The way upward on the lift grip feels like an eternity, but soon enough I reach the end of my rather mundane trip. To my surprise, I find myself with company, other than my wandering thoughts, of course. “Old man?” I mutter, “You’re still here?” Lucas doesn’t even so much as spare me a witting glance. He leans against a metallic table, shifting through something or another.

Right about now, he would have groaned and complained about how the schools back on Terra lack the conscience to teach us manners, but there’s not so much as a scoff. This feels like a lame reunion.

I hop off the lift grip and pass by without a word to Lucas. Before I can leave, Lucas speaks up, “Back already? I was beginning to worry you got lost.”

I answer back, a swift about-face knowing he’d finally open up to me a little. “In a way, you’re right, love, I was lost in a way.” I make my way to the railing, peering down into the dim shaft. Paying no heed to the icy metal. Orange supply crates zip by on Lift grips.

“Maybe I’m still lost?” I ask. A deep breath. Gripping the metal railing with one hand and tapping with the other. “Tell me, love, is it possible to ever truly find yourself?” There’s the hook-line-and-sinker scoff. Of course, normally, this would be a mischievous affair were it any other occasion. But this isn’t one of those cases.

An absentminded answer from Lucas. “Lost? Well…” the old man sets aside whatever he was busying himself with before to humor me for a bit.

“You happen to know a thing or two about being lost, old man?” I ask, suppressing a smirk. Were this Kiki, I’d expect immediate retaliation, but this old dog doesn’t strike me as someone who’d want to dare lay a finger on a superior officer. But after all that, I need a little cheer me up, even if it’s with someone who’s a stranger to me.

I can’t help but cut loose a sigh, just low enough that Lucas couldn’t pick up on it. How sad is it that I’m already more or less a second lieutenant—me, hardly on the eve of being eighteen because of some miraculous luck? Or I guess in my case—a curse. Yet, even a quick examination of seaman Lucas could fool no one that he’s young in any regard. He’s more of an old fart than my old man, and he’s well in his fifties… early sixties now. Lucas here is probably old enough to be his pops—old enough and diligent enough for prime minister, even.

Lucas appears well-versed beyond his years… an admiral hiding in a private’s uniform. It’s an odd thought that consumes me with concern over the morality of this twisted dilemma.

Our eyes meet, and the old sailor’s answer to all of this is a simple, well-crafted smile. “You could say something like that, lass. But what about you? Word gets around pretty quickly that you left with the CO for the flagship .”

I lean in, lost in those insightful yet curious glimmers of his. “I’ve gone and made a big fool out of myself, yet again, old man.” The man pays no attention to the continuing abuse of authority and lack of etiquette. Maybe I’ve warmed up to him. Maybe it’s a sign of respect.

A respect for what?

“I went in hoping to make a difference, hoping to make a difference this time. A desire so overwhelming, that it burns within my chest. I wanted to right what was wrong. And I went in and did a whole theatrics out of whopping nothing. I wanted to avoid pointless bloodshed—I wanted to avoid drawing something of a prolonged fight with our manpower and resources stretched out… I wanted the navy to avoid a quagmire like Toscana happening again.”

The old timer remains silent. A gesture for me to continue, perhaps. And so I do without hesitation. “I punched the staff officer responsible for that debacle,” I say, pausing to regain myself. A chance to refrain from living that episode again, as much as I would desire. Just reflecting on it now makes me feel rejuvenated—a shock of adrenaline letting it out. “I punched that sonuvabitch so he knows full well how the Yilan feels about the whole whopping mess. I hope he remembers the pain until the day he dies.

“Was it the right thing to do, Lucas?” I demand. I grit my teeth. Slamming on the cold metal. “Was any of what I did the right thing to do? What if it was Buttermilch—“

“Easy, kid,” the man says with reconciliation.

“Would Buttermilch have done the same as me?” I ask, surprising even myself with the tone of my voice. I relax myself, slumping and clinging onto the metal railing. “You understand my anger, right?” Not giving him the chance to interject I find myself rambling on “The only thing is… and you didn’t hear it from me or anything, considering how word spreads fast and all—there’s going to be—“ I bite my lip. An abrupt desire overwhelms me: silence. I shouldn’t go around spreading rumors so carelessly. I wouldn’t be able to weasel my way out of trouble revealing top-secret plans so easily. “A military operation soon,” I say slowly, calculating how to keep it vague at most.

