The beach I’m trudging on feels like it just goes on forever. The crashing waves and sand are beautiful and all, I get it, but there’s not even other things you would find on a beach — no lodgings, no rock formations, nothing. Ah, I just want somewhere to sit down and rest. What’s even worse is I don’t see anything to rest on — seriously, there is no blanket or even an umbrella to cool off under.

Seriously, it’s so humid even though I’m only wearing a bikini. Just fanning with my hands to cool off can only do so much. In frustration, I let out a long hopeless sigh. I stop in my tracks for a moment to take in the ambient air. “Well, regardless of my feet hurting and this heat… it’s a beautiful sight nonetheless… I wonder if I’ll ever come across anyone?”

That’s another thing, I’ve been walking for who knows how long and I have yet to come across anyone — or anything— not even a little cute crab! Seriously, just where am I? Speaking of which…

I look all around me. It kinda feels like I’ve been walking on this beach forever. I’m not sure where my starting point is or even how I got here. There are no real landmarks to speak of. If you exclude the bushes and hill that leads to a road that also trails on forever, that is. I crook my head to the side. Let’s see, one moment I’m on the Yilan and… wait, the Yilan?

Wait, what’s that I hear? It sounds like someone is yelling after me. I turn around, and sure enough, I see someone in the distance running towards me. A skinny guy with hair fluttering against the breezing air. Now that I think about it he does look familiar, but I can’t exactly put my finger on it. Peering closer, the realization hits me like a truck. No, more like a bullet train. But the moment hits me nonetheless.

“P-Paul?!” I cried out in surprise and found myself sprinting for him. As I get closer, it strikes me that he wasn’t any skinnier than what I remember — he’s toned as hell! And he has a cute little goatee too! “P-Paul? P-Paul Pluto?! Is that you? No way.” I exclaim in shock — the Paul that I know was like a complete shrimp!

Paul’s grin is wider than I thought is humanly possible, but I noticed a wince when I said his last name — if only for a second.

“P-Paul, I—how—” I wanted to say a million things at once. But Paul makes an imitative sound with his tongue and crooks a finger back and forth.

“It’s good to see you too, miss.” He does the most outrageous bow I’ve ever seen, but it’s enough to make me giggle. He finishes the bow with a twirl towards the vast sea, “My! This beach sure is beautiful, eh?” He crooks a side glance at me, “but not as beautiful as you, eh?”

“P-Paul, I…oh…gosh” As if by instinct I try to cover my embarrassment by holding my twinned locks of hair in front of my mouth, but I can’t help but feel like my blush is giving me away. Paul lets out a cackle as he shifts through the sandy shore towards me. “You’re too much of a treasure, Vicky. But that’s why I love you so much.”

“Eh— Eh? This is so—???” I can just feel the puffs of steam erupting from my ears. Everything about this feels like a bizarre dream! Paul stops in front of me and his toned abs are only more apparent this close up. He holds me by the shoulders and stares intently into my eyes without a word. “W-what are you staring at me so hard for? H-haha…" I can only stammer as I attempt to dodge his gaze.

“I’m just thinking about how I’m the luckiest guy in the world, to spend my life with you.”

“Oh, stop it~,” I say rather giddily. But like a flash of suspension, I return his gaze. Wait, what? “W-what exactly do you mean by that? We were never really together, or that…”

Paul looks a bit hurt. “What’s gotten into you? We’ve been together for the past seven years, remember?” He looks at the sunset with a glowing smile. “We gave up our dreams to join the academy and start a life together. Just the two of us.”

I can only look at Paul with perplex. No… this doesn’t sound right. Everything about this sounds wrong. First this beach, and now me missing out on a love life fantasy with Paul.

Fantasy… is that what this is? Am I dead? The possibility comes crashing down like a piano. I stumble away from Paul, who doesn’t break his gaze.

“Paul… what’s going on? Why aren’t you on the Hualian? Why are we even here?”

Paul sighs, and looks back at me again. His glowing smile flips upside down. In the blink of an eye, the beautiful beach scenery becomes a raging inferno.

“Ah…! Paul!” I call out as I attempt to reach out for him, but the scorching hot flames make me ground to a halt. “Paul…!” I cry out again, but Paul shakes his head again and mutters something under his breath.

