Another page of History is being turned...

Chapter Twenty-Four

To Choose a Side

In the history of the Alliance, instances of schisms were rare, if not absent. As the republic grew in size, several social troubles occurred, such as Santuario, Palmeland and Kaffer nearly voted to leave the Free Planets Alliance shortly after the Kornelias Invasion, but relented after referendums in 677 UC showed their governments that the majority of the population still wished to remain attached to the rest of the country.

Another was the Peace March in UC 706, which convinced the Alliance Government to attempt to ultimately futile Phezzan Peace Summit. Or, again, the widespread protests of UC 718, leading to the repeal of the unpopular National Birth Amendment. The Alliance was a democracy, with the right to free speech and free press, which inevitably led to clashes between groups.

Throughout the 270 years of the nation's history, however, the military, and most of all the Star Fleet, had remained steadfast in its commitment to the Alliance's population and its elected governing body. Certainly, problems did arise from time to time, but these were treated internally, with the population generally being left none the wiser. The few times that a problem did appear sufficiently to be the object of public scrutiny, the Press Relations section of the Operations Division did an excellent job in downplaying the incidents, until they drifted out of public consciousness.

Because of this, the Alliance population had been generally certain that, whatever happened, the Star Fleet would remain the steadfast and dutiful guardian of the interstellar nation in its continuing struggle with the dreaded Galactic Empire.

Vice admiral Lagrange's speech shattered that illusion. For the first time, an Alliance officer, one of the vaunted numbered fleet commanders no less, spoke out against the government and openly announced himself and his forces to be no longer beholden to its elected officials. The speech caused a massive media uproar, as well as causing panic in many places throughout the nation. The government's media relations countered as best they could, but the results were decidedly mixed.

In the military itself, the reaction was different. Although shock still happened, it was caused less by the fact that the disgruntlement existed than by the extreme measures that Lagrange had taken. Over the decades of The War, the battles and losses, and the callousness of some of the administrations they served under, created a current of resentment that remained, low-key but ever present, for most of the conflict.

This resentment only increased as the Fleet was ordered into costly attempts to take Iserlohn Fortress, then in another costly invasion once the seventh attempt had succeeded. It made many in the military think that the Alliance population saw them as expendable cannon fodder. While most soldiers did not believe it to the extent that they would take up arms, Lagrange's speech acted as a catalyst for those units that were either already convinced into that path by outside forces, or had such a high level of disgruntled people that they joined out of spite or the spirit of re-establishing justice.

Although Lagrange was by far the strongest voice for separation from the government, others had also decided to leave with sizeable forces. As these were a fraction of a fleet rather than the whole, however, these wouldn't find leaving quite as simple as it had been for the Eleventh.

The Tenth and Eight Fleets, stationed in orbit of Santuario and Jhamseed, each had a fraction of their forces going dark, before admirals Ulanf and Appleton even received word to mobilize. However, both men had cultivated a high level of loyalty from their respective fleets, and they quickly used the proximity of their forces to try and block their wayward elements, or at least prevent them from joining Lagrange's call. In effect, the two commanders agreed to work in concert to bring the situation in the sectors closest to the Phezzan Corridor, knowing that it would make their own forces unable to respond outside of their regions.

The two fleets, however, were the lesser of the divisions that would occur in the following days, as forces that seemed far too ready for the rebellion to have been impulsive made their moves far more spectacularly.

March 19th, 797 UC, High Orbit over Planet Kaffer

"What the Hell do you think you're doing?!" The irate voice belonged to the Third Fleet's newest commodore named Van Hugh, an excitable fellow that always seemed on the verge of an outburst. He knew that the man in question had earned his latest rank by aggressively taking on the enemy forces at Dionysus, displaying some leadership. But to Verdone's eyes, the man's assignment as commander of the latest squadron - some nineteen hundred ships - was a joke.

The man's current tone only proved it. Verdone frowned in response. He wasn't going to be baited into a shouting match, however.

"I've decided upon the best route for the Third Fleet and the Alliance," he answered, "We will join the Eleventh Fleet, gather support, and remove the current administration." It was all clear-cut. How could this man not see that it made sense?

Van Hugh clearly lacked that wit, however. Just the type of thinking that made him unfit for command. But, then again, only people from military families were truly fit for them. Barring a few exceptions, of course.

Far from sensible, Van Hugh's glare became more intense, "Just like that, we throw everything away, and commit treason," he raged, "Becoming no better than a bunch of damned bandits!"

Verdone shook his head. Such nonsense. To be expected, he supposed, from what was clearly a mad dog. "We're not throwing anything away," he attempted to reason, "We're merely seizing back our pride as soldiers. Don't you see? The government has been treating the Fleet, no, all of the Defence Forces, like trash. The latest series of insults and blunders are ample proof. It's time to realign the Alliance's priorities."

People tended to think that the Free Planets Alliance had been founded and had prospered due to its democratic government. Surely, there had been some perks to the free-thinking, but the truth was something else entirely. The Verdone family had come to that realization very soon.

The only reason that order had been maintained during the legendary First Exodus was because of the brave men and women of Erich Spaatz's Militia, which a Verdone had joined, beginning three centuries of proud military tradition. Heinessen had been found by Militia military scanners, been surveyed by Militia-trained explorers.

The 'Golden Age'? The economy was turning because of the building of the Star Fleet. The Alliance's current survival? Possible only through the sacrifices of stalwart soldiers both in space and on the ground. The Alliance owed everything to its military, and even more to those who had served it loyally for generations.

Admiral Lefebvre had been such a man. From a good, solid family of patriots, he was a firm commander that all greatly respected in the Third Fleet. Oh, he had had flaws, of course, not the least of which was a propensity to think too highly of lesser officers, and certain naiveté in the importance of democratic leadership. But all in all, it had been an honor to serve him. But then Lefebvre had died at Dionysus, and had been all but sacrificed by the spoiled, decadent politicians back at the capital. The returning Combined Fleet had been all but fingered as the true culprit of Free Stars' failure.

Cowards. Ungrateful, always so ungrateful.

"Our orders come directly from Fleet Commander Bucock," Van Hugh grunted, clearly refusing to see sense, "Admiral Bucock." The man's eyes insufferably drifted, and Verdone was sure where they briefly settled: Verdone's own insignia, which still showed the rank of Rear Admiral. Anger welled up in him, but he fought it down. It was, however, impossible for Verdone to suppress the feeling of disgust that came.

Bucock. Out of all of them, even Ulanf or Al-Salem, even more than the upstart Yang, he was exactly what was wrong with the Star Fleet. Not even Academy-trained, from a family with no trace of military background, the old man seemed to use others as crutches to cover his own deficiencies. He had seen proof of this when he had been at the admiralty meeting following Lefebvre's death. The way Yang had taken control of the meeting, and Bucock had encouraged him? Just shameful. That man was no commander.

And later, he had seen just how far that old man was willing to go when he had assigned Ralph Carlsen - also a military neophyte, also a military nobody - to command the Fifth Fleet. And the final insult, the final proof? Carlsen had been promoted to vice admiral, with Verdone's own promotion was still 'pending'.

And he was supposed to follow men like this? To pander to their orders? No. The rot had spread too far. It was time to stop it, cut it out, and return things to the way they should be. Lagrange's courageous stand was the first step, and they had to help.

"Bucock doesn't command the Third Fleet," he answered, knowing his tone had become cold. But then, he couldn't be blamed for that. Van Hugh was simply too foolish for words. "I do. And you're under my command, and you will follow my orders."

"Screw your orders. The order was signed by Admirals Bucock and Kubersly. They supersede yours. Our orders, sir, are to report to Heinessen with all available forces.

"That's blatant insubordination, commodore," He warned. The other man seemed unimpressed.

"Once we reach Heinessen, like our orders states," he growled, "I'll be more than happy to have you report me to Command. And I'll take any punishment they see fit to give me. But, it seems to me that you're the one being insubordinate to them, so I don't know if you wouldn't end up questioned too."

That man truly was stupid and lost. And he'd heard that the squadron had been formed and trained by Van Hugh, so there was no hope there. He felt guilt at what was about to happen, but saw few other options. If that mad dog was going to go that way about it, betray the Third Fleet, he'd have to answer.

"Is that your final word, commodore?"

"You bet."

"Then I'm sorry." He said, and had the communication cut off. He looked to his chief of staff - a loyal, true officer of the Third Fleet, who also felt the insults and stigma of the recent events. "Designate Van Hugh's squadron as hostile. Move to engage before it can take defensive position."

Idiot. He was sorry that he was going to have to kill Alliance soldiers. But this had been Van Hugh's play. He would be the one to bear the weight of his decision to stand with those who had corrupted the Alliance, and against those who aimed to make it better.

The screen went blank, replaced with a breathtaking view of the ships in his squadron, in standard combat formation. Nearby, a point of colour on the starfield, he saw the planet that the Third Fleet was ostensibly supposed to protect, the major world of Kaffer and its substantial industrial might. He took a moment to study the space where the increasingly irate Verdone had been, before putting his hands on his hips and, despite the gravity of the situation, letting out a low chuckle.

"Well," he said loudly, to both everyone around his bridge and yet to no one in particular, "I never pretended that I was any kind of diplomat!" He wondered if he imagined some groans at that statement, but decided not to dwell on it. The moment that the wayward rear admiral had started spouting nonsense about backing the Eleventh Fleet, his course had been set.

Part of him wondered if Van Hugh would have wanted to join in the reckless crusade because of his admittedly aggressive command style, or because Verdone had found out that he had once been part of the Eleventh Fleet and might feel some degree of camaraderie towards his former comrades. The thing was, had the call come just three years earlier, he probably would have been more than happy with the prospect of getting into the revolutionary spirit. That desire, however, had died at the Third Battle of Tiamat.

The Eleventh Fleet back then was exactly what Van Hugh was: aggressive, unrelenting, almost gleeful in its desire to fight. A succession of increasingly offensive-minded commanders had made sure of the change since it had seen half of its numbers destroyed under the infamous Admiral Cope. The new commander, one Wilhelm Holland, had taken it further than anybody ever had, however, striking out with abandon, dismissing calls from allied forces not to go too far, too fast. Under Holland, the Eleventh had struck hard and struck deep.

Too deep. Two assaults from a waiting Imperial Fleet, and Holland was dead and the Eleventh in shambles. Only the intervention of the previously dismissed allied fleets prevented a complete rout. Van Hugh had transferred to a different command shortly thereafter, and the memory of Third Tiamat had never engendered any desire to rejoin the force that Lagrange rebuilt.

He didn't really care much for the government, that was true. But he owed his freedom and probably his life to two men most of all: Bucock, and Ulanf, the commanders who had saved the Eleventh from destruction.

Bucock had asked for people to stand with him at Heinessen. Verdone had decided to stand against Heinessen and, thus, Bucock. And that, as far as Van Hugh was concerned, was that. If he was going to be an aggressive commander, he was going to be at least fighting under the man he damn well respected!

"The other squadrons are forming into an attack posture!" Came a call from the sensor operator.

"Fine," he said, fixing his beret on his head, unable to suppress a grin. The odds were against him numerically, but he felt the thrill of adrenaline course through his body. "If they want to play, let's play."

"Sir," cautioned the Maurya's captain, "We don't have time to set up a defensive line from here. Recommend we take this time to create some distance between us and the rest of the Third, until we can reform."

"That's a good recommendation. But, no, no need."

"Commodore?" came the query.

Van Hugh's grin widened. "Captain, why do we have to take a defensive posture when we're already prepared to strike?" He swept his arm forward. "All ships, charge full speed into the enemy's flank! Wedge us in and let's fight it out!"

Although there had been minor skirmishes already by this point, the Battle of Kaffer was the first engagement between the two quickly forming sides within the Star Fleet: those who decided to follow the Eleventh Fleet into sedition, and those that remained loyal to the government. Although some later records brought commodore Van Hugh's decision to side with the loyalists into some question, most historians tend to agree that the result was the same.

Contrary to what might have been expected, the Van Hugh Squadron attacked first, charging at almost ramming speed. Although rear admiral Verdone, contrary to what it appeared, was not taken completely off-guard, the fact that a far smaller force would charge into a greater one with such abandon, added to the fact that the rogue Third Fleet was preparing its own assault and had not prepared effective defenses at the time, allowed the loyalist forces to close the distance.

Battleship salvoes from the loyalist side swiftly cut into destroyer formation, and both sides quickly resorted to short range fire as long range artillery became all too useless. Within an hour, the two groups had almost merged and, quite simply, things degenerated into an outright space-based brawl.

Although the Third Fleet had by far the lion's share in terms of Spartanian fighters, the close quarters fire made it difficult for them to launch at all, and they made only a negligible impact on the bulk of the battle, which was squarely between the two sides' battleships and cruisers. Quickly, dozens of warships on both sides were sunk, and the battle became a dangerous mire of exchanged fire. For ten hours, both sides hammered each other violently, even as nearby, smaller forces in other systems watched in caution.

Both sides sent an entreaty - some would say a demand - for aid from surrounding forces, but none of them answered. In most cases, this was due to the fact that almost all of the surrounding forces were small and were wary of entering a battlefield that was already quite hot, irrelevant of their position on the issue. Instead, these forces, especially those not attached to any of the main fleets, made a choice that didn't involve joining the battle, but rather going to reinforce the side they managed to get a consensus on.