We exchange glances. Lucas folds his arms, an indication I feel is an invitation to continue. “A plan so brazenly familiar that will feel so brazen to us at Toscana. Originally, they wished to split the fleet.”

“To split the fleet?” Lucas muses, “But…” his eyebrows twitch, the cogs turning. “The Admiral and his fleet being here, I merely took it as an indication that this fun little vacation was over.”

Not waiting for him to ponder any further, I continue. “I openly objected…” leaning on the railing, opening and closing bruised hands. “I suggested we aim to keep our forces cohesive.” I peer into the piqued seaman’s eyes’, finding answers in these two little ponds that I know would simply be in vain.

“Is it an enemy fleet? Some… rogue pirate haven we overlooked?” Lucas whispers, and I say nothing. Letting the brief gust flirt with my hair as more cargo containers zip by. There’s the odd officer and sometimes personnel riding by on lift grips, waving us good ones with smiles.

How I envy them for enjoying a good mood. Any moment now, really, Mazzareli will announce the upcoming plans for Entebbe.

I peer down into the endless shaft before turning to Lucas. “They really don’t tell us a damn thing, do they, love?” Lucas looks at me with complexity, he leans onto the railing, intent on curiosity. “The League Militaire… have you heard of them, Lucas?”

For a second there, Lucas looks troubled. He caresses his temple before straightening himself up. “The 18/19th Legionnaires… I should’ve known it was going to be like this from the beginning.” I’m taken aback by his cool response. The sailor forces a smirk. Well… he is old. But I have no idea who the man is or what he did for a living before the Yilan.

“A bit of a side track, old man,” I say. Lucas scratches his sandy cheeks. “Well… I suppose you already know where this is going—how long have you been with the military?” He begins to answer, but I lean into him with a raised brow, “How are you even a seaman still? Don’t take this as flattery, love, but you look old enough to be my gramps.”

“Yeah, well,” a sigh from the old sailor, “I’ve been serving with the Federation since the days your father was still nothing more than just—“

“Alright, spare me the rest,” I say with a kind gesture. I try to relax by resting my back against the cold barrier. “Simply put, you don’t appear like a conscript to me.”

Lucas sighs, a puff of his chest. “Years ago, I was. I hope they had the decency of teaching you about NOSP in school?”

The mention of NOSP comes off as a surprise, but I give a nod they did. “The Near Orbital Space Police? Of course… wow, and you never once advanced through the ranks?” The question, without even realizing it, has kept me frozen dead in my tracks. An indecent thing to ask. The blood in my body freezes still.

“Some men are better suited for the job,” Lucas says. “When you’re young, you’re adventurous. When you’re old, you’re content and cautious. The politics of echelons from the pits of the rank and file to the middle of chain command was not a path for me in life,” Lucas remarks. “More responsibilities, the lives of your former comrades right there cuddled in your hands. If something went wrong—you are the immediate reason why. You are the last resort if and when something goes wrong.”

On the heels of my curiosity, I lean in. “When NOSP was disbanded, where did you go? How did that affect you?”

Lucas strokes his chin. His silver bushy eyebrows peer ahead into the vacuum shaft. “Life was hard for a no-good slum sailor like me. Another time, I feel, I’d be more happy to tell you what our… contemporary history books won’t.

“But… a short amount of years after NOSP, I enlisted in the Federation Navy.”

“And that brought you to the Yilan?” I ask. Lucas nods. My nails dig into the railing. My heels firmly dug into the concrete flooring. “You must’ve known MacKenzie, right?” Lucas straightens up—but it’s only for a second. “Who was she, Lucas?”

“MacKenzie was a bitch,” Lucas says absentmindedly. The answer catches me off guard, but I resolve not to giggle. “She was an actual witch,” the old sailor turns to face me. “I was acquainted with her in the NOSP days. No matter the task, she would do it. In the dirty line of NOSP, that was not an easy thing to do.” Lucas presses his thumbs together on his forehead, taking a moment to bask in the memories. “Mac…” Lucas muses.

“What happened to her, Lucas?” I ask. There are so many things I want to know about MacKenzie, Lucas, and NOSP. But it feels like time is fleeting… there wouldn’t be enough time for it now. Not with the League Militaire. “Were you there?” I ask. At first, Lucas doesn’t say anything. The old sailor squints, then lifts his head and turns to me slowly. There. “Al-…Bawa…Qu?”