To my horror, the figure before me starts decomposing at a rapid pace. It gets so ugly that I can no longer bear to look and recoil back out of reflex. “PAUL!!!” I scream out in terror again, but there is no more of Paul—there remain only his skeletal remains—but what remains of his grotesque face continues to stare me down. A large flame flickers between us and Paul is suddenly in front of me once more.

The sudden reappearance causes me to collapse to the floor. I try to scramble back but my legs start to give out. My body becomes frozen under a spell.

“P-Paul..?” At this point, I can only blurt out a whisper.

Paul’s frame kneels and places a hand on my shoulder.

“Victoria…” Flakes of skin trail off from his face with each jaw movement.

“Victoria… you have to wake up.”

“H-huh?!”

“Y…ou…—”

The flames around us become more intense. Soon, even I become engulfed.

“…ha… u…p…”

It’s no use. I can’t make out what he’s saying. His jaw—and soon his skull—burns to nothing more than ash.

The remains of his corpse slump to the side as it too becomes ash.

Soon, I let out anguish cries of wails as the flames blanket me…

No! It can’t end like this! I can’t die here in nothingness…!

In the distance, I can hear a voice calling out to me… Paul?

Paul? Paul! Where are you?! Paul…!

“…ak…e up!”

I see a light. Like a light at the end of the tunnel. Without thinking, I run towards it—I run faster than what I think is possible. There is nothing like out of being out of breath or leg pain to stop me— I just run. As I get closer, I can make out the voice more…

“Vic…”

—A woman’s voice, but… Paul… I look behind me into the void, but there are no signs of Paul—

“WAKE UP!!!”

I’m jolted awake to the sensation of stinging pain on the cheek. “Hey! What’s the big id—” I stop mid-sentence and look around to get my bearings. But not long afterwards I feel dizzy, and boy, does it come in fast. Thankfully, there is a railing in front of me, and I cling onto it like it is the only thing that matters in life.

“Wuh…woa….woah…” The words fight their way out of my mouth with mild success. My entire legs abruptly give out. From what I can tell, most of my body is hugging the railing like it’s my destined partner in life. “V-Vicky?!” Stammers the dark-haired girl standing over me. I look up, but sadly my sight is still largely hazy. But I can still barely make out this poor girl is deeply concerned about something. Wait, is she worried about me? Oh my, I’m so sorry miss, I hate making people worry about me. It always makes me feel so —

SMACK!

There’s that painful sensation again. But I think it’s possible to make out things now…

Yes… my eyes dart around the surroundings. It seems we are in some kind of fancy bridge control room. Yes… it’s all slowly coming back to me. Not as fast as I would like, but—

SMACK!

I recoil away from this abusive girl and nearly fall in the process. Thankfully one of my arms is still latching on to the railing. Slowly, I feel like all my senses are coming back now.

I look up in time to notice the girl raising her arm again, but I shield myself with my free arm. “What the hell is your problem?!” I cry out in pain. She looks at me puzzled but laughs afterward. “Sorry sleeping beauty! I thought I lost you to the warp!”

The warp?

I think this gal—Friederika— smacked some actual sense into me since now my memories are coming back to me.

Before… whatever nightmare fuel that was, I was aboard the Yilan, and we were warping to the Valspon system. Then that means…

I widened my eyes, “does that mean the operation already started?!” Friederika nods in response, although with a bit of confusion. “Don’t you hear the warning siren?” She asks curiously.

With that said, I realize my ears are still ringing since I could barely hear Friederika as it is—were they ringing this whole time? Soon enough, however, the ringing does stop and I can hear the siren that repeats every couple minutes, with a deep male voice announcing all hands to battle stations. Before I can add another question, Lieutenant Plotte approaches us with a concerned look amid annoyed eyes of bridge operators. “If the two of you are done making a lovely scene, I would like for you two to head for the missile launch bay.”

Friederika and I give our salute and proceed to head out, but I decide to hang back while Friederika jogs ahead. “Ah… Lieutenant Pluto, I’ve been curious…” I feel a bit reluctant to ask, almost childish even. I’m sure Paul is safe and sound, but…

“Hmm? What is it, ensign?” Plotte is staring at a holographic overlay of a Side colony while conversing. Mini ships circle the cylinder-shaped space habitat.