As the hours rolled on, however, even Van Hugh's eagerness ebbed as his casualties mounted. No matter how well-armed, his forces were decidedly outnumbered, and he broke off the engagement to regroup farther in-system. Verdone, for his part, had no wish to remain and further weaken his own forces. Taking most of the Third Fleet's remaining arsenals, fuel tankers, and support ships, he warped away with no less than four thousand warships.

Despite this blow, however, the sense of betrayal was limited. Van Hugh's formation had been new, not yet integrated with the rest of the Third Fleet. The same could be said of the Eight and Tenth Fleets, whose formations were also part of the post-Dionysus reconstruction. So, while the anger and incomprehension on both sides were present in large measure, there lacked the true harm of a schism.

This wound, this true sense of betrayal, would occur in another command, even as admiral Kubersly's orders for unification of assets came through.

March 20th, 797 UC, Outer Reaches of Masbate Starzone

Borodin read the order on the pad and sighed. The moment he had seen the speech on his quarter's viewscreen, he had known that the people at headquarters would do something like this. The message that he glanced down on was short and to the point.

Fleet Alert, Priority One.

All fleets and space military assets are recalled to Heinessen, subtracting one thousand ships for core world defense. All fleet commands will take orbital position and await further orders.

S. Kubersly, FADM, Joint Forces Commander

Kubersly had never been one for doing it subtle, but one had to admire his efficiency. The shock hadn't even set in that he was already preparing for a counterstrike. It suited him fine, as the Twelfth fleet was already all assembled in orbital preparedness around Palmeland, ready to depart at a moment's notice. It had been lucky that he and Hogwood had agreed to and cleared a moment to conduct war games in a system that lay between them. Their forces were already prepared because of that.

The elevator stopped, and he stepped onto the bridge's upper level, where Connally immediately spotted him and saluted. Behind him, the door shut, and the elevator returned to the lower level. He saluted in turn. His adjutant, Tomlinson, wasn't there. Had to check something down in engineering, he had said.

"It looks like we were right," He noted to his chief of staff, holding out the pad for him to read. The dark bearded man glanced at it, nodded, and gave it back.

"It's hard to believe we're being recalled for that reason," he pointed out.

True enough. Recalling all Fleet assets had been ordered only twice before. At the very start of the war, the order had been sent by admiral Biroleinen, in preparation for what would eventually be the Battle of Dagon. And then, the second time, by Space Fleet Commander Nemanja to try and stop Emperor Kornelias' armada at what would be the First Battle of Tiamat. The first had been a stunning victory, the second a crushing defeat.

He didn't know what the third would be. Only that the first two were to counter an Imperial invasion. This time, they were going to strike back against their own people. It was something entirely knew, deeply unsettling, and something he really could have done without.

"Believe me, I'd give a lot for Lagrange to send another message saying it was some kind of hoax, or mistake. God, that's what I thought it was, at first," he admitted. How was he supposed to take it, anyway? This craziness was something he expected from the likes of Wilhelm Holland. That one had always been the chaotic type, and it had led the Eleventh to near disaster. Lagrange, however, seemed the more reasonable sort.

Which went to show how well one knew people. The one who had been granted command to return stability to a defeated fleet, had ended up taking the path of insurrection, the most unstable path of all for any military unit.

It had never even entered Borodin's mind to join that man in his folly. No matter the government's flaws - and there were many, he had to admit - he just couldn't see this as a solution. Revolts were rarely unanimous; there would always be forces that would oppose such a thing. Besides, the whole thing reeked of recklessness and lack of preparedness, and that was the sort of thing he wanted no part of.

"Well, there's nothing to be done about it, is there?" he asked Connally. The other man shook his head sadly.

"No, sir."

"Then the best we can do is obey orders, and link up with Bucock. Knowing him, he's started to figure a way out of this mess." Or so he hoped, at least.

"Sir?" he turned to glance down a level to the communications officer, "There's a communication from admiral Medina."

"Very well, put it through on the main screen."

Medina, his vice-commander, appeared on the screen, his large eyes sad and tense. He had survived the grueling battle during which Siegfried Kircheis had decimated a large part of the Twelfth, and later came through the Battle of Dionysus unscathed. But ever since they had returned, it seemed that a depression had taken hold of him. Not enough for anyone to call for a medical examination, and the admiral's efficiency hadn't changed. But, clearly, he hadn't come back from the failed invasion entirely. Lagrange's betrayal seemed to have hit him hard, as the sadness in his eyes had deepened ever since the speech had been heard.

"Admiral Borodin," Medina said, saluting, in a soft voice that made people tend to forget the man was a veteran commander, "We're almost ready. Three minutes."

Borodin nodded, looking at the diagram. Half of the fleet, led by Medina's command battleship, the Sandaki. It would form the vanguard as was usual. And then the other half under the main flagship, the Perun. The arrangement was perfect, and he nodded in satisfaction. All in all, seventy-four hundred ships had been gathered. It was almost five thousand less than the Twelfth had been before the invasion, but rebuilding had been slow. Still, smaller thought it was, it was now ready to take action.

"You've done a good job, as usual," Borodin said, "Looks like we're ready for whatever may come."

"Let's hope so, sir." There was mournful tone to the man, now. Borodin nodded. He hid his feelings on the matter better, but he understood where the reluctance he detected came from.

"I understand it's not easy," he mused gently, "I don't like it much either. I mean, instead of going after an Imperial fleet, we're going after people from our very own Alliance. It's not easy, going up against people we respected and went into battle with."

"That's true enough, admiral. I certainly wish it didn't have to be this way."

"Well, I'm sure we all do. But what's done is done, and I can't stand with Lagrange on this. We'll go and report to Heinessen. Once there, we'll figure out how to best respond."

"Understood, sir. We'll do the best we can." They exchanged a salute, and the connection went dead. Beside him, Connally stirred.

"He's not doing any better, is he?"

Usually, it would have been out of line, but his chief of staff had been with him for the last four years, and had been nothing but loyal and dependable. So he just nodded pensively. Perhaps, once they were at Heinessen, he'd quietly go and talk with some people of the Medical Division. Not Sall, that would be a bit too much, but someone under him.

Well, it was time, anyway. He was tempted to get in touch with his adjutant, see if he was done, but decided that he could do that just as well after they got underway. He straightened, and decided to do this one by the book. In this uncertainty, something tangible couldn't be bad.

"Let's have one last rundown of the fleet," he said. Connally straightened.

"Sir!" he then called out to the rest of the bridge. "Fleet operations, rundown!"

"Aye, sir. Picket groups, ready!"

"Heavy artillery groups, ready!"

"Carrier groups, all ready, admiral!"

"Skirmish groups, ready and on standby!"

"Green light on support units. All report ready!"

The captain of the ship, a level down, turned towards Borodin as per protocol. "All fleet elements report ready, admiral. The fleet is prepared to depart on your order."

Borodin nodded. No matter how many times he did this, no matter how trying the moment, he always liked this little thing. He suspected many of his peers did, too.

"Twelfth Fleet, set sail," he ordered.

The first half of the fleet started to move, uniform, following the Sandaki out. Some of the units were carriers, but most of them were cruisers and destroyers, with only a few battleship groups. No, he noted with a frown. More than a few battleships. Almost a thousand, he saw. That wasn't exactly protocol. Usually, the heavier ships tended to follow behind in standard warp formation, especially when they weren't supposed to engage any enemy. It was still a possible formation, but odd for Medina to choose it. Maybe he really needed to inquire about the man's state of mind, if he was actually beginning to slip. He'd prefer not to, but if it came down to him or the Twelfth's stability...

"Sir, something's wrong." Came the perplexed voice of the navigation officer. Borodin frowned.

"What is it?"

"Well, sir, the forward element is moving forward, but as for our section of the fleet..."

He didn't have time to finish, Borodin was already reviewing and seeing the problem. The Perun had moved quite a bit forward of the rest. In fact, they were getting closer to the vanguard, who probably had slowed as they saw the problem.

"What the Hell is this?" He wondered. Connally shrugged, clearly at a loss. "Comms, have you made contact with the ships?"

"Yes, sir," came the answer, and it sounded baffled to his ears, "Sir, I don't... They say that the main engine has stalled entirely. They can't get main propulsion to work."

Borodin understood the bafflement. While the Empire usually used one large engine surrounded by smaller ones, the Alliance engineers had only one. More powerful than anything the Imperials had, it also meant that if it stopped, there was no other way to move aside from thrusters, making them inert targets on the battlefield. Because of that, there were five separate redundancies to keep the engine running. To have all five fail on one ship was extremely rare. But to have them fail on thousands? That was impossible. It simply didn't happen.

"Sir, we're accelerating the forward elements," navigation noted, "Engines are unresponsive, engineering has the controls locked down."

"Contact engineering!" he growled, "And send security to see what-"

At that moment, things began to move faster than he had imagined. Even as he spoke, men entered the bridge. Or, more to the point, flooded the bridge. At least three dozen, all armed with standard rifles, they moved towards the different control booths. The men stationed there looked at them if they had time, but none of them reacted as shouts of "Don't move!", "Stay where you are!" and such things that would be heard in a boarding action flew out ferociously. They were too stunned to react, training not quite kicking in as they stared down weapons held by Alliance security forces.

Connally reached for his own weapon at his side, but he didn't have time to do much with it before a voice they both knew rang out from the elevator door. "No, sir. I'd ask you not to do anything foolish,"

They turned to see Tomlinson, his own sidearm drawn, advancing with two armed members. His adjutant quickly took their weapons, the two men grimly pointing their rifles at them, then stepped back two steps. The man he had had recently transferred as his new adjutant looked troubled, yet determined. No, not determined, he realized with a sinking feeling. He looked dedicated.

This meant only one thing, and confirmed the wild idea that had sprung at the back of his mind the moment he had learned that so many ships had been stopped due to the same troubles. So when, after a few tense moments, there was a new communication that the men forced comms to open, he wasn't surprised to see Medina's mournful face at all.

"Admiral," the man said with a sigh, "I'm sorry that this happened." He sounded genuine. Borodin found that he didn't care one little bit, and his response was so icy it would have made an iceberg seem warm.

"How long have you been subverting my fleet, mister Medina?" he said. He would never give that man the honor of a rank. As far as he was concerned, that title had been ditched the moment he had enacted this treachery. And to think I worried myself over him at times, he thought sourly.

"That's not really important, is it, sir?" the Twelfth second-in-command - former second-in-command, he corrected himself tersely - seemed regretful of everything. Not that it made it any less unforgivable. "And they haven't been subverted. These are simply the men who believe what I believe."

"And those ships we left behind?" he grunted, "Short-sighted people who couldn't see the truth, is it?"

"I wouldn't call it anything like that. Since you gave me leeway to restructure the fleet during reconstruction, I and a few like-minded fellows could screen those who would side with us, and those who wouldn't. For the record, I don't think less of those left behind. They see things differently from us, that's all."

Borodin wasn't willing to buy this. He kept his voice calm, however. Tempered. There was no telling what those armed men would do if agitated. He, however, wasn't going to give Medina any sort of comfort. "Structure it the way you want, Medina. What it boils down to is that you and your people have betrayed your uniform and the Alliance."

Medina frowned, but whatever he was going to say was stopped by the shout of a younger voice. "We haven't betrayed the Alliance. The Alliance betrayed us!" Borodin turned to see Tomlinson's angry face glaring at him. The other two guards looked at him as well, and Connally took a step closer. The young officer took heed of none of this.

"The Alliance sent us to the meat-grinder, and they did it to soothe their own ego," the young man said, "Where's the respect from the people, from the government?" He took another step closer. "What about you, sir?"

"Lieutenant Tomlinson, stand down. Now!" Medina ordered. Tomlinson hesitated, struggling with his anger, until he simply looked back at Borodin with contempt.

"Losing half your fleet to a guy less than half your age. Some admiral you are," he growled, and shoved him. Not much of a shove, barely enough to force him back a step. But the second he did so, Connally's fist crashed into the man's face, and Tomlinson staggered back. The two soldiers immediately pointed their rifles at him, tense.

Perhaps it would have ended there. It's entirely possible that Connally had no intention of doing anything more. But, willingly or simply carried by his momentum, the chief of staff took a step towards Tomlinson, his fist still held in front of him. At that action, the rifles cracked a shot each, both of them hitting the man, who jerked as flashes went through his body and hit somewhere else. He then fell against the metallic rail. There was a yelp below, and a harsh voice. Medina's voice then lanced out, urgent.

"Hold your fire! Hold your fire, that's a direct order!"

Borodin caught Connally before he slumped to the floor, and turned him over to check his wounds. To his horror, the aim of the two men had been true. One had pierced him in the upper abdomen, which was grave enough. But the second had hit right through his heart. His green uniform was quickly turning red as blood gushed from the wounds. His face was already turning white from the blood loss and shock. Well aware that it was a futile move, Borodin tried to cover the wound.

"Connally..." He said, then decided that standing on ceremony wouldn't do any good. The man was dying., "Steven, Steven, I'm right here. Right here, my friend."

