THE YILAN

There is still time before general quarters starts, so the Yilan crew are given the chance to relax before our contingent force makes the jump to Lübeck. Or so I want to believe. Friederika and I were summoned before Lieutenant Prince Plotte, who crosses his arms and stares us down with a furrowed brow. “Alright you two, I’m not going to let you guys just diddle-daddle any longer,” he begins “I need you two to keep yourselves preoccupied before GQ starts.”

“Sure…” I respond laconically, “but what did you have in mind, Prince?”Friederika doesn’t say anything herself but only looks at me out of the corner of her eye. Prince steps forward and places a hand on my shoulder.

“Ensign…” he utters while suppressing an agitated sigh “I wish you would drop that habit already. I do not wish to have to waste my energy disciplining you over this.”

“Discipline me over what, Pluto?” I ask feigning ignorance. Friederika can’t help but scoff a little and Prince withdrawals his hand and proceeds to slap himself on the face.

“Oh, brother…” Prince complains, taking a step back and turning around to get two tablets from a table. The personnel nearby glance in amusement trying to make sense of the shenanigans. “Forget it, Ensign Happ—for now, I want the two of you to take note of our inventories and submit a report to me by 1700,” Prince thrusts the tablets into my open hands and hands the other one to Friederika, “as accurately as you can, divide the responsibilities if you need to. I better not check in on you and find you two slacking off,” he says shooting me a glare. Talk about attitude.

Ignoring Prince giving me a hard time, I turn the tablet on and wait for it to do a bootup sequence. “Is there anything in particular you want us to inspect?” I ask Prince.

“Food, munitions like small arms and missiles… hmmm, energy reserves…” Prince lists off wryly, “Commander Buttermilch wants to keep track of what we have a surplus of and what we may need to request from our supply ships—oh, it might be beneficial to get a personnel head-count from department heads…now then I’ll dismiss you for now: remember, 1700.” Prince gives us a salute and sees Friederika and me off.

Friederika and I step off the conveyor at a four-way intersection. “Kiki, you want to handle the missile munitions and missile department heads, and I’ll handle the food storage and armory?” I ask Friederika.

She nods, “yup! Sounds like a plan to me,” she says but then pauses to rub her neck “hmmm… what about the engines?”

“Oh—yeah good point, umm…” I cock my head to the side “wouldn’t hurt to meet back here and check it together? I’m sure the lieutenant wouldn’t mind too much.”

Friederika cracks a smile, “I can see it now—” she puffs out her chest, hands-on-hips, and purses her lips in an attempt to imitate Prince “’what I tell you! It shouldn’t take two numb skulls to check something so simple like the engines!’” She says mockingly, and we laugh it off. “That should be fine though—but it’s your funeral, not mine,” Friederika replies and with that, we go our separate ways for the time being.

First up is the mess hall. It’s mostly devoid of people save for the odd person or two having a hearty discussion. I scoot my way past the tables and the other patrons for the serving counter where I hope to meet the lunch lady. Peering over the counter, though, I come up short with the well-toned lady. Did she take a break or something?

I turn back to approach the sailors. When they see me they stop and give me unnerving stares, “h-hey, uh…sorry to interrupt you guys—” I clear my throat and try not to be deterred by their stares “have you seen the cafeteria lady at all? I need to talk to her about our food inventory,” I ask the two of them while I brandish my tablet.

“Ah… the petty officer? Petty Officer Margot I believe…” the light-haired one with a stubble beard says as he exchanges glances with his friend “I believe she went off a while ago to take care of some errands. No idea when she might get back.”

Well, that complicates things a little. Usually, non-culinary personnel aren’t allowed in the kitchen but I can always just tell her later that it was to keep track of inventory. And with that, I thank them and head off back to the serving counter area for the door leading into the kitchen area. I place a hand on the doorknob and gently turn it expecting it to be locked—but to my surprise, it isn’t.

“Well… it’s not like I’m breaking in or anything…” I muse before walking into the kitchen.

“Breaking into exactly what, hun?” An overbearing voice from behind makes me tense up straight. I spin around to find the muscular-build Margot standing in the doorway, arms crossed and frowning.