“Ah, um, I was just curious if… there were any ship casualties so far.” Is that a good way to word it? “Basically, uh—I was curious if there were any reports of something like…”

“The Haulian? You can be at ease Happ. There have been no reports of the Hualian being hit, much less casualties. As a matter of fact,” the elder Plotte rubs his chin in confusion “the pirate fleet has hardly initiated counter barrages… only a single missile boat has sustained damage.” With those words, I feel more at ease.

“If that is all, ensign Happ, please get going now. I’m not operating a daycare here.” He gives me a dismissive wave as he turns to pick up a nearby transceiver.

With another salute, I run off to join Friederika.

I mean, it was just a dream after all. What am I getting worked up over I wonder? The Hualian is a tough ship. It would take more than a few punches to knock it out—and it has escape shuttles too. Paul will be fine…

All of the Yilan’s missile loading stations are on the upper decks of the ship, usually preoccupying the whole top space of the ship, as is general Federation design. Though, at the academy, I have heard rumors that Ruthenia warships are gun battery-oriented, which is something to do about different naval doctrines. I’ve never been on one myself, though, or seen any real photographs of one.

I take an elevator up to the top deck. As I wait, I watch the battle unfold through the open-glass window—as expected, Lieutenant Plotte is correct on his assumption about the pirate ships. From what I can see, barrages go one way and not the other—which is a good thing of course. But that does make me wonder… why aren’t the pirates returning much fire at all? Generally, when you get shot at, you kind of want to relieve the pressure and return the favor, no?

The elevator comes to a halt, and the doors open. To my surprise, my annoying dark-haired sub-lieutenant friend is standing in front of the door with an open mouth.

“Ah… Kiki, why aren’t you at your station?”

She smirks, “I’m sorry I didn’t realize you ditched me for the lieutenant?” I give her a roll of the eyes, “please, he’s not particularly my type, and he’s probably, like, ten years older than me at least.”

“Older guys are better, you know? Being experienced and all—”

I slap Friederika on the shoulder. “Alright, whatever, were you coming back for me then?” She nods “I figured you didn’t know where to go.

“Knowing you, you will get lost like a child in a supermarket.” She can’t help but give me an annoying smug that I resist punching in. But as much as I do, I already am in trouble with Buttermilch and don’t want to risk more once this operation concludes.

“Anyways, right this way. We’re over in compartment 1-Y.” Freiderika finishes by grabbing me by the hand and running down the hallway. “Ah…!”

The door slides open with a woosh and Friederika shoves me in. “Hey, what’s the big idea…!?” Ignoring me, Friederika salutes a fat man in uniform examining documents just off to our side.

“Sub-lieutenant Trachenberg, reporting in!”

Oh! Right. I need to address him too. I clamp my boots together with a clack and give Meatloaf a textbook salute. “Ensign Happ-Schwarzenberger, reporting for duty!” I exclaim dutifully. Without even bothering to look up, officer Meatloaf scratches his triple chin. “Mmm… yes… yes…” With a smack of his lips, he points behind him at the loading station. “Do whatever my team tells you and avoid getting in their way too much.” The words rolling out of his fat neck bring such pain to my ears makes me immediately wish he would stop talking. Honestly, just from that, it makes me wonder how this porkchop even became an officer?

Friederika and I clack our boots one last time and fall in with the rest of the group.

An enormous missile battery stood in plain view, half-obscured by the floor cutout it was positioned in. Its bulk is held by two hulking, steel supports that connect to two platforms on the ceiling; each surface is sprinkled with rivets and welds. Two dozen missiles lay in wait behind its industrial gray caps, each as thick as my thigh and several times my height.

I’ve seen models of this missile launcher before, but not exactly like this. At the academy, they have ones where they are more square in dimension and have lesser cell slots. Judging from the height, I could probably guess the Yilan ones are longer to accommodate for a bigger missile length.

“You two,” one of the other operators calls out to Friederika and me, “do you have any experience with loading missile tubes?”

“Yes, at the academy they gave us hands-on experience with dummy launches.” I reply for both of us, “but sadly it was rather limited due to budget constraints or something. So don’t worry! We’re not that new” I finish by puffing out my chest.

