brazen floor. Richard lay on his right shoulder, and Lawrence used what strength he could to wiggle his left arm awake from it slumber. He throw his weight into the arm, like a desperate fling of the fishing pole, and latched onto Richard. “Dick... get up, Dick,” Lawrence said. It was more of a whimper, drowned out by the ship’s wailing.

Lawrence shook Richard, then again, and again. But it was all to no avail. Lawrence, reeling from hi no short shortages of forced servings of defeat, let his hand drop from Richard’s shoulder. As his hand went limp, he felt something metallic—something rod-like sent a cold shiver jolt up his arm. Lawrence, groped more by the force of horror enveloping him, slowly slid his hand down the metallic rod to find its surface point. His fears, fueled like coal to the burner, exemplified every second. His fingers experienced something liquidly the further down the rod. Then, his now-wet hands encountered something solid. Richard’s torso, by the feel of things. It was planted firmly on Richard. Lawrence’s breathing grew harsh. With his other hand, he confirmed it was in Richard. Through Richard. The man, suddenly, shook violently in Lawrence’s awkward grasp. Lawrence squirmed around, he grunted, groaned, as he tried to place himself in a sitting position. He attempted to keep Richard upright, and it became more evident now Richard was impaled as the object brushed against Lawrence’s leg.

While Lawrence kept Richard upright with his left arm, he reached for Richard’s horseshoe interface with his right hand. But unexpectedly, Richard grabbed Lawrence.

“Lawrence... is... it you?” Richard said. He leaned back, pained groans escaped his lips.

“I’m here, admiral, just...” Lawrence raised his voice, “Medic! We need medics on the bridge, as soon as possible!” He lowered his voice and hovered over Richard. “Sit tight Dick, I’m getting help, you’re gonna make it. You won’t die on my watch... Dick!”

Richard’s eyes shuttered, and Lawrence remained unsure if the man could even see anymore. His breathing was getting thin. Lawrence knew he wasn’t long for this world. “Lawrence, it’s . . . It’s, all up to you now,” Richard said.

“Save your breath! I won’t let you die, I can’t let you die now. We gotta get the Star Fleet out of here, Dick!” Quickly, Lawrence turned his attention and barked over the Command Station’s railing. “I need that goddamn Medic!” His scream was strained.

A surf of blood poured from Richard’s mouth and splattered his once dull gray space suit, and the metal rod skewered through him. Lawrence found himself suddenly yanked by the collar, pulled close to Richard. The man sputtered blood, trying to clear his throat so he could speak. “Lawrence, it’s . . . all up to you now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Listen to me, Mengde... The Third Star Fleet is in your hands...” Richard’s iron grip drained. His voice choked on blood. He became overwhelmed with violent twitching.

Lawrence did what he could to keep the man stabilize. “Admiral, I—”

“I’m passing on command over to you, don’t... let... this ... be ... our Azincourt!” What remained of Richard’s strength was ransacked. His soul torn from his manhood as it hurtled towards the House of Death. Darkness swept over his eyes. Richard was heavier in his arms now; but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming deep crater of pure helplessness Lawrence suddenly found himself catapulted into. The weight of five million lives drilled his wavering determination deep into the earth. How much could he truly save? How much will he need to amputate to maximize his efforts? Gently, Lawrence laid Richard to rest. And maybe, truly, the only man who was capable of saving this fleet.

He glanced up as a medical team scrambled up the bridge stairway. Lawrence slid off the commander’s interface off from Richard and let the doctor do his work.

“He’s a goner,” the doctor said.

Lawrence closed Richard’s eyes. He then turned to the doctor and said: “The most we can do now is get a stretcher and put his body in deep freeze for burial later. Get a move on!”

Lawrence tugged on his beret. He slipped on the horseshoe interface and made his way to the Command Station’s console. There were a overlap of radio calls, namely from the aft turret commander, and engines. Lawrence chose to contact engines first. He turned a knob on the console and brought its handset to his ear. “This is the Bridge, Commodore Mengde speaking, I’m in charge now—Vice Admiral Drake was killed in action, what’s your status?”

“All systems normal, we were only concerned for bridge,” the operator said. Lawrence swept his gaze over the bridge and could at least come to a split decision for a answer.

“Everything’s just fine up here,” Lawrence said. He winced, knowing he will be short of whatever experienced specialist he be lacking. Worse case, a fleet maneuver specialist. Or Communications specialist. It dawned on him he may be worse than he thought, but he had to can the thoughts for now. “Thanks for the concern,” Lawrence said. The sarcasm hung a little too high, and he turned the knob again: “Vice Admiral Richard Drakes has been killed in action. I want all operational officers to assess the Yilan’s damage and begun repairs—let’s save the reports for later.”