Lucas takes one good glance at the work he was preoccupied with until a few moments ago. “You should forget about that… tomfoolery. Nothing good will ever come out of chasing dead ends.”

“What happened after Mac’s last mission, Lucas?” The old sailor becomes increasingly resilient to the questions. Lucas turns his back to me, getting back into the rhythm of his busy work.

Facing immediate defeat, I shrug my shoulders and head off. But Lucas stops me. Setting down one of the bulky cartridges, Lucas clears his throat. “This mission you spoke of… I understand because of authorizations and such forth… but… the League Militaire?”

“Yes? What about them?” Cool air and goosebumps are propping up before I know it. I resist the urge to shiver in front of Lucas.

“Have you ever met with a French Legionnaire, lass?” Lucas takes one step towards me. The nervous evolves rapidly into a stranglehold. My chest gets tighter as Lucas approaches. “Do you know what they’re capable of?”

“From what I know,” I gasp. “They were the Federation’s premiere light troop that specialized in—“

“No!” Lucas says to my bewilderment. “That’s what they teach you. That’s what they want to instill in you. They are monsters. They are bastards. They are filled with the worst of villainy the galaxy will ever know.”

I remember the shy petite Bernie back on the Trinidad. I shake my head, resisting Luca’s warnings. “Not all of them. I’ve met one. They were nothing of the sort.”

“My dear, that’s just one. Most of them are. A lot of them are not so gentle. The Legionnaires are a monolith of iron will and frozen blood. In some ways, they were the paramilitary arm of the NOSP—“

“Do you believe that?” I ask. Lucas says nothing. “Why are you bringing this up now darling? What’s the hangup over the Legionnaires?”

“You don’t understand the gravity of this situation!” Lucas’s tone nearly startles me. “See! You quake in your boots.”

“Where is this coming from, love?” I ask, more demandingly this time. I glance around hoping this abrupt commotion doesn’t draw any unwanted attention.

“The League Militaire was composed of some of the most well-respected, well-decorated legions the Federation had at its disposal,” Lucas says, “and we were so blinded as to where they were… what they were capable of. The media used to make such a mean scare out of it back in the day. if what I’ve heard so far is true that we discovered the whereabouts of the League Militaire.” After I confirm that is the case, Lucas is silent for a long time.

I break the silence, “We were deceived, weren’t we?”

After a few moments of rubbing his forehead, Lucas sighs heavily and answers. “Wise men years ago echoed this: don’t trust leaders to always be right. Sometimes, they make wrong choices, and millions may perish.”

I lean over the railing, peering into the manifestations of my thoughts—of this lunacy depiction of the chaos we live in. Revolts in Ruthenia. Uncertainty back home. A resurgent foe in our backyard. Aromas of dissent in the Frankish capital. Just next door, a slumbering pirate haven, and its pirate lords sink into hibernation.

“This isn’t going to be anything like Toscana, isn’t it?” I ask. “There’s going to be no grand space battle or anything of the sort.” A scoff. Two scoffs. “If we’re facing the best we’ve ever produced and trained, this isn’t going to be so easy as simply starving out into submission…

“They want to—they have to go in there and fight a good old fight, love. I suggested diverting our manpower to fight what I perceived was their headquarters… Ishtar Terra.”

“Ishtar Terra…” the musings of an old sailor. “A mystical deity, a relic from the Old World… of love, war, and fertility. A symbolic choice for a final show-down, don’t you agree?”

“That wasn’t my intention, Lucas,” I say bitterly.

“Then what was your intention?” Lucas asks. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing occurs.

I tap my shoulders. My intention, huh…? “At the time, I simply wanted to avoid spreading out forces and draining reserves all over the Lagrange points. I figured… if we focused our ground invasion on their main base of operations, the other holdouts would eventually kneel… if we forced the leaders into submission.”

“Taking advantage of the prideful nature of the Frankish Legionnaires?” Luca asks.

I can’t help but crack a smile. “It’s just a simple strategy. Decapitate the leadership, and leave the rest as rabble.” Lucas offers no insight, but merely scoffs and heads back to his work cart.

“Then what’s the worry?” Lucas asks.

“Worry?” I muse. “Well… suppose, love, the whole venture turns into a whopping ass… what if my desire to avoid pointless bloodshed only generates more bloodshed with such a focused concentration of manpower all conveniently in one place?” I stomp the ground. “What if the League Militaire has little regard for the colony and… and they… perhaps, they trap and rig it to explode, or some such?”