A wall-mounted phone begins ringing. Officer Meatloaf rubs his nose and wipes it off on his neck—gross!— and amazingly uses his lower limbs to walk over to it with ease. He brings the receiver to his ear and addresses the speaker in a mumbling voice.

Officer Meatloaf turns to us, “begin loading the missiles!” He barks in a voice that I couldn’t even possibly think was intimidating.

But regardless of how the others felt about his nasal voice. We do as we are told, and through the use of a small crane slide one missile out of the rack onto our grouped up shoulders.

“Heave-ho! Heave-ho!” The operators shout in unison. The weight of the missile is shared by everyone, but it still feels heavy!

“Hah—hah—why don’t they—hah!—automate this kind of stuff!” I cry out in between our exact chants. One of the older gentlemen responds in a dry tone. “Our Yilan is an older model—specifically—hm—one of the first built in ‘14. Some of the newer ones are… more streamlined. But we are not as lucky, upgrading takes time and effort. Lotta bolks on capitol hill are hell bent on making more and leaving the older ones to rot—kinda like the veterans like me.”

I nod and continue “ah—hah—what is this —hah!—missile anyway?” I ask in-between the grunting pants.

“W14 Standard issue anti-ship nuclear fusion missiles.” Old Geezer says with apathy.

“Ah… I see” I nod my head before the words sink in—”EH???” I almost want to stop in shock but since I’m in the middle I have to keep pace.

Nuclear what now missiles?

“A-are all of these nuclear weapons?” I ask more morbidly. As we carefully slide the deadly ammunition into one of the cells the old geezer shakes his head. “I thought you said you have experience with missiles. They didn’t teach you what you would be loading, did they?” I shake my head. No, they merely tell you it’s missiles and nothing else. Missiles could be any kind of warheads, really. But nuclear ones I would have never guessed!

I’m suddenly reminded again of the documentary I watched years ago. The segment where the nukes are launched all across the globe. And here we are almost three hundred years later, tossing these monstrosities at other ships. What a bizarre world we live in.

Old Man face-palms to suppress his disapproving sigh. “They’re sending us pups and babes without any idea of what they’re heading into…”

Through patience and precision, we place the missile on top of one of the entry cell points. From there we then painstakingly lower it in with a hand crane until only the tip of the warhead is visible in the launcher. We repeat the rest of this mundane process with the rest of the missile stock until the launcher is at full capacity.

“And I believe next is…” My words trail off as I look at the open ceiling hatch that looms over the missile battery. “Is this part automatic, at least?” I ask. Old Man nods, “yes, they managed to upgrade that much before deployment.”

A seaman stands over a command console and inputs something. When he finishes, a click—then hydraulic humming as the steel supports lifts the launcher into the open hatch.

The launcher is only halfway when we hear the sound of another click from inside the hatch. Then the steel supports disconnect from the bulk as the rest of it disappears into the hatch. “Close the hatch!” Officer Meatloaf barks and a taller seaman sets up a small ladder to step on. With a continued grunt, the lanky seaman uses all his upper strength to slam the steel hatch shut, rolls the wheel, and steps off to dust himself.

I feel so impressed that I whistle a tune. The beauty of technology! I can’t imagine breaking my back over lifting that bad-boy in. With that thought I can’t help but shudder, I can’t even begin to imagine what could happen if the container was dropped, or for that matter, if a single one fell while we carried it to the missile launcher.

And now…

Officer Meatloaf is still on the receiver, and aside from the occasional jiggle from nodding there is silence in the room. Then he lifts it from his over-sized ear to rest it on his mountain chin. “Well gentlemen,” he does a deep throat clearing that causes his folds to rumble—god, gross!—”and ladies… standby for firing. Fire control team… please look over the… uh, attack coordinates, and affirm when you are ready. ”

Friederika and I along with the rest of the crew shuffle off to the side, but a couple stays behind at command consoles. As the seamen operate at the computers I hear mechanical rattling from behind us. Curiously, I look behind at the source of the noise and find that a conveyor belt is rolling in racks of more missiles with secured straps to ensure they do not fall over.

“Ah… in the meantime, please take the racks off the conveyor and prepare them for rapid loading.” As we lift the racks one by one and set them down for unfastening Officer Meatloaf says briskly as he looks over one of the seamen at the console. “I believe we are ready for launch on our end now?”