Another knob turn. He glanced for an extended moment at the tactical map. The imposing red dager had drilled deep past the Seventh Star Fleet, but the Third’s odds weren’t stacked against it just yet. Presently, Lawrence, his Star Monitor The Yilan, and the Third Star fleet were somewhere nestled between the Emperor’s vice and vanguard positions.

All Lawrence could lament was the terrible hand he’d been dealt. He readjusted the handset in his hands. “Aft turrets, all the other ships are in combat already, you shouldn’t need any special instructions at the moment. Give ‘em Hell for taking out Richard!”

He peered over the railing but was relieved there weren’t too that manyactually sucked out by the fissure. “Any injured among us?” Lawrence asked. Inwardly, he quickly added—no more for the House of the Dead, I hope.

After some traded glances, one of them spoke up: “We’ve lost a few, sir, but we’ll manage,” a officer younger than Lawrence reported. “It seems you’re the highest-ranking left.” Lawrence spoofed his grimace with a steel facade.

Lawrence realized the communication specialist must’ve been one of the unlucky few to be sucked into space because no one actually at the station, or what remained of it. When Lawrence prompted investigation, he got a answer he didn’t like.

“No chance of repairing it, sir, it’s gone to bits.” Metal fragments peppered it and it was effectively neutralized. Lawrence cursed his luck.

“What a fool I am for thinking I had Lady’s luck” Lawrence flipped a switch on his horseshoe—his grasp on it elementary but he’ll learn fast. His hand brushed against a detachable handset he didn’t notice before.

Lawrence dialed one of the knobs clockwise until one of the virtual overlays depicting the horseshoe data changed to the formula he needed: “Frequency 1.4B on Omega Channel,” Lawrence said. He grabbed the horseshoe’s handset and dialed the pound key, then nine-nine-seven.

Lawrence sighed heavily. His gaze fell upon the tactical projector, and he began: “Attention, to all ships. This is the Vice Admiral Richard Drake’s next-in-command, Commodore Lawrence Mengde.” Like a titan whose voice were carried like waves along the crashing, chaotic ships, Lawrence’s assurance brought hope to even the most despairing of soldiers. “The flagship Yilan has taken a hit, and Commander Drake has succumbed to his wounds, and on his order, I’m taking over command of the Seventh Coalition.”

Lawrence gave a brief lull for his comrades to recover from so many shocks. Then, he continued: “Friends, Confederates, comrades. At this hour, we are losing this battle. But today will not be our day of defeat—it will be a day of great deeds. Today is a proud day to be rebel scum, to be a scorn of the Imperium. Each and every one of you wants to get home alive, and I need everyone to be calm, don’t overthink the situation, and do as I say. We may be losing now but the only thing that matters is winning at the last moment. Now is the hour where we test republican courage.”

Inwardly, Lawrence smirked. It was maybe too much bravado on his part, but they don’t call him the fool for nothing.

“We will not lose! I want all ships to concentrate on destroying enemy Dreadnoughts one at a time until further orders. Follow my mark, and let’s assume a column phalanx battle formation. Let’s not waste time on petty details, leave it to the discretion of your commanding officers and navigators. Hoshiga captains, fan ‘em out, draw attention away and let lady luck’s graces carry us to glory. Shinra battalions, mobilize to standby. Over and out.”

He only needed to prepare the Third Star Fleet’s powerful javelins for now. Fully scrambling his Shinra MAVs is still too risky a gamble—not in the middle of combat, and Lawrence needed to keep them on partially out at this exact moment to ensure they can be utilized to their full advantage in combined arm operations with Hoshiga.

There were looks of shock on the command station that swept like infection through the rest of the bridge—but it wasn’t by what Lawrence ordered,. Rather, it was the immediate descent of a fellow Star Monitor!

“Evasive maneuvers! No, that wouldn’t be possible now... blast through it if we have to,” Lawrence said. He gritted his teeth, and stilled his stress as a class example of a man under composure.

“C-commander, that’s a ...” someone trailed off. “That’s a allied battleship—the Bellinzona!”

