Upon the Backs of Broken Men
Lawrence leaned on the console as the projectory shifted to the object of his awe. Silence lay heavy upon the Yilan’s bridge as a whole, yet there was some who snuck in murmurs, their questions all the same: The Yellow Typhoon? Here? All eyes shifted to the Commodore. He lowered his head, expression obscured by the helmet’s reflection. He kept them hanging with anticipation, plans for their next move now that the mystical Yellow Typhoon, the legendary ambassador of the River Styx herself, was here. But were they jumping to conclusions? Nobody but the commander knew, or so they all thought.
Lawrence was, deceitful as he was with his posture, trembling beneath his suit. Reality came knocking and yet he refused to acknowledge it. He couldn’t bring him to face the music he so desired—to see Victoria again. Once more, the monkey’s paw answered Lawrence’s quest to find her, and its fiendish fingers had curled as it materialized his wish ever so cruelty.
It took tremors to break Lawrence free of his brooding. The Yellow Typhoon had touched down just outside the Star Monitor’s bridge and counter-force engine thrusts were activated to prevent everyone from being propelled from where they were. Its clam-like chassis obscured the bridge’s vantage view; its massive purple mono-eye stared within like a mystical monster of old peering into a human conclave. The mono-eye shifted on its horizontal axis, carefully. Was it trying to single out Lawrence? He could only wonder.
Behind the Peace Walker, Lawrence could see remnants of the Seventh Star Fleet’s MAV teams hurriedly landing on the Yilan’s deck. Several utility shuttles packed with technician crews wasted no time getting to work with rearmament and repairs. He didn’t relay a word to them, there was no point. They were doing their job, this was no time to hang back and wait for affirmation from the commander.
Lawrence kicked himself lightly off the ground, and let himself drift back inward to the Command Station. But he didn’t stop himself as he reached the middle, he raised his arm, slowly, as if it was defying a otherworldly grip on him. He reached for the horseshoe interface, turned a knob for the frequencies, and tried to ping the Yellow Typhoon directly.
At first, there was no response. And it remained this way for a uncomfortable duration which sowed doubts in Lawrence’s mind. It felt like a long duration to the opposite end of the CS. He felt the bump of the railing.
And just so as he reached the railing, a video feed appeared on his interface HUD. Lawrence landed and turned his back to the bridge as a privacy caution. A burst of excitement flowed through him—then his newfound adrenaline froze solid. Eagerness turned to cosmic horror. It was hard to make out the feed, disruptive as it were by lingering Tominosky particles. But that wasn’t what gave Lawrence a second pause.
The feed was too dark to make out the pilot. Exposed wiring, the occasional sparks and ropes of cables hung around its pilot—she wasn’t wearing a geared pilot suit. Overflowing golden hair obscured a good look at her, adding to Lawrence escalating fears. Was he mistaken after all? This question was a cannon ball in his mental jury. The mental arena’s jury came back with a swift verdict: Only one way to find out.
“Vic... toria?” Lawrence said at last, hardly a whisper. His lips trembled, tried as he might, he remained strong. But for how long?
She stirred, then again, a third time, strongly this time. Her cockpit harness only barely kept her upright. He couldn’t see below her torso, the feed was fizzled and he smacked the horseshoe interface out of pure frustration, like smacking a analog television set as if it made any difference. It didn’t, except bruise his hand.
Lawrence cleared his throat. The world around him was disconnected, and for him all that mattered was Victoria. Calls came from Camille, but in the spur of the moment he closed their FTL channel. He was sure either the phantom fleet was making a move on them, or one of the rearguard Imperium units was marching on them. Lawrence didn’t care, at this crucial moment nothing else truly mattered.
Lawrence gripped the other end of the CS’s bar, with such strength he was sure it was going to bend, and it did, slightly. A sound of grinding came from the Commodore’s teeth.
“It’s... it’s me, Lawrence,” he said. At a loss for words at this reunion with the woman of his longing. “Vick, I...” he fought to suppress the overflow of emotions seeking to break free. He lacked the ability to speak. All he wanted right now was to run out there, tear open that cockpit and embrace her. He no longer cared for this war, this attritional battle. The Imperial’s Interdictors were simply shelved in the back of his mind like they were merely a trivial matter in his affairs.