The two seamen give one last prep and give him a thumbs up for approval. “Right then, ahem,” with another of that shudder-worthy throat clear, Meatloaf speaks calmly into his receiver “commander, our section is ready for the firing line.” Meatloaf nods at the feedback from the other end. Once again, he rests the phone on his neck as he looks up at the hatch. Similarly, others also follow his gaze.

There is a sudden jerk of the ship. Not long after, a continuous siren breaks the room’s silence. “W-what’s that sound for?” I yell over it at Old Geezer amid another jerk of the ship.

“The Yilan’s section is rapidly moving into the next firing line! It’s standard Federation doctrine for God’s sake. They haven’t even told you that much?!” He yells over the wail of the siren. Before I can argue back, Meatloaf clears his throat louder than usual.

“Enough you two!” Officer Meatloaf yells over the alarm and swiftly brings the receiver back to his elephant ear. “Yes, sir—understood!—” Cupping the ear of the receiver with his other giant hand, Meatloaf barks at us again, “Missile barrage will begin momentarily!” He lets go of the hand covering the microphone and grabs onto the railing attached to the wall. “Fireteam! We have a go—fire when ready! Everyone else, brace for impact!”

Everyone grabs hold of the wall railings and either shields their face or looks away.

The obnoxious siren fades to the sound of metallic thuds from above. With each resonating impact, a puff of smoke escapes the sealed hatch, making the room somewhat hazy with each successive leak of smoke. This must be the missile salvo, I think to myself.

One of the operators looks up from his monitor “All missiles launch—”

The ship violently shakes—

Just as the wonderful cries of the whooping siren graces my ears again, the perspective of the room begins to rotate to the side.

Wait, rotate?

The bright yellow hue that lights up the room flickers off to bask the compartment in a red hue.

The poor gerbils in my head have to sprint faster in their wheel to register the contents of that thought.

I look around and blink my eyes like a camera shutter. We’re rotating…?

“Ah…!” I hold on for dear life as some objects begin sliding toward one end of the room. “The Yilan…!” One of the seamen shouts in terror.

The vibration from the soles of my boot is all that it takes for me to register what is going on exactly. Some of the other seamen boots fail to activate in time and bodies of flesh slide across the floor—now the wall— to the wall—now the floor— in cries of surprise.

Amazingly, even officer Meatloaf’s boots activate in time. Yet, he clings on to his wall mount just in case, given his weight, I imagine he wouldn’t need the boots in the first place. “S-secure the missile rackets! S-strap them back up!” He yells out trying to maintain composure.

Those that can rush to the racks sliding at a snail’s pace as they professionally strap it back into place.

Officer Meatloaf confirms with his phone buddy and gives us what I believe is supposed to be a look of reassurance. “The pirates have begun firing back. One projectile only scraped the side and failed to explode on impact.

“…Engineers believe it malfunctioned. If any of you still believe in celestial beings, now is the time to thank them!”

There are collective sighs of relief in the room.

To think just a few moments ago, we would all be space debris…

Actually, I wonder what their missile payloads consist of? Nuclear ones too I assume?

It’s a thought I don’t want to think too much about.

The Yilan manages to stabilize its gravity soon after, and the state of the room returns to normal. The siren ceases, and the yellow saturated light is restored.

The unfortunate bunch who were unlucky enough to get their turn on mumble as they restore items to their original places.

“Ahem, just because the worst is over doesn’t mean you can relax. Reload the missile launcher at once!” Officer Meatloaf barks in his not so scary voice.

Mr. Lanky makes his way towards the hatch and with some exhaustive grunts, opens the hatch door. He motions for the operator to lower the launcher. After some hydraulic humming, the bottom of the launcher slips into view, and it’s steel support latches onto it once more and brings it into the cut-out floor.

“…And just like that, the progress starts all over?” I ask Old Man who kneels and helps unfasten the strap. He gives a nod, “right about now, the section behind us will move into the next firing lane to unleash their salvo… and so on.” He replies matter of factly.

As we load missiles into the cells, officer Meatloaf calls out to me, “Oi! You… uh… what was it again…” Meatloaf rubs his Mount Fuji of a neck—seriously it makes my stomach turn just looking at it! ”—Ensign Happy and sub-lieutenant Trackerberg! Yes… yes. The bridge wants you two back down there.”