A moment grappled Lawrence at what he perceived initially as a rebuff to his authority. He met eyes with the one who identified the ship and said: “Not anymore. Chances are its crew were fried the moment a neutron imperial battery zapped it. There ain’t a soul left on that ship,” Lawrence said. He reached for the handset and spoke into it after setting the preset for fire control: “Focus fire on the Bellinzona. It’s a cleaned-out ghost ship.” And even so, he added inwardly, I’ll take all responsibility if it isn’t.

For lack of a better situation, and given a Star Monitor is no way like an aerodynamic monster house like a Hoshiga, one cannot simply drift their way through a capsized battleship right in front of them. The Yilan turned its guns on a fellow ship—even if there was no longer any survivors to speak of. What was once a mighty battleship with its terrorizing tiger camouflage was no more than a barrier of titanium dead set on collision.

But not anymore. Strips of light belched into view and pummeled the Bellinzona, now reduced to mere scraps. It was a odd sense of accomplishment Lawrence felt for his crew, in how they swift they regained composure and fight for the sake of survival. If Lawrence knew for sure they were absolutely alive, he would still given the order to fire. Consequences be damned. He’ll face the music before the firing squad or an gain premium entry into the House of the Dead regardless.

Lawrence gripped the portable handset and issued orders into it: “All ships: Continue course par the Yilan’s lead, over.”

Lawrence turned his attention to the tactical map projector. There were pronounced depressions throughout the battlefield as a result of the recent mass of supercharged energy, from the exchange of microwave laz guns and neutron beams. The battlespace was surely moving, but the more Lawrence grasped the situation, the more it seemed like a futile struggle amidst a strong, stormy river current. It was all leading up to a bursting release of a super-charged solar tsunami powered by the collective cosmic energy from the nearby Azincourt system. All this sheer, awesome solar energy swept everything, friend and foe alike creating a mountain of confusion.

Lawrence wasn’t much of a fleet maneuver specialist himself—he knew his limits as a humble cavalry officer of the brave Hoshiga star-fighters. Not a officer leading a chaotic army of raging elephants caught up in a terrible, cosmic landslide! Is there anyone in the Third who could pull off keeping this Star Fleet fleet cohesive at this juncture? Who was the former Admiral Drake’s man of the hour for this very occasion?

Lawrence remembered now. He met her once at a debriefing aboard another ship, the Star Monitor the Aigeira. Commodore Camilla O’Riley. He was about set on contacting her on a shout from the bridge caught his attention.

“Fast-approaching Imperium Super Star Dreadnought. I-it’s... the Xanadu!”

“Where’s our Hoshiga?” Lawrence demanded. He changed gears to change frequency to fighter command, dozens of unfamiliar screens appeared before him, depicting a minimalist roster and deployment screen of actively deployed Hoshiga Star Fighters and Shinra Mobile Troopers. “We probably can’t focus fire on the Xanadu...” Lawrence murmured to himself, every thought costing him very valuable time. “But it’s the Emperor’s flagship... there’s still a chance despite its strong shields. Either way, our shields won’t last for long!”

A ding on his horseshoe interface. If Lawrence remembered correctly—and boy was he going to read the manual after this—he turned a red button and the frequency flashed for a few seconds on the screen: Frequency 1.2B on Foxtrot Channel All. The roster view expanded; portraits of dozens of Hoshiga and Shinra captains cluttered his interface. They were all rearing to go. Yet, still, they were all stalling their raunchy horses to heed their general’s words. They all stared collectively at him with raging emotions of bewilderment, excitement, adrenaline surely ran high. If his experience with his former commander Kenneth was any indication, Lawrence remained unsure if they would obey his command or not.

Oh how Lawrence wanted to jump everything and launch in his own Hoshiga, to sally forth one last time, now! But he couldn’t. His place was now at the top marshaling orders, he couldn’t conduct a battle on the wings of a Hoshiga. Much less a Mobile Trooper. Mobile Troopers...

“I expect nothing but the very best out of all you, and damn I’d be envious I cannot fight by your sides,” Lawrence said. His gaze swept over each and young industrious man and women. “Don’t die in vain on me now. This battle will be far from over. Clear a way for thus and adapt as necessary to the host formation. Keep ‘em spread out, keep ‘em occupied. We’ll try for live resupplies but don’t turn into a cosmic hero on me! Trust your guts, commanders. Don’t even think about spending your last moments braving the Xanadu, it’s far too dangerous to tackle on. Over.”

Lawrence was going to have to give up on taking down the Kaiser’s flagship, the Xanadu. It was a window’s opportunity he’ll never had a chance at again, but it’s a gamble he can’t afford at the present. What was important was getting the Third to coordinate and regroup outside the junction of the wildly aggressive solar tsunami stream, the crashing waves made navigation and the battle too chaotic for Lawrence’s liking. There were still a stream of Imperium reinforcements, chiefly from warping in but not as common, and those marching and contributing to the crazy cocktail of cosmic solar waves.