"W..wha... shit... shi..." Connally muttered and then his eyes glazed, and he lay still. The green of his uniform was now almost entirely dark red, and Borodin's hands and sleeves were just as much a ghastly spectacle. Where it normally would have disgusted him, he felt he barely noticed. Just a while ago, they had been going about their business as usual, and then, the end. Killed by men wearing Alliance uniforms, wielding Alliance combat rifles.

The shock almost immediately was replaced by a burning sheathe of rage, so hot and all-encompassing that, for a moment, he wasn't sure he could even think coherently. He gave Tomlinson a look. He didn't know what kind of face he made, but the young man backed up a step on reflex.

Treacherous, worthless piece of filth... smash his face, throw him down the bridge levels... fucking little shit deserves it... get him... Came the thoughts in his head, red, unrelenting, demanding. He had never felt like this when fighting any Imperial, even those who had boarded his ship and had tried to kill him as an ensign, so long ago. It was war, and that was that.

War. That word, he grabbed unto, he clung to, letting reason return, clamping down on the rage. He wasn't a beast, he wasn't like these men. He was Dimitri Nikolai Borodin, vice admiral, commanding officer of the Twelfth Fleet. And he was no barbarian. He stood up, giving his fallen comrade one last look, before turning to look at Medina, who seemed aghast.

"Is he..." He began to ask, but it seemed that the glare he received was answer enough. His shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry, admiral. I never wanted him harmed, that much I can tell you."

Borodin said nothing, simply stared at him, part of him hoping that if he glared hard enough, the traitor would drop dead. Medina wasn't finished.

"We don't intend to take you prisoner, sir. No matter what you may think, I have too much respect for you to do that. The Perun will stay under our control until we're near the area controlled by the Eleventh Fleet. Then, you'll be released, with your weapons disabled."

"I can assure you, this is simply to ensure a clean departure with minimal bloodshed."

Finally Borodin spoke, his tight jaw barely working as he physically clamped down on his need to show his rage.

"Are you done?" He hissed. "With this... are you done?" He balled his fists, warm and humid from a damn good officer's lifeblood, but his arms stated at his side. He wasn't a barbarian, and he'd keep his head.

"You seem to be under the awfully mistaken impression," he growled, "That I give a damn about what you're saying. You think, maybe, that I'll be grateful? That I'll understand the nobility of your cause?" He swallowed, clamped down again on the anger. Control. Focus. Training.

"There's no nobility here. And if you think so, then you're a fool. Delude yourselves if you want, if that makes you feel better. But as for me, all you are is a bunch of people who ditched their duties to the Free Planets Alliance. Selfish men and women in uniforms you just don't deserve."

"Admiral..."

"That's right. Admiral. I'm still an Alliance officer. And if you do release me, just understand that I'll come after you with everything I can muster. Fair warning. Do with it as you like." He moved to his chair. "Now, I'm going to call the medical bay to have admiral Connally's body taken care of with the respect it deserves. If you want to have me shot, do it now."

And with that, he sat down. He didn't care what they'd do. He didn't care to listen to anything they said. From now on, they'd be beneath his contempt, no worth his time. It was the only way he had to deal with the betrayal he felt over men of his breaking their oaths, and the rage at seeing one of his own killed over the stupid pride of lesser men.

He called the Medbay, and they said nothing. And then he waited, unwilling to utter another word while he considered himself a prisoner of war. It was all the defiance he could manage. For now.

The added rebellions of admirals Verdone and Medina, both of them well-regarded within the fleet, hit almost as hard as Lagrange's speech had within the Alliance's military forces. Not only that, but several regiments of ground forces, and several Spartanian commands, also went dark, many of them commandeering transports and leaving their posts, heading towards rebel territories to fortify and strengthen it. Smaller fleet units also joined them.

These events were screened more thoroughly by the government and the military, but just enough facts and rumors arose to heighten the fears of the populace. On Kaffer, it became such that a curfew had to be imposed, and marches and gatherings demanding action happened on Santuario, Palmeland, Liore and Heinessen, not to mention on many smaller worlds.

Fortunately, other events gave those who remained loyal hope. Alex Caserne, Acting Commander of Iserlohn Fortress, announced his post and the attached Thirteenth Fleet, which saw no rebellion, to be loyal to the government. Having lost less than a hundred ships to the rebellion, Hogwood of the Seventh Fleet made a similar pledge, while admiral Carlsen of the Fifth Fleet, having lost more than the first two, nonetheless also pledged his loyalty. Meanwhile the First Fleet, which was broken up into a myriad of small, anti-piracy and scouting units, slowly reconstituted itself.

Emboldened, the Alliance High Council sent the rebel forces a forty-eight hour ultimatum to disarm and surrender.

The stranded units of the Twelfth Fleet, angered at Medina's betrayal, agreed to join up on Heinessen as soon as repairs were done. The loyal forces still enjoyed substantial strength.

But confidence was fragile, even as men such as Kubersly, Bucock, or Dwight Greenhill worked to stabilize the situation. Because all knew that the Thirteenth Fleet was loyal to one man above others, and would probably follow him to whatever path he chose: Yang Wen-li.

Lagrange had said he had joined with the rebellion. Caserne had assured that Yang was still loyal. But neither men were Yang himself. And to the fearful civilians of the Alliance, this became important questions: When would The Magician finally reappear? And on which side?

March 25th, 797 UC, Alliance Cruiser Atalanta, 13:45 PM

Frederica woke up with a dull pain at her side, her eyelids heavy, her throat dry, disoriented. She looked about in confusion, but someone quickly was present, telling her to take it easy, to stay calm. She croaked something, asking where she was, but her voice was strange, her throat complaining. She coughed, and was offered some water as her eyesight adjusted itself. She took it gratefully, even as she took in her surroundings. The machinery attached to her, and white uniform of the person who had offered water and had taken reading before being called away, the rather sterilized air.

A medbay. Cruiser configuration. That was all her brain allowed for a moment as it emerged from the fog. Eventually, however, she noticed that the machines were monitoring something at the right side of her abdomen. Right where there was the dull pain.

Despite herself, she couldn't help but lift the sheet, and then her patient's garment to see what was underneath, even though the returning clarity of her thoughts already had a fair idea what she would find, what with the equipment and the patch on her arm. Sure enough, her abdomen was wrapped in bandages - fresh, so it might be that it was the change of these that had finally dragged her mind out of the murk - and telltale signs of what were biogel applications.

But there was something more worrying, on her right side, what seemed to be a rather large patch with mechanical elements was applied, and a small display panel was protruding from the bandages. She stared at it, trying to lift the last of the fog from her mind, and thus was considerably startled when a voice piped up.

"Ah! Finally awake!" Blumhardt exclaimed, having moved the partition slightly aside and half entered. He completed the movement, carrying a cup in his hand that her sense of smell told her was a particularly strong coffee brew. He went to sit on the small chair she had vaguely noticed. "About time. Coming here to check on you could get boring."

She searched for something to say. Her thoughts were becoming clearer by the minute, but they were still slow by what she considered her normal standards. "How long was I... asleep?" she asked at last, finding herself unwilling to say the word 'comatose'. Even though it was the most logical possibility.

"Six days," came the immediate answer, "You got lucky, too. they almost lost you twice on the first day. Shock from blood loss, you understand. I half-thought you were done. It was pretty ugly."

That explains the plasma patch, she reasoned, surprised that she was taking the fact that she had almost died twice so well. She figured it would eventually hit her, but for now it was just another fact to file. She could only put everything together as her memories returned.

"I got shot," she mused in self-realization, "We were running for a shuttle, to escape Shampool. There was a beam, shot through my side. I kept running."

"Momentum and adrenaline," the Rosen Ritter said matter-of-factly, as if this discussion was trivial. Given that he had seen much ground combat and its effects, she supposed it was. "They got you to the shuttle."

She frowned. "I can't remember that. Any of that. Everything between that moment and now, it's... it's blank." She found that more than a little unsettling. Memory had always been an asset to her. She didn't get blanks, she simply didn't.

The soldier shrugged. "Not much to tell. You collapsed, and we managed to flee to the Atalanta. You've been in the medbay for pretty much the entire trip. I should go and tell admiral Yang that you're awake. He'd come around eventually, but he's in a pinch."

"A pinch? Why?" She wondered on the spur of the moment. But she immediately answered her own question. "Of course. Pursuit. They wouldn't want us to escape to Heinessen."

"That's one Hell of an understatement, lieutenant. They sent a large force of destroyers to catch up to us, and we've been tangling with them ever since. Well, Yang, MacNamara and Rostov, mainly. I'm more a sightseer unless some of them try to board the ship."

"Right. The admiral. Admiral Yang, is he alright?" She asked, and was surprised at just how much that question mattered. Even thought she intellectually knew the answer from Blumhardt's words.

"He's fine," he assured her, then shrugged again, "Well, he doesn't sleep much, doesn't eat much. Almost always on the bridge, except when he comes down here for an update on you. Can't be helped, he's busy keeping the Rebels unsatisfied about killing us." He took a long swallow from his coffee cup, almost draining it.

Not eating, not sleeping, it figures. Looks like Blumhardt is fed and rested, though. I suppose that's another thing the Rosen Ritter are used to, or maybe it's just him, she rambled, before a word stuck out. "Rebels?"

"Yup, it's official now. The Eleventh Fleet's broken from the Alliance government. One of the few pieces of information we've got, really. Haven't been able to link with the government ourselves, with all the running. Probably a mess over there. You know, it's the government. They're probably still arguing about what to do."

There was nothing to say about that. Bureaucracy tended to be slow, and it was the first time in its history that an entire fleet had broken from the national whole. Best she could remember, the only insurrections had been very small units, easily taken down by the rest. The admiral would probably know the details of that at length.

"It's been a running fight for six days?" she asked at last.

"Pretty much. The admiral's getting us through the lesser pathways, to link up with the Fifth Fleet under Carlsen. He figures that Carlsen was chosen by Bucock, so he'll stay loyal. Hasn't been easy, thought. We've taken hits, even here. There's major and minor injuries, which is why the docs aren't here fussing over you right now."

"We've been warp tunnelling?"

"Like crazy. Our fuel's not in the best shape, either. I've been hanging around Yang and McNamara enough to know that they're considering trying to ambush the enemy, try to strike it badly enough that it'd get them off our backs. The admiral's not much of a fan of that, but I think he's running out of options."

Her mind was clear, now, running at its normal efficiency. The talk had refocused it, and she started to think like she was supposed to: as Yang's adjutant. She wasn't a tactician or strategist, her forte lay completely elsewhere. Her gifts were different, but she fully intended to help admiral Yang and the Atalanta with them if she could.

Warping, warping through the 'back roads', she grunted inwardly, only dimly aware of the throbbing at her side now, I've got something on that. I know I do. What is it?"

A stabbing pain at her side. Yes, the meds were wearing off, no doubt about that. A pained groan escaped her, and she clutched her side on reflex, looking down. She felt more than saw Blumhardt move closer.

"Want me to dredge up one of the white shirts?" he asked. She shook her head.

"I'm alright, I'm alright. I was surprised, that's all," she muttered as the pain subsided. She sighed. She wasn't used to that degree of pain, but then again, she had never been wounded badly. The closest had been a bad fall at the Academy, but even then...

She stopped. Blinked. "The Academy!" She exclaimed, only to groan again as her sudden enthusiasm and her damaged organs disagreed with each other. But she couldn't afford to let that slow her down. Not now.

"What about it?" The soldier seemed rather nonplussed at the change of topics. She didn't answer immediately, though, delving through the memory that, barring the uncomfortable black hole that followed the flight to the shuttle, had never failed her in recalling.

"I think," she said to the Rosen Ritter, "I think I've got something that we can work with. Who's the chief engineer aboard the ship?"

"I don't know. I could-"

"I'd like to see him. I need to see him."

The soldier blinked in disbelief. "Right now? Five minutes awake."

"That's five minutes wasted already. Him, and someone from cartography."

Blumhardt stared at her for a long moment, perhaps wondering if he should do as she asked, or knock her out. As silly as the second option was, she knew that her request sounded irrational enough, and she hoped he wouldn't waste time asking for an explanation. She had something, and she needed to get to work. Finally, he shrugged.

"Okay, but then I'm calling the admiral. He'll have me spaced if he finds out you did all this behind his back, and I said nothing about it."

14:16 PM

Six days of running. From picket forces that used to be friendly, sent by a man who had until recently been a colleague. We're tired, we're running out of missiles, energy and pure water fuel. That about sums it up, doesn't it.

People thought that Yang could be painfully cynical when he wanted to. What people didn't know was that he was far worse when having an inward conversation with himself. Still, there was nothing he could say about the summary running through his mind. He wasn't about to think they were having an easy time of it, because that would have been an outright lie.

And Yang didn't lie to himself. Well, maybe he was being willfully obtuse about Julian's choice of career, but that was pretty much it.

The fact of the matter was, he had witnessed several Alliance defeats over the years. Broken lines, a dash out of the battlefield, Imperials hot on their heels, hoping to destroy or capture just a few more ships. In a decade of service, and too many engagements, great and small, for his taste, he had become used to that pattern.

The feeling was horribly similar, only in this case it was even worse. Because it shouldn't have been this way. Part of him had clung to the idea that these men were Alliance soldiers after all, and that firing on comrades should have been an issue. A naive side of him had expected some leniency, a loss of heart as the pursuit lengthened.