Ignoring the fact that he completely flubbed our names, Friederika and I salute and head for the elevator. I turn to the Old Man one last time and exchange nods. He gives me a casual salute and a wink.

After the door slides shut behind us, Friederika breaks the silence with a rumbling sigh. “That was too much work! I don’t even think our coaches made us work that hard!”

We step inside the elevator and press a button to take us down. “You’re as lazy as always, eh?”

“Oh quiet you!” Friederika playfully slaps on the shoulder.

While waiting for the time to pass, we both watch the ensuing battle in silence.

A few rows ahead of the Yilan, there is a line of Federation ships unleashing a well-disciplined salvo of missiles, just as Old Man had said. Their destination was the Side colony in the distance; the enormous industrial gray cylinder dwarfs the miniature-sized ships of various designs maneuvering around it.

“Hit…hit… hit… Come on… hit!” Friederika says under her breath. She’s getting a bit into this, isn’t she?

On occasion, brief flashes of fiery balls could be seen among their ranks. Sometimes a projectile would zip by towards us from the enemy, but it often happens so fast it never registers until after the fact.

After one line finished, a row behind them would advance and keep up the pressure, while the spent Federation ships retired to the rear undercover.

It’s a sight to behold, but something about it just says… rigid. I suppose it’s a good thing we’re facing what’s basically a mob force—if you can even call it that—but how would it do against a more organized force?

If this Madame Scarface was at the helm, would she let something like this happen? No, I shake my head. This pirate fleet feels a bit too… sloppy. Too amateur; this clearly must be a novice commander, no doubt. Which is a good thing but…

I think I’m getting ahead of myself, but it feels like this doctrine only works against a certain enemy, right? Against an organized defense… it doesn’t seem like it would do well. I wonder what the doctrine calls for on the defense…? I wonder if Buttermilch—or even Hugo—is wondering the same thing?…

The train of thought trails off until the elevator reaches the destination.

We jog alongside the slow-moving conveyor and enter the ship bridge soon enough, where lieutenant Plotte is waiting for us with several men and women in astro suits.

We promptly give our salutes to Plotte and the others.

“Ensign Happ, reporting in!”

“Sub-lieutenant Trachenberg, reporting in, sir!”

Lieutenant Plotte returns the salute and gestures towards the astronauts, “I’m handing you over this team of engineers. We need some able-bodied personnel to locate and remove the missile lodged into the ship—”

“—I’m sorry, I think the siren made me deaf. Did you say lodged into the ship?” I blurt out without thinking. Plotte sighs before continuing, “not exactly lodged into the ship, but it dug in a little into the side and remained stuck from what we observed.

“So we need to get a shuttle out as soon as possible, locate it, confirm it can be removed, and discard it.”

“Discard it, how, exactly?” Friederika says in my place, even she looks confused. “Are you… saying that we still have a live missile or whatever that could go off any given second?” I add out of curiosity.

It’s terrifying.

One of the astronauts flips their visor up. “It’s possible, but we don’t know for sure.”

Yeah, that is a bit terrifying!

“So please put on space suits and sortie out as soon as you can with them.”

“Pluto… you aren’t just like, making us suffer from all these errands, are you?” I again blurt out without rationally considering what I just said.

“Well, first of all, no. Second of all that is lieutenant Plotte to you, ensign Happ-Schwarzenberger.” Plotte retorts as he sees us off.

Talk about attitude.

ON THE YILAN'S STARBOARD SIDE IN SMALL UTILITY SHUTTLE

“This suit is too big!” Friederika whines.

“Are you sure? It seemed to fit you like a glove.” I reply sarcastically.

“Why you, are you calling me fat?”

“You mean to tell me you aren’t?” I ask with sarcasm.

“If it weren’t for these suits I would strangle you by—”

“Quiet you two!” One of the astronauts piloting the shuttle turns to her partner, “Prince must be out of his mind to ask us to baby some kids for him… anyway,” the astronaut turns to us again, “do either of you know how to operate a crane?”

My arm indistinctly shoots up, “yes ma’am! I played a lot of them at arcades back home.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Friederika giving me a look of disapproval.

“Well…er… I suppose that’s close enough, yeah?” She looks to her co-pilot for confirmation, “yeah?” She turns back to face us, “Yeah, I suppose that works. Just be careful. Because instead of little plush toys you’re dealing with something that can kill us all.