He set his communication frequency for Frequency 1.1F on Texas Channel. He punched the dial key and inputted nine-nine-three. A woman appeared on his display. She raised her brows. “Commodore Mengde,” she said, rather bafflingly.

“Oh, Camilla, long time no see. Good to see you’re still kicking too. I got some maneuver orders for you, think you resume being the Third’s maneuver specialist?”

“Richard always bit of a micro manager,” Camilla said, “sad to see him go. I’ll see what I can do—you said something about... a, uh...”

“Gewalthaufen?”

Camilla stared at him wordlessly.

“The loose column, hallowed phalanx battle formation? Great. Here’s its schematics,” Lawrence said. He was trying to conceal his smirk as he reached into the virtual overlay and inputted a number of coordinates. He forwarded the data to their shared channel. Camilla glanced at her wrist comms and then back at Lawrence.

“Your absurdness astounds me,” Camilla said.

“In the good ol’ glory days of Terra, this was quite a revolutionary tactic,” Lawrence said. “I’m simply making the unorthodox the norm again.”

Camilla was still perplexed. Her attention was briefly on something off-screen. He was curious and glanced over at his tactical projector. Some of the units in their rear were attempting to turn around in hopes of rushing to the Twelfth’s aid. By now Lawrence’s Third Star Fleet was in the central rear flank of the bumbling Imperium charge.

“Changing course now would leave us exposed to being encircled,” Lawrence said. Just as he said this, a few Star Monitors who stopped to turn around found themselves obliterated. “Rear Admiral Azra’s Star Fleet is doing its part to buy us time. Look,” he indicated the battle spaces where distracted Imperium forces were getting a intense beating by the tattered guerrilla elements of Azra’s survivors. “If we’re lucky we might be able to save the Seventh and get the hell outta here.” Charlotte and Boris too, he added inwardly. They can’t be dead yet—Lawrence firmly believed this. They were by his side when he took on a flotilla head-on before, he had no doubt they’re more than capable of doing it again. “But for now, let’s get the Third outside this solar mess before the Imperium lines start to stabilize. I need carriers positioned inside, behind the armored Star Monitors. Over.”

“Yes, sir,” Camilla said. She saluted and the two signed off. Lawrence kept a watchful eye on the situation. He issued additional orders to the Third Star Fleet: “All ships in the third and fourth corps: Arm and scatter release juma mines. Second corps, recall your MAVs for standby. All other corps, rotate your mobile teams and remain on standby.

Soon enough the glittering of red and green beams filling the cosmic vastness dimmed and went silent. The machines and devilish devices of destruction waned, and for the time being Lawrence was given a moment’s respite.

But he knew he couldn’t slack for long, and as much as he wanted to rest his exhausted Star Fleet the rest it needed, the situation couldn’t permit it. Not now. They weren’t out of the cosmic storm just yet.

“What a worse time to be in charge of the Third,” Lawrence said, a mere murmur. He needed to conserve his main firepower—his Shinras’ and Hoshigas’—and lamented the want of more battleships. He couldn’t laze around—the sudden thrust of authority upon him in this time of crisis gave no credit for slackers of his caliber. Lawrence was forced to the point of exhaustion pouring over the tactical projector plotting the Third’s next move. His attempts to contact Vice Admiral Degwar were all in vain. If Degwar was gone, it meant the Peace Walkers were, too. If only he had either...

He was still getting active reports on the Twelve’s dogged resistance—but none came from the Seventh Star Fleet. Tominosky particles disrupted scoping out the fog of war, so he had to rely on the eyes and ears of the Star Fleet to navigate alongside the violent cosmic current. There, off to Lawrence’s left, he probed a skirmish unfolding. He leaned onto the tactical projector, squinting as if it made any difference in deciphering the situation. It was a rather small flotilla, but there were straggler ships being diverted in a mad dash to close distance.

It was a loose pack of Imperium dreadnoughts escorted by what he perceived was the main host of Tacomas and Sarissas the Imperium fielded. They did indeed seem preoccupied with fly-swatting Shinras’ and Hoshigas’. There were some Star Monitors hiding among wreckage. Lawrence couldn’t immediately identify at a glance whose unit they belonged to, the fact of the matter is he was given another chance opportunity to deal a serious blow to the Imperium host and prove he wasn’t just going to abandon everyone for his own skin. Lawrence had to act big on his word of showing confederate bravery.