Even his narrow minded world view slowed to a snail’s pace. A shiver ran over him. Lawrence watched with bated breath as the pilot struggled, struggled to bring herself upfront. Like the slow, slow rise of curtains rising, Lawrence tried to shove the horseshoe closer, as if it would make any different getting a better view. But sure enough, the woman managed to keep herself upright amid the heavy rise and fall of her chest. She was sweating profusely. Anxiety attacked him relentlessly, like he regressed to a mere frightened school child.
“Ahh . . . Lawry . . .” She said. It was unmistakable now to him now. Despite the less-than-ideal transmission, there remained no doubt it is her. It is Victoria. Relief would’ve washed over him, but at the same time, it dawned on him she did come back as a soldier in the Seventh Coalition. She returned to fight in this brutal, pointless grinder. He found himself cursing inwardly at every god under the sun, every deity for their mischief for the enjoyment of his sheer grief. Every last one he swore against in these damning moments of misfortune. And yet, deep down, Lawrence knew it was inevitable. She was married to her duty—to this war. A cocktail brewed from anger and grief clawed at him without mercy. The realization of the futility divorcing her from this conflict. This was all becoming a bitter, unimaginable nightmare of sheer magnitude he had no hopes of waking up from.
“I’m . . . Happy you’re alive,” Victoria said. Her breathing still far too laborious for his liking.
Lawrence still struggled with keeping his emotions forcibly in check. He wanted now more than ever to go to her, physically, to yank her away out of the dreadful war machine. Only then could he focus his attention back at the grave issues at hand.
And yet, this reunion gave no leeway for Lawrence to say something. He was frozen here, and she was cooped up in there.
“Hang tight, Vick,” Lawrence said, he shuddered. “I’ll make sure they get you out of that thing.”
He reached for the dial.
“No,” Victoria said. His hand and pulse stopped. He looked away briefly at the main monitor in time to catch a small figure already making headway for the Yellow Typhoon’s hatch.
“What? Don’t be absurd,” Lawrence said. He tried to smile. “You’re alive in one piece, and...”
Victoria reached for something off screen. What she pulled shocked Lawrence to his core. It was a military-grade stimulant. She struggled a little to flick off the pen-like cap. She slammed it down on herself, it was off-screen so Lawrence had no idea but it was likely her thigh. She let out a suppressed cry.
“What are you doing?” Lawrence said. The merciless gods coiled him with anxiety. Like some cartoonish villain, he was roped in place. Stunned beyond belief.
Victoria tossed away the used injector and reached for another. It was a different, darker color-coded one, and she did the same thing. And all Lawrence could tell was stand there, bewildered, shocked, tortured by the son of Cronus beyond description.
She injected herself with several more amid stifled cries. It was a nightmare Lawrence couldn’t look away from, a cruel show he didn’t wish to see. But the gods, mischievous as they were, kept his head and eyes front and center on Victoria. What she was doing was far beyond normal protocols for injecting yourself with military-grade stimulants in rapid succession. This was veering very quickly into suicide.
A familiar caterpillar presence crawled within his cranium, but he was too shocked to object. She was using her Neo sapiens abilities to probe him, to understand him. To read him like a book, to herald the script foretold by the gods. But he was too tired, too exhausted, too much at a loss of words. It numbed him, but he let her have her way. There was no use demanding her to stop, no more of their antics now.
Tears swelled his eyes.
“Why are you doing this?” Lawrence said, his tone suppressed, hushed, overwhelmed with sadness and exemplified with frustration—with anger. Anger at the world, fury at the gods, contempt for himself, but never aimed at Victoria. He could never truly genuinely get mad at his princess, the love of his life.
Lawrence couldn’t defy the gods, he couldn’t budge. His suit weighed him down as if it was pure lead. His magnetic boots pure concrete. No matter how much the anger swelled within him, his wrath for this sick, devious ploy of theirs to watch him suffer, he couldn’t do anything for the one person he cared the most, when it mattered the most.