“Your imagination is impressive,” Lucas answers, turning to lean on his bench. “Were these mere rabble, or pirates… they wouldn’t hesitate. The Legionnaires are the medieval knights of yesterday. They wouldn’t dare resort to such unruly methods.”

Unruly methods…

“Not unlike the Federation…” Lucas murmurs.

“Lucas, love,” I begin. Lucas is slightly fazed by me calling out to him, perhaps I broke his concentration on his mumbling matter. “If you were given the option to do so, but you don’t participate in the operation itself… would you still do it? Knowing that you get to sit back and relax while hundreds of thousands of your fellow servicemen are fighting for their survival day and night?”

It’s a long-winded question, and Lucas ponders it all the same. “You’re shrouded in guilt,” Lucas answers. “You can’t let it get the best of you. You cannot let it consume you and have it cloud your judgment. A cautious commander is a good one, but too cautious and you jeopardize others with your mental block. You’d be unfit for command, miss Victoria. You have a Victorian’s Cross lined up, don’t you?” Lucas turns around briefly to set down one of his electronic devices and picks up another. “This isn’t something a seaman should say to a superior officer—but get your act together. If I went into Ishtar Terra knowing you made such adjustments to a carefully planned military operation while you’re safe and sound in orbit… never to know what it’s like to be in the mud. I have no idea how I’d feel.

“Have you ever been in the field, little lady? Have you ever fought in a battle before?” Lucas continues, “Do they even train you for that anymore?”

“Officer cadets train at side Lepanto,” I answer, “I trained there in 217 for a bit. Survival gear, small arms, armored and halberd training…”

“Trained at such a young age and yet no exposure to the horrors of war. Well, not that I’m not to talk either. When I was a little dunce, I did the same thing. Except it was NOSP academies. Similar education regime, however.

“But they train you against rabble. Against pirates, and hooligans. Never against an organized foe. The worst our military ever had to fight were… those dispersed Perdenes farmers.”

“That we lost against,” I answer. Truthfully, our only real enemies(in the scope of the Federation Navy) are space pirates… I still remember a decade ago how the Senate balked at the idea of a formalized Federation naval force. It’s not much of a difference compared to NOSP when you read into it, more or less an extension and broadened role as a military arm.

But to what end, to quash a few pirates?…

Bloody Perdenes remains even now a somewhat complicated affair. It was a conflict stemming from distrust of the Federation government in Sydney. Then the Perdenians declared a jihad of independence… and got crushed in massive bombing campaigns, only to endure a sluggish ground counter-insurgency occupation for more than nine years: the Frankish Legionnaires bore the brunt of the body count for the Federation.

All that bloodshed contributed to the Toto Concord guaranteeing absolute autonomy for the Perdenes system and a demilitarization zone in space. No military vessels or military arms were prohibited in its spacial zones. But given that the Admiral’s fleet crossed it in a rather timely matter… there’s no telling if Perdenes, too, is a powder keg for the Federation.

“But these French Legionnaires?” Lucas continues. “They are near-machines. Human pit bulls are designed for one thing only: to shed blood.” Again the brief memory of Bernie flashes before me, and I can’t help but grin.

“Surely, love, you are generalizing. They can’t all be—“

“I was there in Perdenes,” Lucas answers. A roundabout answer to my question from earlier regarding whether he was involved in Al-Bawa Qu or not. “Maybe you’ll be doing those men and women a favor, Victoria. Maybe you won’t. You won’t know until the time comes—when the smoke clears and we make a headcount of the madness.

“But Victoria… I just want you to know. Don’t take any of what I said the wrong way… I think MacKenzie would be proud—and so would Buttermilch. Proud of what you’ve done and what you will achieve. Hell,” he rests his arms on his sides, a slight grin. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t proud of you. Considering the alternative is either all of us dead or waiting to be cremated.

“And Victoria… I think what you’ve done back there in Toscana… ”

“T-Thank you, Lucas,” I say, cutting off Lucas from any further gratitude. With a quick salute, I about-face and head for the nearest lift grips. “I think I made up my mind on something.”

“Oh?” It’s the only thing I hear before the rumbling of machinery drowns him out. “Victoria! It’s been good talking to you! Never forget about the little guy! Talk to me every once in a while, will ya?!”

Thanks, Lucas. It’s been great talking to you too. But with what I want to do… I have no idea if I can fulfill that request.