He turned a knob on his horse collar interface. With a press of a button he brought up the MAV and Hoshiga roster and called his captains: “Hoshiga teams, give ‘em all you’ve got. Don’t hold back. Shinra battalion commanders I need you to cool your stallions for just a little while longer, I’ll release you soon enough. Keep the heat off us but don’t go maverick on me just yet. Over.” He signed off.

He couldn’t keep making the same mistake as Kenneth and Richard made. He saw firsthand the fatal mistakes his superiors made during Zeta with Shinras maintaining Star Monitor desant into abundant slaughters. He wasn’t going to avoid losing their trump card. He had a time for them, it just wasn’t now.

Lawrence jumped over the railing, and kept himself squatting on it as he looked over the bridge. “Get eyes on some of those Imperium dreadnoughts,” Lawrence said, pointing to the main tactical projector. “If the Kaiser’s here to visit, I have no doubt his aristocrat buddies are sniffing around scavenging the scraps of glory. So let’s make them foot the bill, yeah?”

Soon enough a super-imposed close-up of a Super Dreadnought appeared on the main bridge projector. It was a crimson ship with golden linings on its sides and flat surfaces. On its broadside was the embroidery of the Barbarossa dynasty. He was quickly given its named as data was pulled up over his overlay. “The Jalandhar,” Lawrence said as the scroll faded in onto his display. “Flagship of Archduke Karl the Second, von Barbarossa. Crown prince of the Imperium.” And just so happens to be my big break of the day, Lawrence added inwardly.

“But what are they doing so isolated?” A junior officer asked. The question remained unanswered among the crew, and even with curious glances at the Commodore, as if it would speed up the process of him having yet another clever answer to the solution, it baffled even Lawrence why the First Prince would leave himself and at least nine hundred thousand of his underlings exposed to annihilation.

He gleamed the forces just past the compass of the tactical situation. There was still a moderately-sized armada not making haste to come to the Prince’s rescue. Why? Lawrence pondered this as he stroked his chin, brow furrowed. “There has to be some infighting I’m not getting,” Lawrence said. He massaged his forehead; a stroke of his chin. After a moment to consider things, Lawrence turned frequency to broadcast orders to the Star Fleet: “Concentrate firepower on the Jalandhar and be careful to avoid allied flight-paths,” Lawrence said. The bridge windows lit up with the symphony of neutron and laz gun artillery fire, prompting Lawrence to shield his eyes before they readjusted to the sparky spectacle of pure violence unfolding before him.

The mystery Imperium formation began moving. Slowly, but it was slowly gaining traction. Lawrence knew he couldn’t maintain this formation between two fleets. The moment he gets trapped it’s over. He knew this battle is all but truly lost, but it doesn’t mean he can secure a victory for his government to spin as a victory. He opened a line to his Shinra captains.

“Let out your cry and ride the wings of glory. Go forth, take out the bastards! Give them a farewell party to their journey to the House of the Dead—Rebel style! Over and out.”

And from that moment onward, fighting for the Jalandhar became pivotal to the struggle unfolding Azincourt bloodbath. Lawrence descended rapidly, thanks to Camilla’s efforts, on the Archduke’s flotilla. Counterattacks came, light in nature as Lawrence noted: It was clear to him the enemy overemphasized speed and forgot all about the firepower. Each fervent imperial assault was strongly rebuffed one after another. The Imperium reinforcements lacked combined operations between ships and mobile assets. Tacoma and Sarissa engaged in a great tragedy of melee against their republican counterparts; the Hoshiga and Shinra. More Imperium ships were diverted to march on Lawrence’s fleet and save their lord, but it was all futile. All Lawrence did was clog up the River Styx, more manhood and womanhoods bound for the House of the Dead.

Lawrence leaned on the Command Station’s railing and wore a smug across his face. He crossed his arms confidently, too proud of the fact he had such a powerful, ever tightening encirclement of the Archduke’s Star Flotilla. It was like Tokeen, albeit on a far smaller, localized smaller scale.

The bridge erupted in cheers and celebrations of “Die, Archduke!” Lawrence looked at the main monitor and nodded. The Jalandhar flagship had capsized and gone down in bellowing smoke and streaks of flames. An uneventful white orb consumed the First Prince’s flagship, and its crew and surrounding ships were reduced to their basic atoms. Soon enough, the celebration subsided.