He heard a soft pounding originating from her side of the transmission. The visual feed had a wave of static from every subtle beat. The figure on the Mobile Gear hatch was trying desperately to open it. They stomped on it, fell to their knees and slammed their fist on it repeatedly. But it was all to no avail. On a sub-window, it became apparent to him it was Charlotte. He heard her, faintly, a hallow plea to stop this.
At last, Victoria answered him: “You need those Interdictors taken out, don’t you? Otherwise ... you can’t...” she spurt out blood. Lawrence just felt completely powerless in the moment where Victoria needed him the most. He knew, immediately, what she was inferring to.
“I won’t let you do this,” Lawrence said, his stern, authoritative tone tone rocked with grief. “I forbid you from considering it,” he cleared his throat. “Victoria... as your commanding officer I’m ordering you to, if you don’t stand down...”
Victoria only shook her head. He stopped. A shiver spell came over him, the grinding of his teeth filled his ears.
“I can see it, Lawry... I can see through time, I...” for a brief moment, she fainted. Lawrence clenched his teeth, like a loud chomp, his tongue reeled in quick. The CS’s kept him grounded, his grip ever so intense. The poor rod he held bent even further. Now more than ever he wanted to bolt for the exit—to get out there next to Charlotte, yank Victoria out himself. But his suit, made of lead and his magnetic boots of concrete, prevented him from taking even one step.
“Vic?” Lawrence said, the horror in his tone. His lips trembled violently. She stirred awake this time, smiling faintly through her long, overflowing hair, her oceanic eyes, weary soft expression locked with his. She shifted in her seat, struggling amid suppressed cries as she done so. She was showing her torso—she was wearing a white tanktop underneath a green unzipped flight—it, was, white. Her entire right side was a ugly splash of crimson against her golden waves of hair. Small Burgundian bubbles could be seen drifting about.
“No,” Lawrence said. His knees gave out. The grief crushed him like a boulder, drained him of his energy. Like a wrecking ball, it pulverized his willpower. “No,” he said, softer this time. Unable to hold back any more tears.
The engines on her Mobile Gear ignited. She was going to sally forth in defiance of him and the gods. It was all she could do now for him, for the whole coalition.
“You can’t do this to me, Vick,” Lawrence said, his tone broken up with chokes of tears. “You can’t leave me a broken man again...”
“If I stay here any longer,” Victoria gasped, “millions will die . . . I. . . have to go. It’s the only way to prevent everyone from getting massacred.”
“Then I’ll send somebody else,” Lawrence said, anger robbed him of rationality. “If you’re going to die... then... please... please, Vick—at least die in my arms.”
Victoria smiled. Tears escaped her eyes. For a moment, she hunched over. Lawrence cried out for her to no avail. His body was trembling to its core. How much more can the gods break him? Prevent him from even just simply wiping the tears from her eyes, cradling her and telling her everything will be okay?
Victoria stirred awake. She reached for another military stimulant to inject, with another to slip off the cap, and inject herself with. After the injection finished she weakly threw it aside.
“Just seeing your face... even if it’s the last time with my own eyes,” Victoria coughed up more blood, it engulfed the rest of her pure-white shirt. “I can depart with no regrets.” The hull banging from Charlotte, the muffled screams, prompted Victoria to glance at a side monitor. She inputted a few buttons onto something off-screen, which produced one of the Peace Walker’s arms to pick up Charlotte and fling her away. One of the Shinra nearby broke off to catch Charlotte.
Lawrence felt himself shrink more and more from reality. Less as a man now, but a child in adult’s clothing. He lowered his head.
“Lawry, love... just one last thing... one last favor.”
Defeated, and wordlessly, Lawrence raised his head. Even in her last moments, Victoria never stopped smiling her positivity. “It's okay to be a coward, and you don't need to be called brave, but I just want you to survive for decades to come and protect as many people as possible.”
Lawrence found no energy to object.