I rub the lenses of the sunglasses as the lift grip reaches the end. Glancing at the marker this is level D-Three. It’s not the bridge, unfortunately, so I’ll just have to make do with some exercise. There are two downsides to the lift grip: one, my stomach. Two, not being able to move around on one for an extended period sort of cramps your body. And since I’m heading for the bridge, I imagine the elevator traffic will not be good… especially now that Mazzareli is back and god forbid he stops away from managerial duties for one second.

But now that I lost track of him, I have no idea where he could be now. He may not even be at the bridge, he could be back in his room. Where did he say he departed for again? I don’t remember…

Taking the best chance I have, I reach out to a nearby officer. She turns a cold stare at me, biting down on her lip. Her nameplate? Oh, it’s just who I don’t need to see right now—

“The hell do you want?” Poe Kippard sneers. The one Friederika told me to avoid any trouble with. Well… I can’t believe I’m even considering this, but having a Friederika on hand right now would be… handy.

“Sorry, love!” I back away, hands up. “I was looking for the commanding offier… do you know where Mazzareli might’ve wandered off to?” She has such a transparent presence, I had no idea it was even her. It’s hard to get any real read on her since she has such a stern poker face… or a resting bitch face.

Prince’s adjutant rolls her eyes. She sighs—and unexpectedly it compels me to do the same. I try to play it off by clearing my throat to avoid the awkwardness.

“He was on the way to the mess hall with lieutenant Prince,” Poe answers. Blowing strands of hair out of her eyes. “The CO is planning on inspecting the workshops and a last-minute repair check on the Yilan’s starboard grazing.” Oh. From the time the Yilan had a Mafia missile lodge its starboard. It’s almost like an adventurous tale at this point. “Are we done here?” she demands. “I have to retrieve something for Prince from his office.”

“Of course you do, love,” I answer with a short jab at a salute. “I’ll be on my way—“ and before I get the chance to slide away, a rush of air as I’m slammed, out of breath, against the wall. “What in the—“ Poe holds me tightly by the collar, yanking me closer to me as she keeps me pinned by the side.

“I don’t damn know where you got this idea of calling me love stems from, but we’re not on good terms. I have even less idea of what went on that ship, but knock it off. Stay out of my way.”

What the hell is her problem?!

Poe shoves me aside and hops off into a jolt and disappears before I can get back up. Unfortunately, nobody seemed to be around, so I can’t exactly hold her accountable… unless I sought out surveillance footage I suppose. But that’s not important right now.

The mess hall she said? If I’m lucky, petty officer Margot would’ve given them a story or two to tell. I gamble on the elevator this time, destination C-Two. After a bit of a comfortable wait, I dart out into a hectic hallway. Strangely enough, contrary to what Prince said about the mess shell salutation, it’s still rowdy. Some personnel have lost themselves in spirits and cheap liquor. Some groups of sailors sing their beloved Francien anthem. It’s more akin to a late-night cyberpunk bar than it is to a professional army’s mess hall.

“Victoria!” I hear a familiar voice shout through the madness. I turn to face an energetic Margot. Her hands are full of glasses and snacks. She sets them down forcibly and snarls me into a hug. “Why have you been such a stranger lately?!” She beckons for me to sit. And with the illusion of free choice shattering, she shoves into my hands one of the fabled sushi kangaroo rolls Friederika was excited about. “I always loved cooking for you love.” A firm grasp on my shoulder. “I never got to serve you Buttermilch’s Favorite meal, you know?”

When a Yilan service member dies, it’s an honored tradition to eat a meal based on their last favorite dish. Margot insists it’s been something of a tradition with her family going back a millennia. I didn’t participate in the Feast the rest of the Yilan conducted after we returned to the Frankish Domains region of Bordeaux. It didn’t feel like the right thing to do. It would feel undeserving for me on a personal level.

“I’m not ready to have it, just yet,” I answer. My stomach betrays me, but I suppress the grumbling so she will buy it. “I’ve done something that… I want to do something that would upset a lot of you—you especially, Margot.” Margot, taken back, is confused by my intentions. I take a bite out of the meat roll and pass it to a drunkard dozing off. Margot looks a little defeated—it’s the stare that haunts me. It’s nearly as cold as the bite I took.

“The next time I see you, I’ll have his Meal, Margot, I promise you that.” I have no idea if I can keep the promise, but a promise is a resolute thing.