“Heee…” I utter shielding myself with the tablet, “I-I’m sorry petty officer, I-I was ordered by Lieutenant Pluto to inspect our inventories of various stuff, please don’t hurt me…!”

“Lieutenant…. Pluto? ” Margot asks in an unsure way, scratching her chin “I don’t remember there being a…”

“Lieutenant Prince Pl…te,” I say, hoping she would get the hint. I peak over the tablet to see her rolling her eyes with a smile.

“Ahhh, that Plotte! Haha… I see, I see… and I guess little Plotte was giving you lasses a hard time,” well, I’m not exactly sure how she arrived at that conclusion… “I’ll be sure to give him a hard time later,” Margot says cracking her knuckles with such pops that it sends a shiver down my spine, “but never mind that! Did you want to give my store a quick eye? No prob!” She says and grabs the tablet out of my hands, “let’s see if I can remember how to… hmmm…” she walks past me and glances over all the serving trays, then she jabs at the tablet a little too hard and walks out of view. A few moments pass and she returns with a beaming smile.

“There ya go, Happ! I think it should all be up to date now,” she says and thrusts it into my hands—then spins me towards the door and pushes me along, “come by later and get some more of my tofu, will ya?” She says with that grin of her.

Oh, right, I didn’t break the bad news to her that Friederika consumed it all for herself. “Er…” I start and spill the bad news to her. The smile disappears and I swear I hear her click her tongue. “That Trachenberg… ah well, her hunger can be impossible to satisfy, but no matter! If she enjoyed it and didn’t completely go to waste then that’s fine and dandy!” She cheerfully exclaims, giving me yet another abusive pat on the shoulder. One of these days I’m going to visit the doctor and find out I have a fractured shoulder or something. “Sub-Lieutenant Trachenberg… she’s a keeper, y’know? I could cook the lousiest dish and she will still eat it all with a big dumb grin!” Margot says chuckling at her joke.

“Make sure to tell the lieutenant, and the CO and XO, that we’ll probably be good in our food stores for a few more days! Even then I can always contact the other culinary chefs in the fleet, so worry not! No sailor will starve on my watch—I’ll have you know I am quite efficient at being frugal. If it comes to it I can make you all suffer canned food!” She finishes with a roar of laughter.” Margot sees me off as I exit the cafeteria. “Listen, Ensign Happ… when this is all over, I’ll give you and your friend the biggest servings I can feasibly put together—enough to stuff Trachenberg to prevent her from stealing any of yours! I still have plenty of tofu leftover for the two of you to savor!”

“Thanks… Petty Officer Margot, I appreciate the thought!”

“There’s no need for formalities, Happ… just calling me Margot will do.” She pats me on the shoulder this time—a gentle one this time. “Sorry if I’m a little rough with you—seems like I don’t know my own strength sometimes, haha!” She gives me a gentle stroke.

While on my way to the first armory I pass by a group of people peering out the windows, all with confused expressions. “What the bloody hell is going on out there?” One asks perplexedly.

“You think there was an accident?” Another one with an extraordinarilythick Francien accent asks his colleagues. Several murmurs follow suit, but I don’t step off the conveyor to investigate for myself. But it’s after a few moments of deciphering the accent did it occur to me what he said.

The mental gerbils, after enough exhaustive running on their mental wheels, finally bring forth a conclusion: an accident?

I step off the conveyor and trace my steps to the crowd of confused sailors. One of them takes notice of me and gives me some room to pass by, and I squeeze in to hug the glass so I can get a better view. In the distance somewhere ahead of our Yilan, I can barely make out dozens of ships that have passed through our destroyer lines—or…

What… remains of it?

It’s such a confusing scene unfolding—a mixture of ships I can’t identify from here, and several squadrons-worth of allied vessels race towards us at unbelievable speeds, which is led by an oddly marked Federation battleship. Behind those ships are…

A lump forms in my throat. A lump so big it gets difficult to try and clear it. Behind the advancing ships are several drifting in place. But these are not just any kind of ordinary ships.

