Yuri masterfully navigates the shuttle through traffic. A feat, might I add which is no easy accomplishment. I’ve played my fair share of the latest hits of space simulators in arcades back home before I joined Canberra Academy, but I was, and probably still am, a lousy pilot. Mustering my energy to remain calm—refraining from dwelling into panic and grasping at an absent SPEIBSACKERL. This is an endurance test of its own.

Our destination is a distant white blimp swarmed by hundreds of fast-orbiting dots. We cruise through seemingly endless destroyer screens, some tethered to temporary mining deposit asteroid stations which I surmise are commandeered for servicing purposes.

Every so often, we are hailed by utility vessels who form makeshift parameters of sorts. These shuttles have cosmonaut marines who either operate freely with jet packs or are constrained by safety cables to their mothership. In any case, they’re armed with halberds, recoilless rifles, and grapple guns. But why? For what purpose? I ponder the thoughts as Yuri deals with the minor inconvenience. What’s your destination? Which mother ship do you originate from? Who are your passengers? What are you carrying?

The Admiral mentioned that construction strikes are ongoing in nearby systems. And then there is the concerning report about the surgical strike at Brenaco. Is this a cautionary measurement taken by the Admiral? If that were the case—-

Yuri sighs. She reaches overhead for a lever and pulls down. She clears the silence, saying presently, “Hold on.”

“Eh?” I mutter. The next thing I know, my pilot pulls down the joystick. The abrupt shift in force is more than enough to slam me onto the roof of the cockpit, but the tight seatbelt keeps me firmly in place(as it digs into cloth and skin).

For a few precarious moments, we find ourselves cloaked in utter darkness interrupted by peeks of deep shade yellow. It occurs to me just now we nearly slammed straight into a titanic white vessel. Now, our shuttle races the belly of the titanic white vessel which moments ago we could’ve been adjoined within a lovely spectacle of space debris and mush. It’s a hard thought to swallow knowing I could’ve died without even realizing what could’ve happened. I dig my fingers into the chair’s armrests.

It’s simply one shock after another, and for this beautiful long lass, dying in this matter would have been pitiable. My heartbeat returns to normal after we escape the vessel’s shade and return to relative safety.

Yuri can’t help but chuckle at my expense. “Sorry for the scare,” she says. “Those merchants are oblivious to their surroundings.”

“I don’t recognize the ship,” I answer, glancing back at the great white whale. Moments ago, the starboard of this great vessel would’ve been scorched black. “Federation supply ships are piss-colored.” Squinting, I add, “and larger—less slim. Essentially they’re like flying warehouses. But what’s it doing all the way out here amongst the military?”

Yuri doesn’t answer. Or maybe she doesn’t want to think about it. To be fair, she is unaware of the upcoming operation. I do not bother bringing it up again. I know the answer to it myself: Admiral DeRyck lost a number of his supply ships along the Merican-Toscana corridor.

And because of that ill-fated incursion, the Admiral is forced to borrow from the natives in Ruthenia despite the political unrest unfolding there as we speak. A modest amount in the words of the Admiral: modest by what measurement?!

But it’s been nearly two months since DeRyck and the main fleet departed from their journey in the Merica star zone. Who knows how destabilized Ruthenia is—and by extension the artery of the Federation—is at the moment. And that’s the unnerving thing—the detail that escapes my mind so thoroughly.

I can only wonder what Alexa’s opinion on all of this is… Truth be told, just thinking about our reunion gives me goosebumps. I stroke my shoulders, kicking my feet up on the dashboard.

One thing simply leads to the next. And now we’re being forced to feed and supply less than a quarter of a million servicemen at the expense of yet another group of locals: the Franks. I wonder if the colonists here are as raffled as their elected leaders in the Francien capital of Lusatia. A deep sigh, brushing locks of golden hair.

The familiar shape of a Side colony is more evident the closer we get. At present, the traffic is heavier than earlier. far more makeshift parameters and squads of MP roaming about ready to ruin some poor sap’s day.

While police shuttles and their tethered military troop keep tight choke points around Terrassa’s exterior defense systems: massive, pitch-black square installations with vertical pods dominating the outer cone. As embarrassing as it is to admit, even with a trained eye such as mine they’re an oversight.

This fact alone alarms me: I’ve heard of something among the likes of active camouflage—of course, anyone has in pulpy novels and cheesy, overly-bombastic visual movies. I press against the cockpit side window, squinting. But here they are. There are two… five… maybe seven in a broad circular fashion.

All of them here, at Terrassa alone—no! Maybe the rim is larger than I originally estimated. It could be that it shares a chain with the rest of the Cluster. They blend in well with the cloaking but the technology is not perfect by any means.

These machines… racking my brain for what the bloody things were called: mangonel smart launch systems.

Because of the light reflecting off the tangly-orange planet of Gasson and the silver sheet of Terrassa, the mangonel has a visible rim glistening and amplifying the structure’s shimmering outlines, specifically the side facing Gasson. It’s because of my impression of the mangonel’s surface being pitch-black that I realize it’s merely, partially, blending into its masking environment.