Margot doesn’t say a word. She smiles, patting me on the shoulder before returning to her other duties. Taking in the moment, I let out a sigh of relief watching these rowdy Frankmen bask in the celebration of their impending role as liberators… there is so much I want to learn about these people and so little time I feel.

On the overhead telly, an episode of that Perdenes war drama starts playing. It’s the one Friederika and I watched once—before the faithful jump to Toscana.

Its tile-card: Dama. A soldier in archaic desert wear is half strewn into the golden sands that work painstakingly to give its victim final resting rites. The bar’s fanaticism stops in its tracks, and the enigmatic drums and instruments of uncertainty swell the mess hall. Margot muses that this is not proper mess hall viewing, but several people shoo her away from turning it off.

Dama pans out to a sea of comrades and adversaries alike strewing the earth. The audio remains muted except for the ominous, alien music. Several soldiers… streams of soldiers charge past the camera, trampling the unfortunate victims below them. A different scene—of exotic men in ponchos and turbans raining arrows and concentrated arquebus artillery on caravans, their knightly escorts executed by guerrilla saboteurs.

“This land is cold and unforgiving,” the voice-over of the protagonist(I think?), Lainé. A camel carries an older Lainé, and an entourage of fully armored knights follows suit. One baggage of inventory follows behind. Lainé turns to her nearest knight, as the synthetic music plays quietly behind every word. “The subjugation of the people of the Land of Haieu Linh cannot come any sooner. The Imperial Decree demands it, and so I am fit to carry out the Will of the Emperor.

“And, yet, so…

“Not since the days of Yoko Tori and Cao Yi has there been a more troublesome conflict in the harrowing days of this Empire,” Lainé remarks. She pauses, a moment to cough—blood. She grips her wooly glove and thrusts her coat to avoid alerting the others. “For Yoko, it was the liberation of the Land of Shia. For Cao, it was the unforgiving conquest of the Land of Chi Lay…”

“My lady,” one of the taller trots up from behind Lainé. “We must return to encampment,” he glances around—at the cliffs above. At the ravine below. “Those Hashshashin are no laughing matter—“

“I send soldiers like you out to patrols all the time,” Lainé retorts. “If a commander cannot dare to go through the same acts he demands of his troops, then it shows cowardice. I did not dedicate my life to this position to simply sit back and let the youngsters commit all the dying! Cowardice breeds rapidly in such vapid conditions.”

The entourage turns back, leaving Lainé to admire the fascinating view of Haieu Linh’s majestic works of handicraft mountains… their rolling hills. It’s all so fascinating.

The camera pans out to black and returns to Lainé trotting through a busy encampment. “The Senate will get its reward… it will get Cao—“ Suddenly, a loud bang as several members duck down—everyone’s too drawn by the telly.

“It’s the episode! Relax!” someone shouts. The low, cool, hum of the Dama melody deafens out a rocky explosion—the dust clears as several people help up Lainé.

The camera slowly pans in on her as she slowly finds her footing. She glances up at the camera. “No matter the cost…” Synthetic archaic music deafens the room as the scene changes to another assault against Cao’s(presumably) walls. Man against man, steel clashing steel, shattering of blades amidst frenzies of mortal combat… soldiers shanking troops with glaives and halberds… ladders and showdowns on armored siege towers…

“I cannot cross the Muong River without nothing to show for it. It can be only to return as victors… or as betrayers to the Imperium.

“I will do whatever it takes.”

At that moment, the telly changes channels, much to the mess hall’s commotion. “Go watch it in your rooms!” Margot retorts, slapping unfortunate bystanders in the wake of her wrath with rolled-up paper. “This isn’t a loitering area for you bums! Go! Get!” Seeing my chance to escape, I salute the culinary petty officer and dart into the overcrowded hallway.

Workshop, workshop… oh blimey, I don’t recall if we ever got orientation for where the workshops were. Though… just to be safe, I’ll head to the docking station. He’s likely going to inspect it first hand… well… taking a break to recollect my thoughts, it makes me wonder if the recent experience with the inexperienced pilot will put off wanting to head off into space so soon, especially after that.

“The Combat Informations Center, maybe?” I muse, twirling my hair. No one could blame Mazzareli if he simply wished to observe the starboard damage from a satellite projection. No signs of Friederika, either, now that I think about it. Is she in her room I wonder? I glance back for any sight of Margot, realizing I should’ve asked her, but maybe it’s not a good time for that, at least for now.