That illusion evaporated quickly.

Whether through belief, loyalty to Admiral Lagrange, or a pragmatic fear of having 'The Magician' - how he hated that nickname! - return to loyalist lines, they had attacked so relentlessly and with so little hesitation that Yang's diminishing forces might well have been nothing but a flotilla of Imperial Cruiser having strayed too far into Alliance space.

Yang thanked his own need for a speedy arrival on Heinessen and, more importantly, a speedy return from the capitol world upon what had been, to him, far too much pomp. Because the forces he had taken with him had been high-speed cruisers, he had largely been able to keep himself one step ahead of the pursuing enemy. Most of the time, that was.

But sometimes, before they could Warp, they had caught up, and an exchange of fire had ensued. Tight, rotating formations, selective usage of their missile reserves, and quick use of emergency systems had minimized the bloodletting. Despite this, the toll was there. A third of his original force was gone, and half of the ships that were left were damaged to a greater or lesser extent.

He knew that they expected Admiral Yang Wen-li, Hero of Astarte and Miracle of Iserlohn, to find a way out of that fix. But the fact of the matter was, there was little he could do against those odds. Every commander, from the most reserved to the most reckless, from genius to incompetent, eventually had a situation in which the only solution was to run. Now, however, with his resources running low, fighting was increasingly becoming the only way out.

He could probably do it, he had thought. The enemy commander was very straightforward, not all that imaginative from what he'd felt. And cruisers were far more heavily armored and armed than destroyers, not to mention that they still had almost all of their Spartanians. With some guile, strong strikes, and timing, he could probably rout the rebelling forces.

And be left with maybe enough ships to fit one hand, he thought, his mind as sour and sarcastic as ever, two if you get really, really lucky.

It might come to that, the Admiral in him retorted wearily. He grunted slightly. No matter what he did, no matter how he tried to look for other solutions, he was rapidly running out options. In fact, MacNamara and Rostov had agreed that they probably would have no choice after one Warp, two at most. And it was at least four before they reached safer waters.

He was in his quarters, brooding on his bed about tactical possibilities in the systems within reach, when there was a beeping sound. Someone was calling him. His body, fatigued, protested vigorously at moving, but he managed to get to the vidscreen and pressed it. Blumhardt's face appeared.

"Yes?" he queried, a bit tersely. It wasn't much, protocol-wise, but if anyone would care little about such things, he would bet the Rosen Ritter did. The slightly younger man did not seem to notice at all, his face serious.

"I'm sorry to be disturbing your rest, admiral," He said without preamble, "But you should probably come to the medbay right now."

An intellectually-absurd cold gripped him, surprising him with its fierceness. Calm down, the rational part of his mind told him, a medical officer would have called you if something bad happened. He didn't let the irrational part counter.

"What's going on?" he asked, perhaps a bit too quickly. Get a grip, Wen-li.

"Well, lieutenant Greenhill is awake..."

Relief flooded him. He held back a sigh, not wanting to compound things with the member of the Rosen Ritter and make things rather awkward. He was about to retort that this was - good news? great news? That sounded so limited - when Blumhardt finished.

"...and she's working on a way to get us out of this mess."

The words registered, but they didn't fully make sense at first. "What's that? Working?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long ago did she awaken?"

"About twenty minutes. As I said, sir, maybe you should come around here."

He could have asked why it had taken this long for him to be notified, then decided that it was time he didn't want to waste. He simply nodded. "I'll be right there," he stated, before cutting the link. Within five minutes, he was out, in uniform, albeit without his beret - it would be fine in his quarters.

He quickly made his way to the medical bay, and before even arriving, noticed there were two people along with Blumhardt and Greenhill. As soon as he stepped close enough, both men looked up from their respective pads, and immediately snapped a salute. Blumhardt and Frederica did the same, although the former was almost lazy, and the latter slow from weariness. He saluted back.

She looked tired, and pained, but Frederica Greenhill looked back at him with every bit of quiet determination as she had ever mustered, it seemed. Although it would be a while before she returned, he now was certain that she would. He smiled.

"Good to see you awake, lieutenant," he said after a moment, sincerely. Then his smile twisted a bit ruefully, "Although I'm not sure about the 'good' of you working right away. Ever heard of resting?"

Her tone was so deadpan he barely noted the gentle sarcasm in the answer, "Yes, sir, I know the general concept."

"Very good. How about making it a reality?"

"I assure you," she said, and winced as if to prove the point, "I'll do that as soon as this is done. But I had to go over something with these officers." She nodded to the two men. Looking at them, he recognized the chief engineer of the Atalanta. The other man was a mystery.

"Lieutenant Haraldson," the man said to his unspoken question, "I'm in cartography."

"Sir, I asked them here because I think there might be a way for us to reach Hampshire in the next jump."

Yang blinked. "Really? How?"

At this, the chief engineer coughed to get attention. "A Long Warp, sir."

That didn't help Yang. Engineering had never really interested him, and whatever he had learned at the Academy had long since faded into a stressful sense of nostalgia. "I'm sorry, I'm unfamiliar with the term," he understated, scratching his head a moment.

Of course, he knew that Warp was the cornerstone of any self-sustaining interstellar civilization, and that without it, humanity would probably still be stuck in its original solar system. He had been raised by a man whose entire livelihood depended upon the Warp. His father had explained it to him in simple terms when he had been fourteen.

"Think of stars as enormous magnets. A star makes sure everything stay together, and it's very, very hard to leave it, because it's pull is so great. Well, warping means that you manage to leave that magnet... that subspace. That's what we call a Warp Tunnel. But then you need a place to exit back into normal space. For that, you need another magnet, the destination star. Without that magnet, that anchor that gets you back to our space, you can be lost forever."

His father, when not obsessing over art, had been rather good at detailing complex theorems into layman's terms. He certainly had retained the simplified version better than anything he had learned later. He pursed his lips.

"I never heard of a Long Warp," he clarified, "I suppose it has to do with distance."

"That's pretty much it. We want to reach Hampshire Starzone, but we'd need four normal Warp to reach it. We're taking the long way around." The chief engineer explained.

"That much, I understand. It's because there's nothing between us and Hampshire. And it's too far for one cruiser-class Warp."

"Yes, sir," Frederica said, her voice both determined and tired. Her body was trying to drag her back to rest, but she was clearly resisting, "But I once attended a seminar at Heinessen Memorial University where they explained that substellar objects, such as brown dwarfs, can be used to lengthen a Warp."

"There's a Brown Dwarf in reach, between us and Hampshire," The cartographer said readily. "It's very small, and weak, but it's there."

Yang blinked, looked at Frederica, who shrugged, then winced in pain. "I attended Advanced Stellar Physics at the Academy," she said modestly, like it wasn't one of the most elite placements there, necessitating tremendous grades. Much like Advanced Tactics. But whereas he had pretty much gotten in on a fluke, he was sure she had more than answered that class' requirements.

"And you remembered enough to aid these gentlemen in figuring out where a necessary brown dwarf was located," he deadpanned. "From your bed in a medical bay." She didn't answer. He gave a wry smile. "Lieutenant, sometimes you scare me." He turned to the chief engineer. "It's not something standard, I suppose?"

The negative gesture was quite emphasized, "No, sir. It'll taken so much energy to do that we'll be dead in the water after the jump. We'll have to realign mid-transit, and that means reinsertion in realspace and is more than likely going to be a violent thing. If we reach reinsertion, that is."

"You'd estimate our chances at around what?" Yang asked after considering a moment.

There was a shrug. "This isn't something people do, so we don't have many landmarks to draw from. In fact, the only numbers we still have in the military databanks that were successful are from our early exploration missions, before there even was a war."

"So some were able to do it."

"Some. Others, I'm afraid, were never seen again." The cartographer pointed out.

The chief engineer nodded, but didn't seem defeated by that fact. "Well, most of the exploratory missions were conducted with second and third generation ships. We're generations removed from those days. Our engines are stronger, more efficient. And if the war did anything, it's that it made us build sturdier ships."

"Alright. A guess, then. Our chances?"

A moment of silence as the other man considered. "Sixty percent. It's still one Hell of a dangerous move, admiral."

There was no hesitation from Yang when he heard that. Sixty percent was far better than what they'd have if they had to give a full head-on battle. His chances at Dionysus were far lower, and he'd even gauged chances of success at for what would become Seventh Iserlohn as fifty-fifty. Sixty percent wasn't something he could turn away from.

He smiled. "That's better than we can hope. Alright. I want you to work with navigation, work out a Long Warp to Hampshire Starzone. Let's do this quickly, they'll be on us in hours at best."

The two men saluted, and departed. As they did, Yang looked at Frederica and shook his head wryly. "Advanced Stellar Physics?"

"Yes, sir." The fatigue in her eyes was more pronounced than before. Clearly, this all had taxed her system.

"I remember the name. Nobody wanted it back in the eighties. Dull and hard, they called it."

"They said that in the nineties, too, admiral."

"And so?" he pressed. She took a moment, then smiled wanly.

"Yes, dull and hard."

He smiled back warmly, knowing that as salutatorian, she had probably passed the class with flying colours. Then he was back to present concerns.

"You rest now, lieutenant. I'm going to see what we can do about that crazy idea you've put on the table."

18:56 PM

"Sir, I'd like to go on record and say that it's a pretty crazy idea."

"I'm afraid I second that, Admiral."

"Do I look like I'm arguing? It's crazy, it's risky. It's also the best option we've got."

There was no fire behind the words that were exchanged, as there wasn't an argument to be had. Even if his rank didn't make his orders law, McNamara and Rostov were both well aware of the bloodbath which would happen if they just stayed and fought. Add to it the fact that they didn't like the idea of shooting at Alliance ships very much, and they had opposed little resistance to the plan. Given the way the preparations had gone, that thinking seemed to be one that was generally agreed on by their tiny fleet.

"Captain, data from the sensor buoy," Came the voice of the sensors officer. Rostov's look rapidly went from mildly accepting to stern.

"Report status."

"Sir, the enemy is within range of the decoy fleet. Most of it is breaking off and heading towards us."

"Slow," The tall female commodore muttered, "I'd have done it much earlier."

Yang agreed. He probably would have done it almost immediately, in fact. But the enemy commander, while valiant and decisive, was clearly rather by-the-book, a trait that some said was standard in the Eleventh Fleet. A by-product of Wilhelm Holland nearly destroying his forces - and losing his own life - at Third Tiamat, the reconstructed forces of that fleet had focused on strength, efficiency, and standard tactics.

That was why they had gone on to eliminate the closest threat, when they had picked up the decoy forces Yang had left behind. It was standard procedure to not leave a potential enemy force at your back. Yang would have simply block the small force and continued on. But the enemy commander had followed command protocol to the letter.

The decoy was just ten ships, the most damaged of their lot, emptied of crew and missiles, a completely negligible threat to the over four hundred destroyers. They'd be easily destroyed with only automated combat instructions. But that was alright. It was enough. One way or another, they weren't going to engage the Eleventh again.

He understood why the other commander didn't seem worried. He had supply tankers, so he knew that he would force a decisive battle eventually, before they could reach a significant loyalist system. The thought of what they were about to try probably hadn't occurred, and Yang didn't see why it should have. After all, nothing that they were about to do was remotely standard.

"Keep track of them," Rostov order, before turning his attention elsewhere, "Navigation, status."

"Almost ready, sir," came the voice from the helm, admirably hiding the tremendous pressure he must be feeling, "We're still waiting for a few ships to green-light the numbers. For ourselves, the course towards the brown dwarf and the reorientation parameters are as ready as they'll ever be."

Yang looked at their target as Rostov called for engine status. An ordinary brown dwarf called TSI-3440974 according to Alliance stellar catalogues, it was actually unvisited, scanned and logged as an afterthought. And now, it was their best hope to get out of that mess.

He had left Frederica - more reluctantly than he had expected - and talked to the closest medical officer about her. He had been told that her condition was table for now, but that they needed to get to a proper hospital, or at least an hospital ship, or there would be a degeneration of her status at length. Certainly, at best, waiting too long would make reconstruction more difficult, potentially forcing her out of the military forces. That was another reason to him to try this. He had grown quite fond of her presence, and he wasn't about to lose it if he could help it at all.

He realized that he barely had a thought for any of the other wounded, which the skirmishes had produced after all. Human being tend are self-centered, selfish creatures. Or maybe that's just me, he reasoned inwardly.

His stomach gave a somewhat painful twitch. The medication that the ship doctor had given the crew wasn't sitting well. But Long Warp, although rare and absolutely not recommended, had still happened from time to time, enough that it was medically proven that the warping effect was supposed to be far worse. It wasn't something he particularly liked to dwell on.

"All ships show green, sir," Communication piped up, "Ready for Long Warp."

Yang nodded, "Patch me through," he ordered.

"Sir!" There was a small pause, "You're on, admiral."

"All ships, this is Yang," he said, "We're about to try something that's not really in the books. But once we're on the other side of this latest idea, we'll be in Hampshire and with forces that will help us rather than shoot at us," I'm almost sure of that, said a voice he pointedly ignored, "I want everyone to know that what you did in this last week was incredible. Never forget that. I certainly won't. See you in Hampshire. Yang out." He closed the channel, turned to Rostov. "Well, let's get this done, then."