“And you,” she points at Friederika, “use the camera monitor to help guide her.”

With a nod, we both get to our stations.

The crane control panel is rather simple. Maybe a little too simple. “A few knobs and some buttons… this kind of is a crane machine, isn’t it?” I ask offhandedly to Friederika.

“Uh-huh.” Was the only reply back.

A transmitter cackles on. “Happ, we have located the warhead. Please proceed with grabbing it with the crane claw—carefully.” The voice of the woman from before instructs us.

Well, that’s easy for you to say.

Carefully, I guide the crane using the screen in front of me as a reference. Although Friederika had a better view, mine was more limited.

“A little more to the right… down… down some more… hm…”

“Hurry up back there, the Yilan needs to speed up to the firing line.”

Boy, I wish I could wipe the sweat off my brow, but this visor is in the way!

With enough patience, I’m finally able to get the missile within the crane's grasp.

“Nice, Vicky! Now just carefully grab it with the claw!” Friederika says trying to contain her excitement from jumping up and down.

What else would you expect from the regional crane champion? Now let’s see… I press one of the buttons aptly labeled GRAB. The immediate result is the claw fastening its grip on the colorful-tipped shell.

“…Good one back there! Now take it out…”

“…And just like this, right?” I pull down on one of the knobs, and the minuscule delay in the crane pulls the grabbed shell back to our shuttle.

With some more knob movement, I position the crane just underneath the shuttle at Friederika’s instructions.

Now that the Yilan becomes free of the warhead, it accelerates forward to the next firing lane. From a nearby window, I watch as a platoon of astronauts with jet-packs flies underneath towards the warhead. Some carry with them toolboxes.

“Hm? They’re going to disable it?” I ask in confusion.

“Well… It’s the only thing left to do, right? So it doesn’t explode and sends… what’s that stuff called?—shrap…nel?—yeah, that stuff everywhere at nearby ships.”

I shrug, I suppose it makes sense.

“Say you ever think about what happens when stuff doesn’t hit their target? Like, do they just go on forever, or…?”

It was Friederika’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know. Do I look like some kind of physicist to you? I imagine they run out of fuel and drift around for gods know when—or maybe they just explode after a while is just my guess.”

BACK ON THE YILAN IN THE BRIDGE ROOM

By the time we return to the Yilan, the front-line has shifted to the vicinity of the Side colony—which some of the bridge staff identified as Side Malabo.

Well, I say front-line, but the missile salvos stopped, and from what I can tell, the pirates are nowhere in sight. Looking out, I can see columns of Federation ships advancing behind the Malabo. Are they ensuring there are no pirate ships behind it? Searching for the anti-ship batteries, maybe?

“The fighting has more or less stopped, why is that?” I ask lieutenant Prince, who's leaning over a bridge operator’s computer screen.

“Commodore Hugo ordered the fleet to avoid wasting any more ammunition.” We both glance up at Buttermilch and Mazzareli having an exchange over something “commander Buttermilch believes we risk killing innocent civilians if we fire warheads at the Malabo…”

Well, it wouldn’t be good publicity if we threw some warheads in and killed half the populace, that’s for sure. I’m thankful we have level-headed commanders, otherwise, historians might think of us as ill-intent bad guys.

“—That aside, he believes Hugo is planning to send in a few marine companies—”

“Huh? Marine companies? That’s a lot of risks, isn’t it? Won’t they just shoot the boarding ships?” I ask in complete surprise. Regardless, a Side colony has well over a million inhabitants in them! That and the fact the pirates can just blend in with the populace makes it all the more complicated.

Prince can only offer a shake of his head. “Back then, that was how we did things. But the safer, lengthier way is to wait them out… generally, the crew would mutiny against their captains”

The lieutenant adjusts his cap. “But who knows if time is on our side?”

“What do you mean by that, Prince?”

“Well, ensign Happ,” he shoots a menacing glare while trying to keep composure “there is the possibility of reinforcements, no? I heard about the results of the little war-game you did with sub-lieutenant Trachenberg. But I share the sentiment that if we stay as one force… we still have a chance of restoring Federation order in Toscana for good.”

If we stay as one force… I’m glad I managed to convince at least some of the officers.