“The next time I see you—you better be a wrinkly old prune. And . . . even if my life was only that of a shadow, as long as you at least can live on and remember that I was here, that the Yellow Typhoon . . . No . . . that Victoria Schwarzenberger existed in this world, then I can depart with no regret. Those are my only parting wishes from you, Lawry... I expect you to uphold them... goodbye.”
She left him with no chance to interrupt. The video feed cut to static. He looked up, weak in strength, at the main monitor as the Yellow Typhoon’s surroundings cleared—then she was off. She blasted off like the comet she was, true to her name as the Yellow Typhoon, she was now a mere twinkle among the stars. She was out of his reach now, a child aiming for the blanketing sky.
Lawrence rose to his feet. He turned his attention to the bridge, all whom looked at him with collective puzzlement. None of them left their stations to check on him, so the moment between him and Victoria remained a private reunion.
“Sir... shouldn’t we go assist the Yellow Typhoon?” A younger officer asked.
“What are we going to do with those Interdictors?” Another one asked.
For a moment, Lawrence remained silent. He suppressed his raw emotions and lifted his suit’s visor to tug on his beret. But now, it was man for the boy to become a man. Now was the time he needed to channel his cope into something meaningful. Lawrence Mengde was dead, buried, and now, he was merely the Fool of Chizan, the Commander, and nothing more. “She has a job to do and that job is to buy us time, so we can’t let her sacrifice be in vain.”
“We’re abandoning the operation?” The question stunned everyone. Murmurs were plentiful.
“I’m salvaging it,” Lawrence said with a bitterness in his voice. “Command was passed to me and I want to keep the late Drake’s last command to avoid this becoming our Tokeen. I intend it to keep it that way.” He pointed at the Yilan’s navigator, startling him: “You, plot our course for the C7BY sector.”
“But that’s...” Someone interjected.
“Our waypoint back into the Waterloo system,” Lawrence said, “we’re paying a visit to Rear Admiral Kulagin sooner than expected. I just hope he doesn’t get spooked by our abrupt arrival.”
“U-understood,” the navigator said. He turned back to his station and began relaying maneuvers.
At the back of his mind, Lawrence feared the Imperium would capitalize on this and launch a new invasion of the Confederacy. He dreaded the idea inviting a new Chevauchée, a Fourth Chevauchée—much less a full-blown invasion of the Confederacy, and so, he was all the adamant in keeping them bled, drained enough to be considered a empty container, and reconsider a invasion just yet. If they followed suite on his withdrawal as it is now, it would be completely game over for his homeland. For now, he shelved the speculation. He needed to focus on the present. He was the Fool of Chizan now. He needed to act the beacon of hope, now more than ever. After that grand speech of his, how could he turn tail and become the very example of what created the Fool of Chizan persona in the first place?
Lawrence changed his frequency to contact Camille. She wasn’t pleased to see him to say the least, as expected.
“You have a lot of explaining to do,” she said, the annoyance too abundant. Lawrence quickly got her up to date. Her brows furrowed, the skepticism was high. “You really sure about this? What if she fails taking out the Interdictors?”
“Then we’re millions of sitting ducks waiting to be sandwiched and slaughtered,” Lawrence answered. “If she can’t do it, there’s no hope for us.”
“We should—”
“Out of the question,” Lawrence said. “We’re getting the hell out of here. I’m sending you our navigational route, make it quick.”
“Are we maintaining this... err... what did you call it again? Gewa... this phalanx cylinder formation of yours?”
Lawrence made a quick judgment call, he couldn’t afford to dally any longer. Even now, the Imperium forces were zeroing in his fleet’s space from all possible sides. “Yes, I want you to deploy the rest of the jumas under the second and seventh corps. That should buy us much needed time. Understood?”
“Roger, signing off,” Camille said. The window folded as the transmission ended.
Lawrence turned his attention to the other battlefields. The strong solar current which engulfed the Twelfth and the Imperium vanguard had done some serious carnage on top of the juma devices he had dropped along the way. It severely slowed their advance as they tried to climb upstream, and with glimpses of Victoria’s heroic rampage through the main Imperium armada, he saw more and more Imperium divisions pull back to deal with this unexpected onslaught, this ace pilot’s swan’s call. Had the Imperium assault reached its high watermark? It was likely. As much as he wished, he would’ve went out guns blazing right there alongside Victoria, in his own Hoshiga, but it was not meant to be. If he wasn’t here taking command, who would have answered the call to duty and saved the fleet? Who would become the man of the hour? Who would play God, a Caesar paid for by millions?