The captain nodded. Like Yang and everyone on the bridge, he was strapped to a chair, normal procedure for anything that might overwhelm the ship's artificial gravity. This order had only heightened the tension on the bridge, but it was inevitable. "Helm, ready for tunnelling."

"Aye, captain," came the prompt answer, a bare trace of nervousness seeping through, "Warp in thirty seconds."

"Sensors," Rostov continued, "Enemy status?"

"Full pursuit vector, they're pushing their speed over normal limits."

Even a fool would know we're up to something, Yang thought, of course they want to get to us first.

"Time to intercept?" Rostov continued sternly. The sensors officer's hands flew over his panel as data entered.

"One hundred and ten seconds until forward elements are in effective Yellow Zone."

"Good." Rostov nodded.

"Fifteen seconds to Warp," The helmsman counted down.

"At least that worked," McNamara noted. Yang nodded, but he couldn't smile. Getting enough to time for the Warp had actually been the easy part of their impromptu escapade into the definitely not recommended.

"Warping in five... four... three...two... one...warping!" There was definite nervousness there, now.

Immediately, the stars vanished, replaced with the opaque blackness and the slight nausea he always felt when they passed through space that mankind wasn't naturally supposed to ever have been in. As always, their fate now rested in their instruments and the skill of their pilots.

"Warp successful," the Helmsman noted.

"All ships accounted for," The sensors officer added, "Two minutes to TSI-3440974."

"Acknowledged. Preparing for vector change."

This, Yang understood, was actually what had everyone involved in making the Long Warp happen nervous. Warping, the tunnelling through subspace, was a complicated maneuver that centuries of practice now made it look easy. It really wasn't, they had simply refined the technology since the first Yanoshel Warp Engine had tentatively breached subspace and created a scientific revolution.

The problem was that, as had been explained, they would now be creating an entirely new tunnel, within an existing tunnel, using the brown dwarf as a weak 'anchor point' of sort. There was no telling if the tunnel would maintain its integrity. And assuming it did, the volatile nature of the tunnel they'd create might well make it difficult to reintegrate real space. Whatever happened, it wouldn't be a smooth ride.

It's still better than a straight fight, he thought stubbornly, better than losing almost the entire flotilla, in the best outcome. It was far too late for doubts, anyway.

"Coming up on TSI-3440974," Sensors said far too soon for Yang's taste. He hated having absolutely no control over anything, and he was sure that sentiment was something he shared with most people in the flotilla.

"Inputting new vector. Tunnelling to Hampshire Starzone in ten...nine... eight..."

"Well, this should be fun," McNamara mused. Yang gave her a disbelieving look. She shrugged from her seat.

"Three...two... entering new vector!"

Yang didn't know what to expect. He hadn't had time to peruse anything pertaining to Long Warp in the little time he had, and the Medical Division people had been rather vague. At best, he thought it would be increased nausea. It was something he found that he had firmly believed in.

Well, he had been right, after a fashion. The nausea increased, if one could call the feeling of every single organ in his body becoming jelly and being wrenched upside down at the same time. Yang had had his bouts of sickness over the years, like everybody, but this felt worse, much worse. He gagged, tasted bile, and his head fairly swam. He saw several people jerk on the bridge, with Rostov blanching yet remaining as stern-faced as ever, MacNamara clenching her jaw and wearing a pained grimace, while the sensors officer, unable to fully deal with it, actually vomited.

Definitely not fun, he thought erratically. He grasped the side of his chair in a death grip.

"This is the engine room," said the chief engineer through the comm, his voice altered by more than the system, he was sure, "This is taking a lot of power, captain. Much more than we thought it would. We need to-"

At that moment, the ship shook, and red warning lights began to flash. "Hull breach on the starboard side!" Came another officer's voice. "Decks two to four. Bulkheads are holding."

"Sir, contact lost with six of the other ships," The communication officer wheezed, "No, correction, nine ships!"

Yang looked at the readout in the main screen, guilt lancing through him, stronger than any sort of nausea. "I'm sorry," he whispered faintly, to himself and the people who had just been lost.

"Sixty-five seconds to possible Real-Space reinsertion," The sensor officer croaked, coughing, clearly trying hard not to repeat the unfortunate spectacle he had given not long before.

There was another shake, less than the precedent, but no less alarming. This time, it was a breach to port, only smaller. The Atalanta wasn't taking the trip well. Engineering came on again, warning them of weakening structural integrity and low pure water reserves. But it was the helm's next announcement, said in a tight voice, that took the cake.

"Vector's becoming unstable. No clear reinsertion point to Hampshire."

Were they going to die here, after all? Yang wondered why it didn't affect him that badly, aside from worry about what would happen to Julian. He was in fact much more concerned about his ward than about being lost in subspace. It wasn't anything new. He had always been rather... accepting... of such things. His own death had never bothered him. Did it mean he didn't care? He wasn't sure. Still, there were some things he still wanted to do. That much, he was certain. So it wasn't that he sought death, not one bit.

Can't do anything about it now, he told himself, and it resolved the issue with that truth.

"Best guess, helm," Rostov grunted.

"Aye, sir! Emergency warp reinsertion in ten seconds!"

"All hands, this is the captain! Brace yourselves!"

"Three...two...one... Warp!"

And it was like a wall hit Yang. A moment of shock, and then nothing.

Command Battleship Diomedes, 19:04 PM

"You 're sure?"

He didn't mean for the harshness he felt to translate into the question, but the fact remained that it came out like a snap. Fortunately, lieutenant-commander Elkouri was no stranger to the outburst, and weathered the moment without a flinch. Realizing the way it had come out, Carlsen toned down his voice despite the anger that was blooming in his belly.

"Sorry about that, not your fault," he said, raising his hand a bit as he looked down from the upper level of the Diomedes tiered bridge, taking some comfort from the bustling, normal activity below before half turning to his adjutant, who still had the pad in his hands. "You're sure? Three more units?"

"Aye, sir," Elkouri looked at his past, his large black eyes intent on the data, "The Seventeenth Patrol Group under captain Dampierre, the Twenty-Sixth Patrol Group under Captain Quan, and the Sixth Survey Group under Commander Silvers have not reported in at all, and have left their assigned sector. Under admiral Bucock's standing orders, we have no choice but to consider them to have willingly severed ties with the Fifth Fleet."

"Dammit," Carlsen growled, "How many does that make?"

"Fourteen groups, sir. Exactly nine hundred and eighty-six ships all told."

Carlsen banged his hand on the railing. It hurt, but he didn't feel it. It was a complete disgrace to the Fifth Fleet. A thousand ships! Breaking off from their duties. "No need to wonder where they're going, those traitors. Running to join Lagrange's band of fools."

"Yes, sir. That's certainly the best guess from their last known warp vectors,"

"Anything else?"

"There's still a few more units who are remaining at their post and postponing rejoining the main fleet at Liore. One of them, captain Parnell, told us that he doesn't trust his unit to break apart if they leave, and prefers to keep them where they are to quell some strong sentiments over there."

"Lovely, just lovely," Carlsen growled, then sighed, "At least the others are returning."

"Yes, sir."

Carlsen turned his gaze towards the main viewscreen, which showed the mustering of the Fifth Fleet. Lines of cruisers, destroyers and battleships, peppered here and there by carriers and command ships, were arrayed in ready formation. Supply ships went to see to the needs of those that had just returned, while between them were a multitude of shuttles. Some were going to Liore to pick up men and supplies, others were transferring between the same between ships. And through all of that, several Spartanian squadrons were patrolling, seeing if anything was amiss.

It was a comforting sight. Five thousand warships were there, ready to back the government, certainly, but also, he knew, out of loyalty to their former commander, Alexander Bucock. And a further thirty-four hundred had acknowledged their orders and were on their way.

Part of him couldn't wrap his head around what was happening, even days later. He still saw Lagrange, proudly declaring treason for all to see, in the name of an operation he hadn't even been a part of. And saying that Yang of the Thirteenth Fleet had agreed to do the same.

He hadn't really believed that last, if only because Yang had seemed utterly uninterested in politics when he'd met him. He agreed with the sentiment in his own way, but while it seemed that Yang was more interested in looking at politics from outside without getting involved himself - something Bucock had told him in an earlier conversation, Carlsen was rejecting the very idea of insurrection out of personal pride.

He had earned his place, without going through the Academy. He had made his reputation despite the obstacles in his way. Despite what some of the more stupid of the quasi-aristocratic 'old military families' said. And he had taken the place of a man much like him, a man now respected throughout the Fleet. Bucock had backed the government, and Carlsen would be damned if he did any less.

There was a flurry of movement from the level under him, around the main sensor suite. Clearly, something was happening that had them on edge. He was going to ask what was the matter, when the main sensors officer spoke first.

"Admiral, we're detecting a massive surge of energy from the edge of the system."

He tensed. "What kind of energy?"

"That's the thing, sir. It looks like a warp, but it's erratic, and the data isn't coming in from one of the normal entry points. It's like something forced entry into Hampshire Starzone." As he said that, the data appeared at Carlsen's workstation. He frowned as he saw the possible places the warp could have originated from. It made no sense given the distance, but it seemed to come from the sectors under the control of the rebelling Eleventh.

"Do we have any ships out there?" he asked Elkouri quickly. It made no sense for Lagrange to attack that way, but he wasn't about to rule anything out.

The response was immediate. " No, admiral. The area has nothing of value, and it's so far outside the lanes that we only have a few sensor buoys."

Carlsen considered his options. The most logical would be to send a small force to scout the area and see if anything was wrong over there. He'd just have to select a unit he totally trusted not to scamper off to Lagrange's side once away from the main fleet. Or he could wait to see if more information was forthcoming before making a decision, betting that there was nothing there to worry about.

The latter was not his style at all, and he hardly even considered it. And the former wouldn't do any good for his present gloom. So, he decided on what seemed to him the obvious option.

"Have the Fourth Assault Group form up behind the Diomedes, we'll check it out."

Disapproval seemed to flash through Elkouri's eyes for a moment, but his only answer was only a crisp, dutiful acknowledgement. Soon, the orders were going around, and a renewed flurry was underway as the Fifth Fleet's supreme flagship got ready to be under way.

Perhaps he was being a bit silly. Perhaps he was letting his rancour at having one thousand ships joining the traitors. Perhaps he just wanted to let off steam, as Elkouri likely thought. He couldn't deny those things were at least partly true.

But the anomaly intrigued him, and he really wanted a change of pace. If it was nothing, then that would be the end. But if it was something, he intended to be there to do something about it.

And if they were forces from Lagrange, well... he was up for some shooting practice.

Cruiser Atalanta, 19:22 PM

"Admiral?"

Yang stirred. Uh, Julian, it's too early for that. Let me sleep a bit, he thought sourly. His mind registered that something was on his arm, and there was a slight pain.

"Sir? Admiral?"

He then realized that the voice, far from being Julian's, was female, and calling to him with both worry and authority. Realizing this made him open his eyes, to find both MacNamara and a medical officer hovering over his chair.

He jerked awake as the memories came flooding back, and he stood up suddenly, only to fall back down again with a groan. The medical officer put a hand on his shoulder.

"Take it easy, sir. You were out a few minutes. I've given you something that should help you clear away the worst of it soon."

"Right," Yang mumbled in response, wincing as he realized that his entire body ached, like one giant bruise. He briefly wondered what had caused it, but his memories were already realigning, reminding him sharply of what had occurred. He took stock of the bridge, to see that the lights were low, and the hum of machinery almost silent. He took that opportunity to clear away the cobwebs, to take stock of their situation as his consciousness fully reasserted itself.

We're on backup power, he noted as he looked around. Three medical personnel were walking around the bridge, but everyone seemed to be largely alright, to his relief. More slowly, he stood up, letting his light-headedness run its course and adjusting.

"Everyone make it?" he asked, noticing Rostov climbing the steps to the upper tier of the bridge. The older officer shook his head wearily., and Yang's heart sank a bit.

"Five dead from the breaches. A few wounded. The rest are aches and bruises. All things considered, we're in good shape."

"But dead in the water, so to speak," McNamara mused as she showed the darkened bridge. Rostov nodded soberly.

"There's that. Engineering is trying to bring main power back online, but our reserves are pretty dry. Still, we need to know where we are."

"Automatic beacons?"

"Functioning, yes. If there's anyone close, they'll pick us up." But who will it be? Was the unspoken question. Rostov was right, they had to know what was going on around them, quickly. Even the main screens were off, making the place oddly claustrophobic.

Fortunately, it seemed that the Atalanta still retained a bit of power, because the main lights returned, although the screens remained dead. What was important, however, was that communication and scanning were both possible, and their respective officers got to work. As they did, Yang walked to the helmsman, who was leaning backwards, relaxing. When he saw him approach, of course, he straightened. Yang motioned for him to stay seated.

"Take a break, you more than deserve it," he said, an understatement in the circumstances, "Lieutenant Mohan, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"A really good job, lieutenant, no matter what happens now," he said putting his hand forward. Surprised, the helmsman took it, and they shook them.

"Thank you, sir," he returned, clearly spent. Yang left him to his rest, and walked towards the sensor operator. He looked grim, and Yang knew that the news wouldn't be pretty.