Taking another roll of the dice, I head for the hangers. If he’s at either, I can acquire if he’s seen Friederika since she’d need permission to go ashore for a bit, which I can follow suit with. Scouring through the first hanger, he’s not present, but the second one wins the lottery with his presence. He must have overcome his fear of shuttles since he appears to be coming back, a rather haste effort to remove the space suits.

“Mazzareli, sir,” I say with a salute. Mazzareli is busy handing an adjutant the bulky helmet and unzipping the thick suit.

“Oh wonders, it’s ensuring one problem is done and getting thrust with another,” Mazzareli remarks. Grinning as he snugly puts on his cap.

“I have a couple of questions for you, sir,” I say. Mazzareli gestures for me to walk with him.

“Oh, as I’m sure your quench of knowledge desires,” Mazzareli says.

“Well, firstly love, I want to know if my girlfriend Friederika came by and if she went ashore—“

Mazzareli is quick to interject. We’re almost out of the hangar—saluting lazy guards while we wait for the pressurization chamber to finish its mechanism cycle. “To Terrassa? Yes, oh it seems whatever you did upset the poor girl. Are you quite positive it wasn’t a breakup of sorts?”

“I never took you for humor,” I answer, forcing a grin. Mazzareli merely chuckles. “Are you heading off into the CIC, Mazzy—sir?” I ask as the doors open. The commanding officer is quick to realize I’m likely not intending to leave the hanger—that this isn’t just another walk-and-talk thing.

Mazzareli thinks for a second. “The bridge? Why yes, I am. I haven’t been able to check the follow-up to the operation just yet… need to assemble things and such for it. And you, Lieutenant…?”

“Well, to ask permission to go ashore… enjoy what time I have before operation Entebbe begins.”

Mazzareli flinches, setting into motion pondering what I mean. “I’m not sure I follow, Lieutenant, the Yilan isn’t part of the operation, per…say.” His eyebrows raise as one wild thought rises after another.

“Mazzy—sir, if I may have one last request before both of us depart…”

“Victoria,” Mazzareli sighs. He exchanges glances with the confused security.

I take a deep breath. “I wish to volunteer for Entebbe…” I take a step forward, swiping my hat and holding it tightly to my chest—pressing tightly against the sunglasses. “I want to be reassigned to the army—marine, legionnaire… any combat force assigned to partake in Thunderbolt.

“More than anything—in the first wave, if possible. I don’t care if it’s even an assignment with the eighteenth corps and brigadier Ishikawa. I should’ve done it back there… yeah, if that was the biggest mistake back there, Mazzareli, it’s not volunteering for it then and there!”

“Victoria, you’re being…”

“Unreasonable?” I retort. “We’re living in one, commander.” Mazzareli rubs his face and turns his back to me, sighing all the same. “I’m reasoned to believe you won’t take no for an answer—“

“Not even from you, love.”

“Just don’t come to regret this… don’t make me regret this. and I think you’re in luck because members of the eighteenth are down there on Terrassa—and that could mean Ishikawa too. Leave an impression on her and maybe she’ll approve of a reassignment.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Thank you, Mazzy. I take it I’m also in good form with leaving for ashore?”

“Of course. Don’t make that a habit either,” Mazzareli says. Taking advantage of the low gravity to skip down the hallway—the door seals shut behind him.

Luck continues to be on my side: I approach the nearest ship that’s leaving the refueling station and to my surprise come across Yuri Baikal. “Lieutenant Baikal!” I shout, hoping to catch her attention. She turns around, confused at first but smiles.

“Back so soon?” Yuri asks. “Sorry I ditched you at the Trinidad. Some other gig needed to be hauled. You going ashore I reckon?” Yuri turns to face the shielded bay entrance. “So much more movement all of a sudden… they’re unloading more of those troop transports. There’s so many!”

“It’s still a battlefield out there as always, huh?” I muse, leaning on the recently cooled ship paneling. I’m going to Terrassa—think you could lend me a ride there? I’ll probably be there for a day or two…”

“Of course,” Yuri answers happily. It’s a relief to come back to her in good spirits at least. “I can get you there in, oh… maybe thirty minutes. An hour at worst—but definitively the next half hour.”

With Yuri’s permission, I head inside the shuttle and strap myself in. Terrassa… a reunion with Alexandra and an encounter with Ishikawa, huh? I’m looking forward to this little calm before the storm.