“So what now? I suppose we are waiting for resupply?”

Prince nods his head, “after that, it’s most likely we will send the marines in…”

But something from the Malabo caught my eye. Similarly, there were murmurs on the bridge as the focus changed to the Malabo’s entrance.

A path of traffic beams flickers on. A single flat-roofed shuttle emerges along the path set by the traffic beams.

An officer holding a phone approaches commander Buttermilch. “Sir! Permission to fire on the shuttle?” But Buttermilch only grunts. “They’re too trigger happy up there… no! Do not fire. It could be—”

“—Sir!?” A radio operator stands up from his desk. “It’s a civilian shuttle! They’re asking for a safe escort through the fleet!”

“Put it on speaker.” Buttermilch orders to the operator.

The silence of the bridge room is filled with harsh static as a voice pleads for safe passage through the fleet.

A knot in my stomach tells me something is off. Such a small shuttle, you would think more people will want to escape the ensuing mayhem.

Mazzareli looks concerned as well, and he passes on information to the CO.

“Wait! Ask the shuttle how many are on on-board and if any more refugees are waiting for transit!”

The radio operator does as he is told, but it seems he is getting increasingly frustrated communicating with the shuttle.

“I-it’s no use, sir! Their signal is getting worse.”

Why would it get worse…?

Buttermilch rushes over to the radio operator and pushes him aside, “This is commander Buttermilch of the MSN Yilan! Do you have more refugees on the way?”

It seems Buttermilch is getting no luck as well. In frustration, he slams the receiver down on the desk. “Damn it all! Ask the rest of the fleet to lessen any radio jamming signals, we can’t get through to the refugees!”

The radio operator reluctantly picks up the receiver again and does as he is told.

His expression changes to confusion. “S-sir, there is very little to no transmission jamming in place. It’s not coming from our fleet.”

The flat shuttle approaches the first line of Federation ships ever closer. I just can’t make any sense of it, if it’s getting closer, why is the signal still bad…?

Wait a minute.

The realization comes like a piano drop. A piano drop I should have avoided.

A piano drop we should have all avoided.

I want to reach out to Buttermilch, but I feel frozen in place. Friederika, Prince, and nearby officers look at me in confusion, but their expressions shift to the same realization.

“Sir! Incoming video feed!” Another console operator shouts.

The oblivious Buttermilch barks for it to be turned on.

After some technical difficulties getting the feed through, the large display shows a haggard old man with a bandaged head and an arm in a makeshift sling. There is no one else around him.

“What is the meaning of this? Where is the rest of the evacuating civilians?” Buttermilch demands, but the old man only lets out a roaring laugh.

“It seems the Federation lap-dogs nose is losing its sense of smell!” He gives us a wide toothless grin. “You wouldn’t notice a trap if it was dangling in front of you!”

Confusion leads to horror. Horror leads to fear. Fear leads to...

Mazzareli, as if struck by slow motion, reels around and extends out a hand toward us, eyes wide. Words come out of his mouth, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. Next to him, the color drains from Buttermilch’s body.

The old invalid gives us a triumphant salute. The terrifying expression—the eyes bulging out of their sockets, the grin of a nightmarish crook—makes him look like am ugly demon straight out of folklore of yore.

“…BURN IN HELL….

“FEDERATION SCUM!”

And with that, the old invalid is engulfed by vicious flames as the feed cuts out.

“CLOSE THE WINDOWS! CLOSE THE—” Mazzareli’s scream is cut short by an enormous explosion from the shuttle.

The siren alarm lets loose a continuous wail as the lights flicker red. The shutters creak and moan as they roll down; some had frantically tried to force them down faster.

“IT’S TOO LATE!”

“TAKE COVER!”

“HIT THE DECK!”

“MULTIPLE SIGNATURES EMERGING FROM THE MALABO!”

“VICTORIA! GET DOWN!”

The last thing I see before Prince tackles me down to the floor are volleys of pellets indiscriminately shredding through flesh and metal like hot butter. The crash to the floor robs me of all my energy. My head is nothing but sharp, excruciating stinging.

My surroundings become indistinguishable. Blobs of bright colors crash next to me or run across my vision. The ship shakes violently for what feels like forever. The long continuous wails of howling beasts fill my ringing ears as consciousness fades.