"Admiral, sir," he said, his eyes regretful, "I've just scanned for our ships?"

Something icy formed in the pit of his stomach, but Yang knew this was something he couldn't brush aside. "How many of us made it?" he asked as plainly as he could. The look he received told the story even before the numbers hit him.

"Including the Atalanta, forty-three, sir."

Yang closed his eyes a moment as he took this in. A third of their remaining forces were lost. He knew, of course, that some wouldn't be making it back, but it didn't change the fact that he hoped that the casualties would be lower than this. And, of course, there was the guilt, twisting his gut, despite his mind doing its best to mitigate things.

He was sure that it wasn't what the rebelling Alliance forces wanted. Lagrange and whoever was and would be on his side likely saw the political corruption as something that had to be opposed with force. However, a military coup without popular or political support, he had found, tended to lead to the military becoming the government. And a military didn't tend to be a democracy.

"Sensor contact! Ships, coming our way."

Yang blinked as Rostov immediately asked for the ships to be identified. The two exchanged looks. With forty-three ships, spent nearly dry of energy, a confrontation would end badly for them. There was nothing a military commander could do here, no matter how could he may be. It didn't take long for the sensors, glitchy as they were from damage and low power, to return some data.

"Silhouette data confirms, three hundred ships," the operator mused wearily, "Length is consistent with battleships... correction, one of the silhouettes is larger, command battleship class confirmed."

"Well, that's it, then," McNamara noted, voicing the general situation for everyone, "There's nothing we can do against a force like that if it's against us."

Yang agreed. Ten battleships, he might have thought about it. Twenty, even if that was pushing it. But three hundred, with one being a flagship-class? No, some situations were hopeless. "Where are they from? Is this Hampshire?" he asked.

"Yes, admiral. There's sensor buoy nearby that identify the system as Hampshire Starzone."

"Good, good," he nodded, "And they're from?"

"In-system, sir."

Yang thought about it for a moment, and decided upon the next course of action. It was too late to hesitate. He took hold of a communication pad and leaned towards the communications officer, asking for him to broadcast a general call towards the incoming ships. In moments, he was connected.

"To the ships that are incoming," Yang stated, "I am admiral Yang Wen-li, commander of Iserlohn Fortress, on the alliance cruiser Atalanta. We have been fleeing rebel forces under the command of Eleventh Fleet commander Lagrange. We are short on fuel, and have wounded onboard that need tending to. Please respond." As he said that, he wondered if Frederica was alright, but remembered that Blumhardt was with her in the medical bay. He would make sure she was safe, if nothing else. Stopping, he waited for an answer. It wasn't long coming, and he asked for it to be put on speakers as the screens still didn't work.

"Atalanta, this is vice admiral Carlsen, aboard the Diomedes," came a voice that Yang had heard before, gruff and a but stern, "We've confirmed your identity and are prepared to assist. What do you need?" At that, there was a subdued, exhausted cheer from the other members of the bridge. Yang turned to them and grinned wanly, completely understanding how they felt. He wanted to do the same. He let the small swell die before continuing.

"A working hospital ship would be nice," Yang said, giving a wry smirk he knew Carlsen couldn't see, "Or, barring that, transport to a military hospital on Liore proper. I'd also request the cruisers here to be taken to the closest repair bay."

"I think that can all be arranged," Carlsen's voice had softened a bit, losing its initial hard edge, "It's good to hear your voice, admiral Yang."

"Believe me, the feeling's mutual," And he meant it. It wasn't exactly the same thing as hearing admiral Bucock, or admiral Greenhill, but under the circumstances , hearing Carlsen's sharp tone and slightly effaced Rs and Ts - which were common of the man's home planet of Palmeland - was music to his hears.

"And I'm not the only one, let's be honest," Carlsen said, and the grim tone returned somewhat, "There's this whole thing about Lagrange..."

"He mentioned me."

"Exactly. Now, Bucock and Greenhill both said they were sure it was just Lagrange's scare tactics, and I tended to agree, especially since he would have had you speak, too. But there's a lot of people in the Alliance, soldier and civilian, who'd needed nothing else to believe it."

Yang nodded, to himself since Carlsen couldn't see it. When they had finally intercepted the speech - more as a lucky fluke, as they had managed to tap into the main communication array to receive information, if not send into it - he had been particularly upset at having his name latched to what was a declaration of war on the legitimate government. He hadn't shown it overtly, it wasn't his style, but the idea that he would be, even slightly, put forward as a player against democracy, well, that just didn't go down well.

"Honestly," he noted, mirroring how he had put it aside back then, I had more immediate concerns," Like bringing his people a loyalist stronghold alive. Something, he reminded himself with a sharp lance of guilt, he had been less than half successful. So much for 'Miracle' Yang.

"Oh, believe me, I get it," Carlsen's voice assured, "I'm just saying that people would like to know where you stand on this whole mess."

Again, an unseen nod. The solution had presented itself when he had ruminated about it, and he had jotted down a plan during a lull, before turning his attention to more pressing matters. Now, however, it was time to do what needed to be done. Even thought he balked at the very idea. But there was no avoiding it this time. It was time to set things straight.

"Well, admiral, Liore's nearby, right?"

"It sure is."

"Then I think maybe I could speak to the Lorean First Minister."

Fleet Headquarters, Heinessenpolis, 20:43 PM

"You're fussing," she teased.

He couldn't really understand in what way he could be, given what he'd just said.

"I just told you that Lagrange's message sparked unrest pretty much everywhere, right?"

"Yes, you did tell me that."

"That includes the area where we live today," he pressed.

"Nothing happened here so far," she pointed out.

"And yet," he said, feeling faintly foolish and quite a bit indignant that his warnings were being answered with a benevolent smile, "It could, and it could get nasty."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"And just in case it happens to fall on the maybe, I'm going to send two hand-picked soldiers to our house. To be safe."

"Alright, dear, alright," she nodded, "But I still think you're fussing."

Bucock sighed in exasperation, well aware that it was the best he could achieve in that conversation. He had been a soldier for over fifty years, and had married her forty-seven years and some change ago. And during that time, Judith Arlene Bucock, née Harkins, had turned 'serenity' into an impregnable shield. He knew he was a man who kept his cool, but he had nothing on her.

The fact that it was largely the many battles he had fought in over that half-century - numerous and successful enough that he had reached his current position without any Academy background - that had forced her to craft that daunting wall to keep stress at bay, was enough to give him a considerable amount of guilt most times he thought about it.

Most times. Now, he just felt like he was being scolded for being, unless he missed his mark, childishly overprotective. And he knew nothing would make her budge on seeing it that way. He silently conceded that battle, and a sarcastic voice told him, truthfully enough, that if his military battles mirrored his spousal battles, he'd have been dead at least thirty years ago.

"I suppose I'll make something for the poor young men you sent," she mused, "Given your people's predisposition for horrendous food."

"I guess they'll be grateful for that, although they'll actually have to watch the door, you know," He said, feeling a twinge of envy. He didn't find the usual military fare all that horrible, but he could use some homemade food. The thing is, the way things were, he probably wasn't going to get anything like that for a while.

Perhaps feeling something from his tone - another daunting skill Judith had developed was the ability to read his moods to often frightening precision - her face lost some of her calm playfulness.

"It's that bad, then?" She said. He could only nod.

"We've talked a big game, and Press Relations' done one Hell of a job, but, yeah, it's actually bad. Some posts have gone silent. We haven't been able to raise them, either."

"Frontier posts?" she wondered, but she didn't seem to believe it much. "No, don't tell me. No need to get in trouble over it."

He agreed. Although he used an encrypted algorithm for the communication, he probably had said too much already. He simply wasn't that good at that cloak and dagger kind of thing. He was about to add something, but before he could formulate his thoughts, the door to his office chimed. He grunted.

"Back to work, it seems," he muttered. Her smile, which had faded a bit, returned, playful.

"You love it, you old fool," she said.

"Watch it, old woman," he replied with mock indignation, "Just don't bother the poor kids when they arrive. Young people don't know what to do when we elders talk to them too plainly."

"I'll be a perfect hostess," she said, and then her face was a bit closer to the screen, "You take care of yourself, you understand me?"

"Don't worry, mother, I'll be a good boy. Love you." And with that, he cut off the feed, feeling a pang of loss, like he did every time a conversation with her ended. Decades of married life, and that hadn't faded. It was probably a good thing.

The chime, again. He realized that he had taken more time than he had thought, and that his mind was beginning to wander. He firmly brought himself back to the present. "Yes, come in," he called. The door opened, immediately revealing the person who had been insistently ringing.

He had somehow expected Pfeiffer, who tended to hover around him for orders, or simply to be at his service like the good, oddly mother hen adjutant he was. His other possibilities had been either Kubersly coming in to plan with him, or Greenhill with a report. He was mildly surprised when all of his possibilities ended up being wrong. Instead, he saw vice admiral Paeta, who seemed even more put off than he usually was.

"Admiral Paeta," he mused, honestly, as the two exchanged the customary salute "I wasn't expecting you."

The younger officer entered, "I just received some word from the First Fleet," he said without preamble, "For now, I can barely count on three, perhaps four thousand ships. The others haven't answered the recall orders."

It wasn't all that surprising, even though it was a bit worrying as well. Immediately after Lagrange's speech, Kubersly had requested that all available Fleet forces be recalled to Heinessen to subdue the Eleventh Fleet. Nonsensically - and unsurprisingly, he had to ruefully admit - Secretary Negroponty and his staff had been slow in reacting to the situation, and only a partial recall order had been cleared so far. In fact, the entire thing had been so sluggish that now, almost an entire day after the speech, they were barely mobilizing.

Fortunately, there had been some good news in the meantime. The cores of the Fifth and Seventh Fleets were already assembling, with less than a quarter of each still being recalled. Vice Admirals Hogwood and Carlsen had both already given their support to the government.

"The First Fleet is more scattered than most," Bucock said, placating, to his disappointed peer, "It's no surprise it's taking longer. It's generally used for internal patrols, not direct combat."

Paeta paced without taking a seat, although Bucock offered one with a gesture, "We'll need everyone, what with what happened to Borodin..."

"Yes." He frowned at that. That much was really true. What had happened with the Third Fleet was bad enough, but the Twelfth, that was something else. Nobody could say that there wasn't a schism now, especially as the rebels under Medina hadn't released the Perun. Nor could they know if they would.

And that's without thinking of the chase Appleton and Ulanf found themselves in. He had no doubt that they'd eventually come out on top, but in the meantime, that meant two fleets out of the whole ordeal. He didn't want to believe it, but it seemed that what Greenhill had said might make sense: this thing had been prepared beforehand, planned. Still, despite that, there was a suddenness to it, as if the rebels had been caught unawares in some way.

Well, whatever the situation for them was, one thing was certain: this was the largest internal mayhem in the history of the Alliance. And convenient, too, if one took the rumours that the Empire was going to explode into its own civil war. It had happened before, of course, and the Alliance had always taken advantage. Either they'd take the time to recuperate, or launch offensives when things looked good. Now, however, there'd be no chance to do anything if the Imperials turned on each other.

"Yang," he mused, "Yang, you know, he was adamant about Reinhard von Lohengramm. He told me that he was different from the other leaders we're used to fighting. I'm wondering if that whole mess isn't his to begin with. Yang hinted that much."

Paeta stopped, grimacing, "If you'd asked me that just a year ago, I'd have said that you shouldn't take that 'kid' too seriously, that he thinks he's a big shot, but isn't. Now..."

"Yeah?" he inquired. At that, Paeta finally sat down, his face betraying his uncertainty.

"I've never liked Yang," he said after a moment, "I always felt he acted like a know-it-all, that his ideas were too... reactive. Passive, you know? Especially the last time he was under my command."

"Astarte." Bucock mused, not wanting to talk of his own feelings on the matter. He, himself, did think that there was no need to attempt to recreate the Battle of Dagon at that place. The Empire had had just as much time as they to study it, to find weaknesses in it that wouldn't have been apparent back then. Also, they had twice the number of ships. If anything, to him a simple frontal assault, well-executed, would have sufficed to send the Imperial forces back. Then again, he reminded himself, maybe not. It was Lohengramm, after all.

"Lohengramm was a greater commander than we thought he'd be at the time," he shrugged, "You're not the only one who underestimated him."

"If it was just Astarte, maybe I'd be able to deal with it," the commander of the First Fleet mused, "But it's not. There's a worse moment for me involving that young upstart. Remember Fourth Tiamat?"

"Yes. I wasn't there, but I reviewed it. Went well at first, then von Lohengramm managed to flank our fleet, and we had to retreat when the situation went badly. It was successful because of Yang, again." He had always felt the then-commodore should have been promoted right there. He deserved it. But if he had, he probably wouldn't have been there to save the Second Fleet from disaster.

"That's... the rough outline of it. What interests us in that is the part about von Lohengramm flanking us. You know he passed his entire fleet in front of us, and none of us fired? Think about it: tens of thousands of Alliance warships, and there's an Imperial fleet, passing right under our noses. Within firing range. Naked. Vulnerable! And we didn't fire." He slapped his right hand into his left in a snap for emphasis. "Right there! If we'd fired, we probably would have destroyed Reinhard von Lohengramm, and also the battle itself."