Federation ships. Destroyed Federation ships. The tablet I have pressed against my chest shakes from trembling. I take a few steps back from the glass and the confused crow. Just what is going on? “There… there has to be a mistake. This can’t possibly be…” I utter after a moment of silence.

“—An enemy force? Impossible… our destroyer screen…” One of them trails off nervously. There has to be a mistake. There’s no way… how? If they happened to warp in, they would have been obliterated, and even then…even then, we would’ve been sent to battle stations right away. And even assuming they didn’t warp in… they would’ve been picked off advancing through the hyper lane. It would’ve gone full circle to alerting the continent and scrambling to battle stations.

And the Federation battleship… it sends a shiver down my spine. Just what is going on?! Why would a Federation battleship come from the direction of Lübeck?!

I tear away from the group and sprint for the bridge… but slowing down another thought crosses my mind — should I find Commander Buttermilch instead? No… I shouldn’t go around looking for him this time. He’ll definitely be at the bridge.

Along the way to the bridge are familiar sights of personnel falling under this spell that spreads like wildfire. Many are frozen in place, huddled around the windows looking in horror, shock, or surprise. But none say anything… for there is nothing to say about this peculiar situation.

When I finally arrive at the bridge out of breath and with weak knees, it is much the same. Commander Buttermilch is nowhere in sight, yet, but there is Lieutenant Plotte and Mazzareli—both are standing next to a technician who handles communications between ships, and all three look confused.

“Pl…Pluto! Mazzareli!” I limp over to them exasperated, and both turn worried gazes to me. “Just… just what is—”

“A distress signal…” Mazzareli mumbles, placing a hand on his cap, “the battleship is sending a distress signal… but…” I tug on Mazzareli’s sleeve as hard as I can, dying to know what he means. A distress signal? From the battleship?

“But—but what!?” I egg him in between breaths. Mazzareli shakes his head, unable to deliver an answer.

“…I can’t make any sense of it…” Mazzareli mumbles “there are no signals from those other ships… other than the battleship… MSNBB49… where have I heard that before?” Mazzareli places a hand on the communications technician, “have you been able to reestablish communications with theBataan, or any of the destroyers for that matter?” The young man shakes his head.

“There’s still a signal disruption from that sector, I haven’t been able to patch through. That MSNBB49 is just sending a one-way mayday signal.”

“I… see, have you been able to pinpoint the ship that is scrambling communications?” The technician shakes his head again. Mazzareli only lets out a sigh. “Keep trying, and let me know as soon as possible. Since Commander Buttermilch isn’t here…”

“—Say no more, lieutenant commander,” the stern voice of Buttermilch momentarily snaps everyone out of the spell and into stiff salutes. “At ease everyone.” Buttermilch comes up from behind me and places a hand on my shoulder. It makes me feel somewhat relieved. “What’s going on that’s turning all my men into stiff statues? Is there a cosmic Medusa turning everyone to stone?” If that was the commander’s attempt at humor, it was just so bad that some men can’t help but scoff at the lack of his comedic skills.

“It would seem… that some force has swept through our destroyer section,” the lieutenant commander begins “and that battleship is sending a distress signal,” I look up to Buttermilch’s assessing expression change to worry. He makes his way over to the radar operator and likewise, we follow the CO there.

“Have we been able to identify the ships following it?” Buttermilch asks the man, and the technician glances over at his green radar screen and then back at Buttermilch.

“No sir! None of the ships within range seem to have any signatures. Only the battleship in particular has one: MSNBB49,” the operator says in a concise voice. Suddenly, it feels like the room has gotten colder. Moments pass by and we glance at Buttermilch, who stands there in total silence. Some more time passes by, and he blinks—rapid blinks.

“…Can you repeat that ship’s identification?” He says in a voice devoid of emoticons or warmth.

“Sir!” He glances over at the radar screen one more time as if to double-check it himself. I can only imagine he must be feeling uneasy having the commander doubt him. “It is MSN—B—B—4—9,” the radar operator repeats while making eye contact with the commander—a little louder and more pronounced this time.

I look over again at Buttermilch… and the hair on my body stands up straight.

Never in my life have I ever seen someone so pale—so devoid of color—so much as Commander Buttermilch is now. A single bead of sweat inching down his face is slightly more colorful than his drained face.