Just how many missile platforms are there, just here, in Francia? I wonder if there will become a day—maybe in my lifetime, that naval warfare will be lethal blind knife fights.

Were this ship part of a raiding party from Ruthenia, or the Mafia, or even if the Franks suddenly perceived the Federation fleet as a threat, these first couple minutes of unassuming would cost us our lives.

There will come a day when technology like optic camouflage will become commonplace in spacial navies, and the ghostly wind of that death-like sequence tickles the back of my neck. Every era of warfare has ways of shaking up the status quo in unmistakable ways. Every generation of young men and women will pay the price for such advancements in technology: a wicked science to end the life of another.

Yet, since the aftermath of Terra’s horrible and bitter Great Resource Wars, we have entered the longest, uninterrupted scope of general peace in human civilization. For almost three hundred years we have lived this way, something not seen since the end of the twenty-second century A.D..

Now the third millennium has ended, and still, humanity marches through a well-beaten path of war and terror. How many millenniums must humanity endure before peace is achieved forever?

I shake off the foreboding thoughts.

Mangonel defenses still need to be manually reloaded, and that means securing its space zone. Depending on how far of a distance and the determination of the pilot and reloading crew, it’s feasible if only to deter a bunch of pirates. But against an entire space fleet? The mangonel right now is a first-strike installation. The moment even a naked lock-on occurs by a raiding party, it would be over.

I’ve read from second-hand accounts that the Franks were the only colonies capable of producing anti-ship defense systems like the mangonel, let alone its optical camouflage. I read reports and news here and there about mangonel developments but to see these installations first-hand leaves me only supplied with a mixture of intriguing horror.

It leaves me to wonder still… would the League Militaire have the same type of defenses? It’s the unpredictable nature of the situation that leaves me feeling lost. I wonder if the Admiral and his staff take into consideration the same?

If most Frankish Clusters have the same set of hardware as here, how could the League Militaire have struck one and gotten away so easily? I caress my temple: there are so many things I do not know!

My train of thought is interrupted only by the looming cloak of Terrassa’s dominating presence. I sink into my chair, breathless as the titan colony is only more and more imposing. When you compare even the biggest battleships we have and even Federation supply ships, they are mere pebbles compared to O’Vertame Cylinders. I’ve seen holographic filmbook depictions of a Side scaled next to a planet like Terra. It would be an understatement to say Sides are small.

In any case, the chaos washes away as we approach and align ourselves with runaway blinking lights. To be more specific, we head into the top vertical silo leading into the Terrassa’s interior of corridors.

Traffic slows down, and Yuri turns her attention to communicating with Terrassa’s mission control.

I pay no attention to the conversation, but Yuri’s sigh of relief is all I need to know permission is granted without a hitch. Yuri slows the shuttle to something just shy of cruise control, gracefully gliding the craft through the upper tunnel. Once inside, it’s smooth sailing.

Presently there are maybe three ships ahead of us. A good indication that we won’t die in a horrible disaster—it’s my turn to cut a concealed sigh loose. I sink into my chair, unbuckling as I do so, a much-deserved stretch. Of course, any moment now such imagination could become reality.

I peek over the side cockpit window for a better survey of the port. From a glimpse, the atmosphere down there is in better contrast than the business outside. Civilians and workers alike go about their days, most likely living in beautiful bliss not knowing of the military buildup unfolding outside. But then again, if I were a local here and saw the entire Federation armada in my front yard, with troopers posted about, interrogating anyone that comes in and out… it could, by all means, be the contrary.

Regardless of their attitude towards us here, the local government in Lusatia has every right to be angry on their behalf. That is their purpose, after all, to hear the cries of the people and champion their complaints to the powers that be.

After all, it would be wise not to prod people with guns, lest they start pointing them at you. I do not think it could ever come to that.

Sitting back in the chair. I still remember the events on the telly several years ago. When those politicians on Capitol Hill argued that the Franks, although seemingly docile and content enough to pay their taxes, would unmistakably rise in rebellion one day, arm-in-arm with their Ruthenian cousins, and overthrow the seat of power in Terra. Even though—well, I have yet to see this alien culture for myself anyway—what the anchors on the telly and virtual radios would say points that the Frankish Domains are incapable of such a thing.

I think it can simply be chalked up to the fact that the Francien economy is too intertwined with Metropolitan Sol’s, even far greater than the Ruthenia colonies. This is one of the points presented to us in primary school, at Canberra Academy, and beaten into us when we had accelerated training in the year while posted at the Yilan—before the events of Lucky Alphonse, anyway.

The Franks serve the Federation well. By reasonable colonial standards, the Frankish Domain is one of the few regions spared from the worst of piracy activity, owing in part to their higher-than-usual level of security than anywhere in the galaxy, other than Metropolitan Sol of course.

One glance at those enormous military hardware installations would be more than enough to deter even the most determined of foes. This fact lets them have far greater resource allocation for fleet construction and serves as the Federation’s major food basket.