The only problem now, Lawrence figured, was the mysterious phantom fleet with its alluring red capital ship. It seemingly ignored Victoria’s noble mission and advanced, slowly, upon Lawrence’s Third Star Fleet. Some of the enemy ships in his rear were also painstakingly navigating through the jumas and the solar current. Time wasn’t on his side. Sooner or later, he is going to get sandwiched. He thought about contacting Camille again to reconsider changing from the ad-hoc Gewalthaufen formation, but for now, he refrained.
And even as he diligently watched on as Victoria’s rampage tore a biblical rampage through the heart of the Imperium formations, straight for the Interdictors, a terrifying thought sprung onto his mental arena: What if Victoria did fail in her last waltz? Panic swept over him, and he searched all around the holographic map. Only a portion of the fleet was able to safely execute a tachyon jump now, but he still needed to consider rearguard actions. And in what order would he do it? These dilemmas troubled him. But the concerns of his subordinates brought him back to the present, to the now.
“What is it?” Lawrence said.
“The closet enemy fleet is picking up its pace to confront us, from the front, sir,” the officer said, not even masking the grimness in his tone.
He was referring to the phantom fleet. Indeed, it marched faster, and was already peeling off the vanguard of the nearest corps.
“Contact lost with the flagship Brunhilda; all hands lost,” someone reported.
“We’ve lost contact with the Fourth Corps’s flagship, the Aegean, sir!” Another officer reported.
Lawrence began to have second thoughts about his hallow cylinder formation. He patched through to Camille and told her: “Forget about the Gewalthaufen formation, move the fleet into a standard line formation,” he paused, studying the battlefields.
“Commander?” She asked.
“Have the sixth corps break off and form a separate line staring, breaking off vertically at G7, it’s going to form the nucleus of the Sicilian Defense from there to I2.”
“Got it, I’ll let Commodore Telemachus know.”
Lawrence swiftly looked over the battlemap. As always, it was crumbling, just at a advanced slowed pace. But it wasn’t slow enough. “We’ll have to consolidate the Fourth’s corp by maneuvering the Sixth to plug in their line at the foot section of the Sicilian Defense, think you can do that for me? This Tominoskly partricles gonna be tough, but I believe in you, Camille. I have literally no one else.”
There was a look of concern on Camille’s face. But she nodded, clearing her throat she said: “I’ll see what I can do.”
“And Camille?”
“Yes?” She stood up straight.
“I need you in the rear at E2, that should be most neutral length between division communications... don’t expose yourself to artillery. This jamming is going be a real mess, and let’s pray your couriers don’t get shot like womp rats back home, keep your MAVs battalions rotated to cover these courier runs...” Lawrence paused for her to take in the infomation, and he studied the ever-shifting battlemap, trying to think how he’d consider this position from the enemy’s position. What would the opponent do facing a possible, shrinking to withdrawal from the battlefield rearguard maneuver?
He noticed Camille had muted her chat temporarily to deliver orders to the rest of the fleet, glancing at Lawrence periodically in case she needed to multi-task listening in to his orders. He felt guilt rapid-firing orders like this, but in the thick of battle, he did just lose his immediate flagship’s fleet navigator; its station shredded by shrapnel. If Richard knew at that moment upon his manhood being pulled from this realm, hurtled to the House of the Dead that it was, that Lawrence would himself in this situation, would he have considered passing command onto Camille instead?
Lawrence shook off the leering thoughts. He addressed Camille and said: “Another thing, I’ll be leaving you in overall charge of the rearguard evacuation there at E2. You’ll be the last to leave, I will remain behind with my corps. Shrink your defense lines as needed, don’t make the Sicilian Defense longer than necessary, or keep yourself too vulnerable at E2. Move back as needed.”