“That should’ve created a distraction for the Twelfth to slink away,” Lawrence said, a mere murmur under breath. One long glance at their sector sufficed to say reality was different: Rear Admiral Azra and his Star Fleet were doomed from the start. “If only Dick listened to me, this wouldn’t have happened. But at least Azra battered them on his side, and they’re in for a rude awakening with our jumas being sent down stream. It’s gonna slow them down for sure,” Lawrence turned his gaze back to the mysterious enemy formation which halted its advance.

“Camera focus on L2BY,” Lawrence said. The tactical operations map zeroed in on the phantom fleet. Questions spurred on by the peanut gallery: Was it planning to wait for a regrouping to encircle or could the enemy commander be plotting for a immediate thrust? Twinkling eyes looked to the Fool of Chizan for answers.

Lawrence checked the numbers on his Third Star Fleet: Less than five percent failed to respond to pings, so he had maybe nineteen thousand Star Monitors, majority as carriers, and thousands of Shinras and Hoshigas. But the question remained: Is it enough to fight a whole, fresh and eager Imperium Star Fleet?

“Commander, I believe we located the flag ship of the enemy fleet,” one of the officers said. Lawrence motioned for her to put it on screen.

It wasn’t the typical black-tipped Star Dreadnought. This one was a soaked cherry-red with a sharper nose. It had no emblem on its broadside. But there was something about the ship which Lawrence felt fascinated with, like it evoked authority that rivaled that of a dynastic member of Barbarossa. But it wasn’t a Barbarossa warship. Whose, then? Lawrence certainly felt a familiarly with this flagship. Like he encountered it before at a recent battle—but he can’t put a finger on it. The nagging was driving him a little crazy.

He zeroed in further on the enemy Star Fleet. The feed was fuzzy because of intense Tominosky particles. There was a notification from Camilla but he didn’t answer her for now. She was likely seeking what he planned to do with the Star Fleet and he didn’t have an answer yet. And just further beyond the heights of this phantom fleet was a smaller fleet. He recognized some of the designs amongst them—these weren’t the typical black-beaked warships either. They had an unmistakable hammer-head, and dish-shaped satellites at its aft. “Imperium Interdictors,” Lawrence said, a gasp escaped his fortified coolness. He jumped to his feet. “Just how much did they know of the Coalition’s movements?!” But no one could answer. So much for good intel is what he wished could escape his steel-lined lips. What was important now for Lawrence was he needed a new plan. Attacking through this phantom fleet head-on or attempting to outmaneuver it and avoid a skirmish isn’t feasible. If they advance now, Lawrence wouldn’t stand a chance without suffering serious losses.

On the other hand, a grim solution presented itself before his inner mental jury: Lawrence could support some MAVs as they get through the enemy fleet. It would be a suicide charge, but Lawrence needs to bide time to march out of range, deploy the last of his jumas, and perform a tachyon warp exit out of the corridor.

The Imperial armada was already reorganizing and making their way up the solar waves as even they settled down. The sand in the hourglass was falling rapidly. Even putting himself in the position to warp out was going to leave him exposed, mostly by the encroaching Imperium units south of his position. People were going to die either way, he just needed to gauge if that was going to be a couple or so, or millions of widows and orphans.

The Commanders Guilt hung on his conscious. He couldn’t afford to dwell on all the lives he could’ve lost, all those ships who will never return to port. At this particular moment the question he asked before echoed back: Whom will play God? The answer is you, big guy.

To trade a couple hundred, or even thousand to save several million. There was no victors in war, only widows.

As Lawrence dwelled in his thoughts, a ping from his horseshoe brought him back to focus. It was from one of the forward ships in the phalanx formation. Lawrence opened the line.

“We’re receiving signals,” the officer said.

“You don’t say,” Lawrence said, rather dryly. “Is it enemy units? Friendlies?”

“They’re... survivors from the Seventh, sir.”

Lawrence stood up straight, he gripped the iron parameter of the Command Station. “Patch visual feed if you can,” he said.

On his horseshoe interface, a window appeared. Lawrence’s world froze. Escorted by a few cruiser-class Star Monitors and a assortment of MAVs was a lone, imposing bipedal war machine. It was a Peace Walker. No—it wasn’t just any Peace Walker. This wasn’t just any typical, swamp-green Peace Walker.

It had golden coating.

Lawrence batted his eyes. There really was no mistaking it. Reality defied his rationale. It could only mean one thing, and one thing only. It was the Yellow Typhoon.

Next Time... Upon The Backs of Broken Men!