“Commander… Butter—?” I ask nervously, but it does nothing to break his shock.

“The BB….49…” he whisperers, his pupils have shrunk in size, and he shakes his head. A few steps back from us. He practically breaks into a cold sweat. “That’s…”

“Sir!” Someone cries from the direction of the communications console, grabbing everyone’s attention, “I managed to get a transmission from theBataan! It reads: enemy force warped in front of us—destroyer section retreating. Recommended course of action: commence rearguard retreat to Commodore Chal Hugo’s fleet. The enemy is lead by—”

“S-S-SIR!!” The communications technician is interrupted by the radar operator, “I-I’m picking up another ship’s signature! It’s…it’s…”

“The Madame Scarface!” Both console technicians shout in unison.

“Oh my god!”

“The Mafia?!”

“How can this be?!”

The startled cries of the bridge crew make it impossible to think straight. My head starts spinning. The stiff spell is broken by a new hex of panic-induced terror. There’s no way… there’s no way—

“T-the Federation battleship is changing its trajectory! It’s—it’s speeding right towards us!!” The radar technician cries out in terror. But nobody moves. Nobody says a thing.

“That’s not a Federation ship…” Buttermilch utters “that’s a captured pirate ship—the Jaguar.”

The Jaguar. The one that the Madame Scarface captured years ago. The very one that Buttermilch laments over not being to save. The one that compelled him to rise through the ranks in determination to be the change he wanted to be—to be a commander that doesn’t idiotic decisions that could cost the lives of the men under him. The very same ship that accelerates towards us.

With each passing second, the sight of the Jaguar gets closer in view. With each passing second, the bridge crew is caught under a spell so intense that nobody can break free of it. With each passing second, my heart beats harder against my chest.

It’s not until it’s less than a kilometer away from the Yilan does the bridge crew break free of the cruel hex. Many scramble for the doors. Others cling on for dear life on either railings or console surfaces away from the windows. Some shout to close the window shutters. But it is all in vain.

A violent shake of the bridge nearly throws me off balance. The sound of screeching metal and glass shattering pierces my ears to such an extent it almost feels like they were blown out. “ENSIGN!!!” A woman who was standing near me grabs hold of me and shields me from the windows—followed by her shrieking out in pain as glass shards penetrate her from behind. And then…

Screaming. So much screaming. Oh my god; the screams. So much screaming and cries of terror. Screams and shrieks that drown out each other before they immediately become faint—and then nothing. The woman uses all her strength to heave me toward the railing that was behind us. I find myself clinging on intently with all my upper body strength—but the woman is unable to do the same. The vacuum of space was pushing her away from me and the railing, and she could only afford to hug one of my legs. I can only afford to look back for a few seconds—an expression of pain, fear, and shock… and resignation to her fate. She tries to climb her way to the railing, and despite my efforts to lend her a hand, she slips—and is sucked through the opening to space in tandem with the others who were not so lucky—those with legs ripped off, or legs bent inward from gravity boots not activating on time.

It doesn’t take long before I realize I can’t breathe. My gasps for air are in vain. My throat becomes incredibly dry, my very skin and clothes become so cold—colder than the fiercest Aussie winters. Colder than the SideLepanto I visited on that academic trip a few years ago—colder than anything I’ve ever experienced before. My lungs and heart burn with such excruciating pain it’s almost unimaginable.

I’m going to die.

I couldn’t keep my promise to mom… to father, or Alexandra… I’m going to die any moment now. I’m going to die never to return home. I’m going to die leaving behind a tombstone with no body to lay to rest. If I even do get a tombstone at all. I’m going to die leaving my parents, Friederika, and Alexandra behind for decades to come. I can’t bear to imagine how my parents would handle the news. It would devastate my father for sure. Oh blimey…

Friederika… I’m so sorry.

My hugging grip on the railing lessens, and my consciousness begins to fade. There are still people yelling things, but I can’t make it out anymore. I can just faintly hear the creaks and moans of shutters rolling down—but what difference does it make?

The last thing I register before blacking out entirely is letting go entirely—and then nothing.