It was a lot to take in, but Camille nodded and affirmed between the barrage of orders. “Affirmed, signing off sir.”
“I need your safety most of all,” Lawrence said, just before the transmission ended. His attention shifted to the phantom fleet. It was slowly advancing, but the reinforcement from the Sixth Corps and the obstruction of the juma devices were proving effective in slowing them down, but it wasn’t something that was showing progress at first. And to his chagrin, it wasn’t slowing them down enough. It even appeared to at some crucial flashpoints that the enemy was breaking through the longer line of the Sicilian Defense, but Camille’s careful execution of shortening the line as more units departed elevated his concernes.
Lawrence’s Third Star Fleet was all that remained now, withdrawal at a good rate under Camille’s supervision of the progressively smaller Sicilian Defense. Beyond the Third, the Twelfth and Seventh—those that didn’t rendezvous with him already when Victoria first arrived—was thoroughly annihilated, but the cumulative bloodshed conducted in fierce melee by both foresaw a considerable portion of the Imperium armada left in utter ruins. As it stands, it really was this fresh new fleet which troubled him, and Lawrence felt relieved of his decision to keep Camille stationed in the rear, further from the onslaught.
Even so, it was still longs ways off before the Imperium could fully reorganize, and when that happened, it was all but over for the Seventh Coalition until every last survivor could make a tachyon jump out.
He glanced at the wider map projector. There was a clear path where he could make out where the lone Yellow Typhoon was, it was nearly on top of the Interdiction squadron now. A lone blue wolf, a mere blimp amid a sea of blood-red.
“Give ‘em hell, Vic,” Lawrence said under his breath. Sorrow squeezed his heart. “Clog the River Styx with your wrath, and I’ll make sure to see you when I’m a ripe, senile old dog.” He fought against the tears coming out in full force to assault his vision. He turned away from his bridge crew, wiping as he did so.
“Contact lost with the Third Corps flagship, the Messiaen! All eight hundred hands lost...” The news, much like this, came in, one after the other of capital Star Monitors being sunk. There was no end to the reports, and at some point Lawrence wanted to tell them to shut up. The Third Star Fleet was being whittled down, at a pace Lawrence could only categorize as harrowing. Many were escaping thanks to the effective use of the Sicilian Defense, but it was never enough. Could he live up to Richard’s wish to save the Seventh Coalition? The question grappled him. He was far too unqualified for the job, leagues out of his pay grade. What misfortune it had been for him of all people to be in charge of the Coalition?
“Incoming direct hit,” a shriek from the bridge. Lawrence closed his eyes, gripping the CS’s railing. He wondered to himself, perhaps for the last time, if he was to pay once more a permanent visit to the River Styx before Victoria did. There was a strong jolt, and Lawrence looked up in time to see a long, thin thread, like a lightning bolt, stretch across time and space and crash against the semi-transparent shielding protecting the Yilan—both flickered, and both disappeared within seconds.
Lawrence nearly slumped over the railing. Their Rutherford Field—the Confederacy’s own variation, the Holtzman’s Barrier—saved him and eight hundred of his comrades from a instantaneous vaporization. It was seemingly shot out at the onset of the battle, but it must’ve been repaired at some point after Lawrence’s order to find and repair anything damaged. He did give instructions to report them later, but he must’ve ignored them at some point.
Either way, by perhaps the son of Cronus’s sympathy, they survived, but several of their adjacent Star Monitors sunk, absorbed in a ball of pure white cosmic death—then nothing. They were just barely, barely outside the maximum range of battleship artillery range.
Lawrence wasted no time ordering the immediate Star Monitors in the vicinity to pull back. If the enemy already reached this far, there’s no telling they’ll survive any longer. Several more nerve-racking laz shots glazed their Barrier, lighting up the thin cloud-like shielding momentarily between each shots. Each barrage, more Star Monitors fell by the cosmic wayside, some lost control and crashed into each-other, most likely robbed of futures by the even more dreadful neutron munitions. Amid this sudden strike, Lawrence had the navigators cruise the carnage at a faster pace, firing on unfortunate ghost ships with outdated navigator routes, much like the situation with the Bellinzona.