Bucock nodded. It was accepted that, in hindsight, it was a great missed opportunity. "People weren't sure what to make of that move. It seemed so suicidal, after all," was all he could say, summarizing the general feeling on the matter.

"Yang knew exactly what we were supposed to do."

"Oh?"

"That young man was right there behind me, on the bridge. And he saw the same thing I did. And while I just stood there, thinking it must be some kind of trick, He came up to me and said : Attack! Attack now!" He then shrugged helplessly, "And what did I do with that piece of advice? I turned around... not that's not right, I rounded on him and blew him off. Told him that he had no business interfering with me, that I was the commander. And the chance was missed. All because I felt a subordinate had overstepped his bound."

He sighed, "He annoyed me, so I just brushed him off. And by the time I decided to do something on my own, it was too late." A pause. "I didn't like him, and I thought his ideas were poor."

Bucock pursed his lips a moment. "And now?" Paeta shrugged.

"Now... well, I still don't like him." he said, and gave a rueful chuckle. Bucock joined in a moment, but before he could say anything, his screen beeped. He grunted as he moved to open it. To no particular surprise, he found himself looking at the ever-tired, brown-haired face of his adjutant. Pfeiffer.

"Mister Pfeiffer, all you have to do is come to my office if you want to talk," he mused, restraining his annoyance. The younger man, of course, saw through him.

"I'm sorry, admiral, but this is urgent. There's an incoming message for you, from the Diomedes."

Bucock looked at Paeta, whose eyebrows had risen in inquisition. "From admiral Carlsen."

"Yes, sir," the adjutant said, his tone excited, "And not just him. It seems that admiral Yang is with him, just arrived at Liore."

Speak of the devil... he thought, but it did nothing to change the relief he felt at that moment. The relief that made his mind utter this: I was right after all.

"Well, then, what are you waiting for? Put them on immediately!"

The Hub, 22:13 PM

If one looked outside Trunicht's office, Rebelo mused as he gave the windows a glance, one thought all was fine in the world. The weather outside was perfect, the sun shining off Heinessenpolis's many skyscrapers. He could see the gigantic Heinessen Memorial Statue, spotted the heavy land and air traffic that gave and impression that the heart of the entire Free Planets Alliance, the first, oldest hub of the republic, was untouched by recent events.

The truth, of course, was very different. Under the veneer of calm, there was a growing undercurrent of unease, even fear. It was even felt in the very room he sat in, on the faces around him.

"He can't just talk on an hyperspace broadcast! He's a military officer, not a governmental official."

"How can that matter right now?"

"It just isn't done. There an established procedure for something like this!"

"Kubersly and Bucock are both pushing for it very hard."

"They're not part of the government! They don't decide policy!"

"So far, our policy has been 'Let admirals Kubersly and Bucock do everything while we watch', so this should be nothing new."

"That's not the point!"

"Then what is the point?!"

This wasn't the government at its best, Rebelo sighed inwardly, as he watched Negroponty and Hwan spar as Trunicht watched impassively. The Acting Chairman hadn't voiced his opinion on the matter of Yang's request, one way or the other. The newly elected, but not sworn in, Chairman of the Alliance had also kept quiet, although not for the same reason.

To put it bluntly, it galled him that Trunicht was still officially in charge of the Alliance at such a crucial time. If Lagrange had let loose with his folly just a month later, the new High Council would have been in place, and this discussion wouldn't be taking so long. Instead, the crisis had forced the process to stall, as those who were at a certain post would need to remain there until said crisis had passed.

It was a provision from the Alliance Constitution, added only a few years after its conception. The founders had wanted the government to keep running if the Empire made a major assault during or shortly after an election, so as to waste no time with a new administration getting on its feet. It made sense, too, he could grudgingly see it. On paper, at least, it was a wise provision. That it had never been used so far had simply been a happy happenstance.

In this case, however, things were far from normal. Aside from Rebelo, Hwan and Trunicht, the other members of the High Council were largely inexperienced, owing to the fact that there had been many dismissals and 'retirements' following the Free Stars fallout.

Such a situation had occurred before, under the Malcah Administration, a solid twelve decades earlier. Elected in a landslide following the Kornelias Invasion, an unusual amount of graft and profiteering had been found within the ranks of that particular High Council, which had caused the Assembly to take the extraordinary step to dismiss the entire group. New elections were hastily organized, yet for eight full months, there had been no actual government, the respective departments running themselves with some oversight from the Assembly.

As this had followed the Kornelias Invasion by only three years, it had caused another provision to be voted in to palliate such a thing happening again. From now on, if the Assembly dismissed the High Council, it could immediately select a new High Council from its membership. These individuals would then hold office until a new Council could be elected and sworn in. By the same token, a newly elected but not sworn in Council could, in a similar situation, immediately dismiss the Administration that had been voted out.

This had been a tempting, oh so tempting, possibility. If it had been an Imperial Invasion, he wouldn't have hesitated as well. Given how pitiful Negroponty had shown himself to be in both character and competence, he'd have been more than happy to have Bancaud take the reins of the Department of Defense, interim or not.

But there was a problem: it wasn't an invasion. The Empire, from what was understood, was in no shape to throw in a large military assault, let alone a full conquest. No, it was an internal crisis. And if he took power, it could further destabilize the trust the public had in the government. Worse, it could be seen as a power grab, and it would taint any decision they would make going forward.

And so, it had been decided to let the current government continue, no matter how adversarial relations had gotten. It seemed like the best thing they could do. Seeing the current discussion, however, he wondered if it hadn't actually been a mistake.

It wasn't like Yang Wen-li was a threat at this point. Far from it, his arrival at Liore had been a tremendous relief for them. There was no question that it meant that 'The Magician' was siding with the government. As far as Rebelo could tell, any criticism Yang would level at them would be worth it if it meant that he would confirm his loyalist leanings. When Bucock, empathetically backed by Kurbersly, had endorsed Yang's request to speak, it had been only a formality in Rebelo's mind.

In this, he found that he had grossly underestimated Negroponty. Or, more likely, he reasoned as he gave Trunicht a glare, just how little the man thought for himself. It was clear that the Acting Secretary of Defense was pushing against Yang simply because it would bother Rebelo. It was certainly petty, but not surprising.

It was true, however, that Bucock and Kubersly, as well as admiral Greenhill and a few others, had done a remarkable job at keeping things under control. It wasn't entirely untrue to think that the Defense Forces were acting independently of the Department of Defence, and that the Alliance was probably the better for it. Although just as shocked as anyone else by Lagrange's call to arms against the Council and the Assembly, they had reacted swiftly, often asking permission after things were already in movement.

He couldn't really voice it, but it was really too bad that First Minister had called them first rather than the military when Yang had made his request. Although frightening in the long term, right now they needed efficiency. And the term and Negroponty were mutually exclusive. Unfair? Maybe. But he'd never had proof to the contrary.

"What, exactly, are we trying to achieve?" said a calm voice, and Rebelo, after a second of confusion, understood that the gravelly undertones belonged to the while-haired, slightly gaunt frame of Henri Bancaud. The man had been brought along since he would eventually have to - thankfully! - take control of the Department of Defence from Negroponty. Until now, however, he had said very little.

Trunicht raised an eyebrow, but it was the acting Secretary who reacted in his usual, belligerent manner. "What do you mean by that?"

Bancaud looked at his pad, coughed softly, then nodded as if assuring himself of something, before looking at Negroponty placidly, "It's just a question: What are we trying to achieve? What's the goal of this meeting?"

The other man looked at him with barely-concealed contempt. "Haven't you been listening to a word we've been saying, mister Bancaud?" he scoffed, but the sixty year old, dressed immaculately in a suit that was slightly out of fashion, didn't seem bothered at all. Then again, decades on the floor of the Representative Assembly tended to make a lot of people thick-skinned.

"Why, yes, I've heard everything. Every word," he replied, just as calmly as if Negroponty had asked him about how he preferred to cook his eggs, "It's just that what's being said doesn't make a lick of sense."

"Excuse me?!" Negroponty said, outraged, but it was Trunicht who surprisingly stopped him with a gesture and a look, forcing the other man to subside with an ease that Rebelo found disconcerting. He then gestured to Bancaud.

"Please, mister Bancaud," he said with the easy charm that seemed to get the snake out of every sort of troubled, "I'd like to know what you think. Why doesn't it make sense?"

Bancaud shifted his attention to the Acting Chairman immediately, nodding. "It's just that we're discussing whether that young man should give a speech to the nation or not. I don't see the sense in that at all. Are we trying to make sure we lose?" He took up his pad and shook it slightly.

"The Eleventh Fleet has turned rebel. Half of the Third and Twelfth fleets have turned rebel. Fair parts of the Eight and Tenth have attempted to do the same, but their commanders seemed to be attempting to bring them to heel before they can join the larger core rebellion. That still takes the Eight and Tenth out of immediate consideration for either side. Over a thousand ships lost to the rebels in the Fifth, and at least the same in the First."

"With the loyalist part of the Twelfth out of the picture until they've repaired their damaged systems, we have access to whatever the First can gather, a few units here and there from the reserves, and two other fleets: the Fifth, and the Seventh, which miraculously had barely any dissidents."

"Right now, I'd say the loyal forces and the rebel forces are about equal in numbers," he finished. "Not counting those forces that are otherwise occupied elsewhere, of course." He looked at the pad, frowned a bit, "Of course, I might have it wrong, but the information here seems to be going in that direction."

Hwan grinned, "Seems fair to me."

Rebelo shrugged, "Yes, it makes sense."

For his part, Negroponty didn't lose his bellicose tone, "You didn't even count the Thirteenth Fleet in there."

"Well, why would I? We're not considering it, are we?"

"That doesn't make any sense," the acting secretary scoffed. Hwan gave him a scornful look, and Rebelo shook his head at how obtuse the man could be. Even Trunicht seemed to sigh at that.

"We're talking about not letting Yang Wen-li speak to the people of the Alliance. From what I understand, he's the leader of Iserlohn Fortress and the Thirteenth Fleet. Now, the first isn't immediately useful right now. But the Thirteenth. That's a large force of veteran crews. We can't afford to give them any reason to side with the rebels. We just can't survive it if it does."

"So, have him talk as-is?" Trunicht mused calmly.

"We don't have anything to lose," Rebelo mentioned, "Maybe he can salvage the situation for us."

"And if he talks against the government?" Negroponty groused. Rebelo actually threw his hands in the air for a moment, appalled at seeing someone so obviously obstinate. He slammed his hand on the table.

"Why in Hell would he come all the way here, to declare something that will hurt our cause?!" he snarled, his patience with the rotund little man reaching its end. "If he was really against us, all he had to do was show up next to Lagrange during the speech and give a damned thumbs up! There, end of story! Let him say what he wants! If it hurts us, we'll deal with it. We need someone with that kind of reputation taking a stand for our side. Everything else is trivial."

Trunicht nodded vigorously at that, "Agreed! This isn't the time to start doubting. We need The Magician on our side, no matter what, if only because his fleet will follow him." He turned to look at Negrotponty, "Send an immediate acknowledgement from the High Council. We'll let him do as he pleases."

The Chairman-Elect frowned. It was good that the Chairman was agreeing with letting Yang have his way, but it didn't feel right. There was no way that Job Trunicht would be alright with something like this without playing his own angle. Years debating issues with the man assured him of that much, at least. Maybe he was over thinking it, but he wouldn't bet on it.

Negroponty wasn't about to question the man he was all but a slave to, and the question of Yang's address to the Alliance, and the meeting itself, was resolved quickly. Still, Rebelo stayed in the Chairman's office - soon to be his own office - and looked out the window as Heinessen's impressive skyline, even as the others left and Trunicht himself returned to his desk. There was a beat.

"Can I help you with anything else, mister Secretary?" Came his rival's voice. Secretary, not Chairman. Not accidental, he was sure, but nitpicking would make him seem petty. Rebelo turned around, to see the man seated at his desk, ready to return to the minutia of running the country, a heavy task at the moment .

He considered bringing his doubts subtly, but found that he had no patience with the man for that. It was troubling to be subordinate to him yet, even if it was now just a formality. So he decided to just forge ahead.

"Why are you being so... amenable?"

He frowned, "Amenable..." his eyebrows rose, "To letting admiral Yang speak his mind? Why would I? You've got to agree it's perfectly sound."

"It's sound, no use trying to deny it. But it's true that he might criticize us while he's at it. You're not the type to just let that pass." You've sicced the Patriotic Corps on people who did that in the past, he thought, but he wisely kept that silent.

Trunicht grinned, "Well, I have absolutely no problem with it. Let him go wild, say what he likes. It can't hurt me anyway, that speech of his."

He frowned at the almost jovial tone, "But if he starts going about the problems in our government..." he stopped. Infuriatingly, Trunicht's grin widened.

"Now you see it," he all but applauded.

"You'll look good for allowing it either way, no matter what he says. And if he says something problematic about the government that needs fixing..."

"Then," Trunicht said as if this was a classroom of some kind, "I'm not affected. I've been voted out, and people don't go after people who've already been voted out. No, if there's a problem, they'll expect your administration to fix it. Oh, and I can play the critique the entire time, for every stumble."

Rebelo gave him a grim look. Trunicht leaned back in his chair, his grin now looking almost like a snarl.