Maybe arguing is the wrong expression to use. Hysteria and paranoia might describe it better. At least it’s what I could decipher back then. Whatever way you may see it, politicians at home are ever fearful the Franks are plotting in secrecy their freedom. That is what we were shipped off here for and remembering what DeRyck mentioned about gag orders… of course, our true purpose—commodore Chal’s purpose—was the subjugation of the rogue Legionnaires at Ishtar-Terra.

Rubbing my chin. Yuri decelerates further as she speaks into the radio comm with the harbor control tower. Is it because the Franks are allowed such free reign over ship development that it is fearful they will strike us when we least expect it? They control the thing, they have the power to destroy thing.

So many questions, but never enough answers. It’s hard to find the truth when the previous fact given to us was but a lie. Why…. Why would the Admiral lie to us? Why the need for frightening security? A fear of Ishtar-Terra agents among us?

“Oh, before I forget,” Yuri breaks both the silence and my concentration, “were you able to give that sonuvabitch a piece of our minds?” That Chal bastard—“

“No,” I answer dejectedly, surprising even myself with the tone, “but I did get his aide—his right-hand lad who approved of the whole debacle. He was a sickly fellow.” Hoffman. I subtly grit my teeth just remembering the name. I relax my fists, the bruising still evident. “I only gave him one—“

“Oh-h, how I wish I was there!” Yuri says, suppressing her excitement to perfect the landing. All things considered, I’m rather proud I have enough endurance to refrain from scrambling for the SPEIBSACKERL. “Sorry love, continue?”

I declare with a triumphant pump of my chest “One good punch,” I clench my left fist, leaning over the co-pilot seat to the bemused Yuri. “The Victorian Special.”

The old gal chuckles, she says. “You think he—both him and Chal got the message?” She eyes the cockpit. There’s the abrupt landing bump.

“They’d bloody well hope so,” I declare. Clicking off the bulky seat belts and getting up for a second stretch.

“And in front of the Admiral and all the staff officers of all things…!” Yuri leans back in her chair. She flips a switch to her left, and I wait for the shuttle’s cabin doors to do its depressurization business. Oh how long these bloody things take! “You have some balls, lass. You’re not worried in the slightest?”

Running a hand through familiar locks of hair. Worry… heh—that’s not even half of it, love. “The Commodore is at fault for a lot of things: the failure to understand his junior ranks as loud and clear…” I spin to face the pilot abruptly. “I suppose you didn’t hear either—maybe the rumor will do some damage too and it will poison his reputation. Chal didn’t come because of a little stomach pain, can you believe that?” The answer is an expected scoff. “You’re not joining me, love?” Making note of the fact she’s still comfortably on the reclining chair.

Yuri answers. “I’ll stay here for a bit—don’t worry it’s not like last time… just want to stare at something other than the internals of a spaceship for once,” I glance at the cockpit—it’s not like the inside of an even bigger ship is any different! “first time on Terrassa?” Huh? Oh!

“First time for sure,” I answer, leaning on the door frame. “How about you?”

There’s a bit of a pause as Yuri gently rocks in the robust gray chair. She answers. “A few times—once before the jump—once after the jump, before this trip I mean” I wince. A sudden urge to spin the mood around. “It’s a beautiful view,” Yuri continues. “You’ll love it for sure.” Yuri props her chin up with her left hand, staring out the cockpit side window. “I. . . Can only wish I can bring myself to see it a third time—at least with Jamie.”

Yuri reaches for a lever and shifts it down—opening the cabin doors. “Happ… Victoria, take care, okay? I’ll be here for a while. Then I’m leaving, so you’re on your own hailing a taxi back to the Yilan, or what have you. When can I expect you to come back?”

A moment to think, tapping my forearms. “Ah-h, I’ll be here for a hot minute, darling. Suppose the rest of the Standard day.” I glance at my father’s wristwatch. It’s twelve hundred hours. “If I’m lucky I won’t crash at a hotel somewhere and suppose I’ll make the most of the day—so I’ll aim for a little after seventeen hundred hours?”

Yuri ponders the suggestion. “Well… if I have nothing else to haul—don’t depend on it. Things may change. At the end of the day, I’m just a courier dog, all things said and done.”

“Well darling, if I don’t see you—I hope you take care too.” With one final salute, I hop off the steps of the shuttle as the doors close shut behind me. A fleeting thought sweeps over me as I trace my gaze from the shuttle’s starboard to the cockpit. With Entebbe and Thunderbolt merely a few days away… will Yuri be safe? Would she be assigned as a troop carrier pilot? Would she volunteer for one—would she do it for Jamie?

We, as the living, think we know what’s best for those left after our loved ones depart. Life would be easier, I tug on my cap, sighing. If we could communicate with the dead—seek their wisdom.

I glance back one last time. A heavy feeling throbbing in my chest. It feels odd, leaving her like this. We act so casually, and yet she has no idea I may be the one responsible for sending her to die. Would she do it all over again… in the corridors of Ishtar-Terra the Beast?