Best case scenario, Camille just pulled off the best possible Sicilian Defense withdrawal imaginable, and only his corps remained. Lawrence armed himself with this positive outcome, and prepared for the worse; all the others died and now it’s him.
Soon enough, the enemy advance began to falter. It became evident to Lawrence more and more of the phantom’s fleet began to break off, and he could very well see they were heading back in the wake of Victoria’s violent typhoon.
A lone sigh escaped Lawrence’s lips. He leaned on the railing, realizing only now how out of energy he was. But this was no time to rest just yet. He stood up straight, as exhausted as ever, and watched the holographic battlefield once more.
Sure enough, one after another the Interdictors division vanished off the face of this realm. There remained only one, heavily reinforced now with the deep, darkest red hue Lawrence had ever laid eyes upon. But, gradually, it shifted to a lighter hue—right as the blue orb stood atop where the last Interdictor was. Lawrence briefly glanced at his immediate vantage points, and the ships in his vicinity were tachyon jumping out to Waterloo. It was only a matter of time before the bloodbath of Azincourt was at an end.
He looked, one last time, at Victoria’s situation. And... his heart shattered, into a million, billion pieces as he watched its slow blinking dot... vanish. Forever. And at this moment, Lawrence felt himself severed from reality. His world collapsed, and he stood there in a sea of darkness. He felt numb, empty, lack of any real emotion.
Victoria was gone. The love of his life, all their antics, their feuds, their lovers quarrellings, their bantering, their constant clashes, their spats, their endless bickering, her laughter, her snorts, her always teasing her, her snoring, it was all gone. Forever.
Victoria was gone. His reality collapsed.
And he couldn’t stop her. He couldn’t stop her at Zeta, he couldn’t stop her in his dreams and he couldn’t stop her now.
He didn’t forgo his duty, abandon his role, forsake Drake’s plea to save the fleet, he didn’t rip open her hatch and pry her out. He was weak, a coward alright, a fool no less. He was a miserable failure, unable to safe her from a miserable fate. And now she’s gone, forever. His quest to find her in failure, in total vain. Some hero he was, unable to save even the people most important to him. Not Luke. Not Friederika. Not even Victoria.
He felt a strong grip on his shoulder.
Lawrence looked up to see a concerned officer nearly yelling his name. Lawrence, so out of it, could only hear nothing, pure static.
“They’re retreating, sir,” the officer said, she gripped him tighter. “Commander? Are you alright? They’re retreating.”
Lawrence came to his senses. He brushed her off, and she floated, deeply concerned, toward the CS’s outer parameter.
Just as she said, the phantom fleet stopped dead in their tracks, their ferocious assault. They were rescinding.
Was this it? The Imperium’s high water mark?
A ping from Camille. He turned the knob to flick on their channel: “My corps is ready to tachyon jump out, Commander Mengde, are you sure about this?”
Lawrence eyed the enemy’s commander ship, just beyond Camille’s window on the main display. It was no longer among the ships firing the lethal barrage upon his fleet. Was this the moment? He turned his gaze back to Camille.
Lawrence said: “Go ahead and warp out, best of luck. See you on the other side and all that. I was hoping for a aged whiskey in Ishtar Fortress, but I wouldn’t mind it with you after this.”
Taken back at first, Camille regained posture. “Well... sir... Commodore Mengde, it’d be a pleasure, get out of there alive.” Lawrence ended the transmission.
Some of his ships were still firing, so he gave the ahead to silence the guns. No longer did the red threads of pure cosmic death rain across the stars like deadly javelins. The guns of war and heralds of instant death stopped all at once. The few ships in the phantom fleet stopped soon after.
Gradually, the forward elements fell back. Then the rear moved back in tandem. And what was once the vanguard of the Imperium fleet, still parsecs away downstream, seemed to divert their attention towards their side of the Ishtar Corridor.
There flowed in reports from all along the front-lines, or what remained of it, that the fighting had paused the Imperium was retreating. Retreating. For any soldier, it was a word to get drunk on easily when it comes to the enemy after such a ruthless assault. All around the parameters were shouts of joy, that the fighting was finally over. They killed the Archduke, and blunted the enemy’s assault enough to make them go away. Lawrence smiled, and he couldn’t help but be affected by youth’s energetic hope. He was young once, and he believed this war could end in his lifetime, too, but he let the young, inexperienced bridge personnel have their celebration.
Just then, a tap from his shoulder.
“Sorry to alarm you sir, but we managed to restore our onboard transmission system,” she said.
“Oh good news indeed, let’s let Rear Admiral Kulagin know of our situation,” Lawrence said. “This operation’s a bust, we’re going home.”
“Will do, sir . . . And restoration couldn’t have come sooner, because we got a t-mail from enemy fleet commander,” the officer said.
“Ahh... from that red flagship one, I take it,” Lawrence looked over the desk at his CS and prompted a mini-3D model view of the flagship in question. It was called the Xanthus.
She held up a small scrap of paper. “Go ahead, read it out for me,” Lawrence said.
“Are you sure, sir? Well... I quote... ‘My compliments to you, Commander, who pulled off a esteemed withdrawal. I cannot express the luck you enjoy today, for His Majesty has deemed further fighting strategically worthless. However, I admire your dogged tendency, as you have lived up to your rebellious rally against His Majesty. I wish you good health until the day of our next encounter. And, if I may, have knowledge of your name?’” The officer glanced at him, adding: “End quote.”
“Did he provide his?” Lawrence asked.
“From High Admiral Achilles von Zähringer,” she said.
“I see,” Lawrence said. It certainly sounded familiar. He might’ve fought a skirmish against him once at some point in time. But after Zeta, Lawrence knew for sure he disappeared off from the front-lines. Wonder what that was all about? Was he aligned with the Black Prince, the fearsome von Churchill faction? The Jonathan von Churchill, the killer of Ben Nevis, gassings of millions at Side Sidon? At least the lunatic paid his dues for a seat among the House of the Dead—but will his phantom live on? Could Achilles be a Neo sapiens fledgling?
“I guess I should be thankful, all of us really. Dogged tendency, esteemed withdrawal. I’m so honored.” He weighed if he should’ve sought out and attacked the flagship, break this truce, go out and snip this terror before it truly sprouts into a cosmic terror. Did Lawrence make a mistake, not killing him when he still had the chance? Did he let slip from his grasp the rise of a new Timur von Barbarossa?
“Um... sir? What should we reply with?”
“Let’s see...” Lawrence stroked his jaw, “rebellion is a hero’s right. Kind regards, Commodore Lawrence Mengde, the Fool of Chizan.”
She stared at him, trying in vain to keep a straight face.
Lawrence shrugged. “Let’s keep it to: ‘Likewise, the honor was mine, from Commodore Lawrence Mengde’” He saluted her off to relay the message. Honor, Lawrence scoffed. There was another wave of enthusiasm from the bridge, bottled by joyous cries of, ‘Die Archduke!’ They were busting out the wine now.
Lawrence tugged at his beret, trying in vain to hide his smile. But at the same time, he grappled with the fact he’s still let more people die meaningless deaths—not just because of his immediate failures here at the battlefield, but suggesting a change in tactics could’ve saved millions. They could’ve taken out this threat with no problem. They could’ve taken Ishtar Fortress and saved the Confederacy, forever, from the evil, fascist empire. The war would be over. He could’ve finally pursued his goal to become a historian, settled down with Victoria, with Frank, with Luke... he could’ve proposed to Victoria under the mulberry tree, marry her back home on Chizan, raise a family... grow old and die together, surrounded by their big, loving, extended, ever-doting family...
Lawrence, the Fool of Chizan couldn’t save everyone. He couldn’t save Victoria. He couldn’t even save himself.
Once upon a time, Lawrence, too, cheered after every Confederate “victory” he participated in. Once upon a time a young Lawrence, too, thought the war would be over before he’d even knew it. But as these youngsters will very will soon know, the fairy tale ends when the war begins, and hope is a habit you’ll soon unlearn. This war—his war—is far from over.