"You see, mister Secretary, that's the difference between you and me. You're still stuck on the election we just had. Make no mistake, however: I'm looking at the one in five years' time, and the one after that. Now, if you'll excuse, I'm still the Chairman for now, and I've got work to do. You have a good day, mister Secretary."

March 26th, Planet Liore, 18:27 PM

Yang gave the paper in his hands a look as he waited nervously. He read the words, but they looked so rehearsed, so stilted, that he couldn't really see himself saying that in front of people. He could also tell that the whole thing had been... sterilized. There was nothing but patriotism and dedication to the Alliance in there.

Problem was, it just wasn't him. He had never considered himself a patriot. He loved the Alliance for its democratic ideals, but he just couldn't find it within himself to dedicated himself to something so... big. So vague. There were people and things he wanted to protect, and that was what he could wrap his head against.

"I can't read this." he told Blumhardt, who had insisted he come along to the conference. 'General's orders', he had said, and Yang reminding him that they were now on Liore, which was squarely on the loyalist side, had done nothing to dissuade him.

"All it takes is one lunatic," he had said, shrugging, "Besides, they're orders from general Schenkopp." The fact that Yang actually outranked the general by several ranks didn't seem to make a dent. Blumhardt was a Rosen Ritter. Schenkopp was a Rosen Ritter. And that was that. It was as simple as it was annoying, and Yang knew better than to try and fight something like this. He very much doubted his personal promise to Jessica's memory entailed futile fights with stubborn subordinates.

And if it did, well, he wasn't having it. He was sure she'd understand if she had met the man.

"Boring?" Blumhardt said, as he scanned the room Yang was about to enter. A room filled with rows of Liorean journalists, of course. The moment they had known he was there, it had taken an escort for him to even arrive to the broadcast building. They were all so eager to hear him talk, as if that mouth of his was about to deliver salvation or something. He could hear the rumbling of conversation from here. Ridiculous notion.

"Why boring?" he muttered after a moment.

"Not sure, sir. It's political. Most of those are boring."

Yang looked at him at that. "Your unit listens to a lot of those?"

"No, we tend to change the channel."

Yang nodded. As far as he was concerned, it was a very smart thing to do. "I guess I'll just go with what I feel like saying." he stopped, "Maybe I should check in to see about lieutenant Greenhill's status."

"Sir, you just did that?"

He blinked. "Really?"

"Just an hour ago. From what I got, everything was fine."

"Huh. Guess I forgot it was that soon," he grinned, scratching his head a bit. Frederica and the rest of the wounded had been taken to an hospital ship as soon as his remaining ships had limped to Liore's orbit, and treatment for them had started at once, with Frederica having been taken into surgery for a reconstruction of her damaged liver. Carlsen had assured him that she was in very good hands

He believed him, too. But he still worried. Still, it wouldn't do any good if he made himself into a bother for the medical personnel. He'd wait until news came to him.

An officer entered and saluted. He was a commander, perhaps a bit older than Yang, and was identified as being part of Press Relations Subdivision. "Sir! The array's ready. We can start anytime."

He saluted back, then grinned. "I suppose I'm as ready as I can get. Let's do this."

The other man nodded. "Then I'll go introduce you." he said, and strode into the chamber, exchanging a nod with Blumhardt as he did. Immediately, the noise level in the room changed quality. There was expectation now. He couldn't understand how what he'd say would interest people that much. The commander waited until the noise went down to zero, before starting, never once appearing bothered as clicks and flashes suffused the place, every news channel - or so it seemed - wanting a piece of what was happening. He admired that ability to weather that sort of thing. Yang, for himself, found he actually preferred exchanging shots with the Imperial Fleet to this.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "Forgive us for the wait. We're now ready to begin. I would like to remind you that I will be fielding questions after the speech."

That was the deal, and Yang was perfectly alright with that part. Let the experts sort through what he'd say. Let them duke it out with the press. Yang admired, and would fight for, the freedom of the press. But it didn't mean he'd get into answering everything these people wanted if he could get out of it.

"Without further ado, then. Ladies and gentlemen: Admiral Yang Wen-li." and he stepped aside.

"Here goes." he muttered, and Blumhardt shrugged nonchalantly. Right, he thought a bit sourly, you're not the one who's making a speech to thirteen billion people. With that in mind, he strode in.

He didn't know exactly what was about to happen, except for the same flashes and noises that had accompanied the Press Relations commander's entrance. He didn't expect the group of journalist to start clapping as he went to the podium where the leaders of Liore made their most important broadcasts from. He blinked in surprise. Really? Were they that happy to see him? He supposed they were.

It wasn't a wild clapping, though, as after he had nodded at it, it died down. Now, they were waiting, expectant. It was strange. Usually, speaking his mind to the press had never been that much of a problem. He had always been a bit hesitant, of course, but this was something entirely different. He was well aware that this speech was, for the lack of a better word, crucial in the context of the current troubles.

You can wax about the historical significance of this thing later, a voice told him impatiently, just start already!

"Hello." He said, then added. "I'm Yang Wen-li." He winced inwardly. As if anybody he was addressing didn't know that by now! He gave an embarrassed smile. "Ah, well, you already knew that, I suppose. But just in case, so that there's no confusion... although... "

What am I saying?! Pull it together!

"Right..." he looked down, remembered as he did that he hadn't bothered to take the notes with him. He was literally on his own on this one. For an unpleasant moment, he felt backed into a corner. And just like every time he had felt trapped, he refused to let the fear dictate his conduct. He would say what he had to say, and they'd have to deal with the rest.

Immediately, he relaxed, and began to speak.

"The first thing I want to say is that admiral Lagrange lied when he said I, or the Thirteenth Fleet, or Iserlohn Fortress had joined him in his rebellion. I haven't, and they haven't. Just to make that one clear to start off with. I don't like when others put words in my mouth."

"So, Lagrange, and I suppose those who are with him as well, have grievances against the government. That soldiers are being sacrificed for politics and greed. Now, I don't know how much of that is true, but there's certainly some indications that this happened. Historically, governments tend to do that. It'd make sense. Operation Free Stars certainly lacked strategic value."

There, a lot of people'll hold that against me, but too bad. I'll say what I need to say.

"So there's reason behind what Admiral Lagrange said," he continued," But I'm going to caution those who'd want to let this fact direct their thoughts. Lagrange's side may have reasonable points on some level, but I don't believe that their reaction is right."

"Let's take Operation Free Stars. Yes, it was a governmental decision. But the idea came from our own military at first. And when it came down to it, the plan had the support of the Alliance population. Well, most of it, at least. Certainly, there were people who were against it at all levels, but they were in the minority. Everybody's pretty much to blame. So, well, let's calm down, alright?"

Murmurs. Some journalists gave each other bemused looks. He kept going.

"So the thing is, although I guess I see the point behind the rebellion, I'm not at all agreeing with taking a stance against our elected government. What Lagrange has done, is subvert the planetary government of Shampool, which was elected by the people of Shampool, and replace it with a military junta. What that does is that he's set up a parallel power within the Alliance that runs contrary to its democratic process. "

"And that's where I stop agreeing. The Free Planets Alliance was founded upon the ideal of democracy. That the people should decide. Decide who runs the governments. Decides when they fight, how they fight. It's an imperfect process, of course, but that's human nature. But there's something I need to point out about this. It's the historian in me that's speaking, so bear with me."

That was it. He felt himself hitting the stride he sometimes did when giving his point of view in a debate. He decided he would keep going that way. It was a debate, and this was his take on it.

"There's people out there who say that a government that failed it's people, that misused it's people, should fall. That's certainly been the thought of many people and movements over human history, the last most significant being Rudolph von Goldenbaum's. He replaced the corrupt Galactic Federation with the Galactic Empire. But did that switch bring about better times?"

"No." Did he raise his voice when he said that? He wasn't sure. Perhaps. He was in his stride. He wasn't used to speaking so much outside of small circles, but he knew better than to stop. If he did, he wouldn't know what to say at all anymore.

" No," he repeated, "In fact, there have been three major periods of peace since we've left our original homeworld. The first, one hundred and sixty-two years, under the United Earth. Next, two hundred and five years, under the Galactic Federation. And, finally, one hundred and thirteen years, what we call our own 'Alliance Golden Age'. Not perfect, certainly, but as close to it as we could come to."

"That's almost five hundred years. Relatively peaceful, progressive years. All of them, under a democratic government."

"So, yes, democracy can fail. Yes, it did fail us recently. But the alternatives have never given us a fraction of the peace it gave us. And I don't believe admiral Lagrange and his faction can bring that about. Free speech, free press, that's rather disorderly, and the military is naturally against disorder. That can't end well for the people."

He was starting to ramble, as he usually did. He coughed. Time to close it.

"Right. So, what's my point with all of this?" he asked rhetorically, "The point is... I like to speak my mind, even when it might bother people. I like it when someone can disagree with me openly. I want to believe that democracy can be fixed. I want to give the ideals of the Alliance founders a shot. And whatever else, every man and woman in the military has sworn to defend those ideals. Not the government, not the nation, but the ideals."

"The democratic rights of the Alliance are worth fighting for. That's what I believe. And the government of the Alliance, elected by the people of the Alliance, represents those rights. That's all that really matters here. That's where I'll be. The choice of the people, that's what I'll fight for. Anything else, well, I, it's not me."

He grinned, spread his hands a bit. He was done. The inspiration had run dry. This was the longest he could hold it.

"Yes... Well, I guess I took enough of your time. I hope that clears things up. If not, ah, sorry." He nodded at the assembled press. "Goodbye."

And with that, he left, not really hearing the clapping behind him, feeling more relieved than ever that this was over.

Patricio Center, Heinessenpolis, 18:39

How dare you! Again!

This thought burned, white-hot, in Andrew Falk's mind as he stared at the large screen that dominated one side of the buildings at Patricio Center. All around him, the stupid civvies, completely blind to reality, actually cheered as the treacherous Yang Wen-li finished his speech and arrogantly walked off before the connection cut off and they returned to the anchorman, who beamed as if it was some kind of holiday. Just around him, three men exchanged inane words.

"Well, I always thought The Magician wasn't about to get stuck with those rebels! The guy who took Iserlohn was smarter than that!" The first, a bald man, said loudly. The second, a tiny, bushy-haired person, smirked in good humor

"Bah! The other day, you were ready to hang the guy! You said he was 'cheap change'."

"I was just shocked, I never meant it. Always knew he'd come through."

The third man, taller and lankier than the other too, stirred at that. "Wonder where he was all this time?"

"It doesn't matter! With him around, the rebels are gonna get whipped good, and everything'll get back in order, mark my words!"

At this, the other two cheerfully agreed even as Falk walked down the street in disgust. All around him, people seemed to be absurdly cheered by Yang's words. Not everyone smiled, but enough did, and the loud buzz of conversation seemed to have taken a festive air, rather than the almost fearful gloom that was present before that guy's ugly face came on the screen.

He wanted to shout at them for their stupidity. Were there that blind? Couldn't they see what Yang was? Just a man out for himself, ready to trample those who truly knew how to best serve the national interests. A man who didn't have any qualms in crushing those that would stand in his way.

He had realized this the moment that Yang had made a mess of his presentation before the invasion. It was supposed to be his moment, the moment when Andrew Falk would take center stage in an operation that would irrevocably turn the tide of the war and make the Free Planets Alliance the dominant power. He didn't know then that Yang saw his plan as an obstacle, his brilliance as an impediment to him. Andrew Falk was going to outshine Miracle Yang, and it wasn't something he was going to allow.

And he had stood up, and started spouting nonsense about Falk's planning, spreading doubt in the minds of the other fleet commanders. Oh, he had played them like a fiddle, part of him had to admire that. Hidden behind that innocent look, he had forced them to see things his way. And then that old fool, Bucock, had come to his side, and then the others had joined in. Soon, they were all clamoring for changes in Falk's idea, until even Lobos, the only sensible officer there, had had to give way.

And then, during the invasion, Yang and the others had botched his plan, of course, all so that their backup would come into play. How strange that Yang, and old Bucock, had come out looking so good! Now, Bucock was Space Fleet Commander in Lobos' place, a sad day for the Alliance in the mind of any military officer with a little sense! And Yang? Promoted to full admiral, and put in charge of Iserlohn Fortress itself. And he still played the part of the humble hero, milking it for all it was worth, and the people ate it up.

And Falk himself? Well, it seemed that his services weren't all that desired anymore. The promotion to rear admiral that had been so near? The admiralty had decided that he wouldn't be receiving it. In fact, he had been wholly ignored for months, relegated to mundane operations tasks. His attempts to see fleet admiral Kubersly over the issue had been rebuffed. He wasn't blacklisted or anything, but certainly nobody was in a hurry to get him something meaningful.

He grunted, making several passerby glance at him as he walked more quickly down the street. He knew why it was like that, too. Nobody wanted to get on Yang's bad side now. He was the darling of the Alliance, the feted hero of the Star Fleet. What he said went, no matter how innocent he looked, or how self-deprecating he acted. He was the man with the power and influence, and other officers were quick to use it for their own ends. If that meant shoving Falk down, then that was what they'd do.

Now Yang was going to come back to Heinessen to work his act, making they all give him command of a fleet. A fleet? Make that all the fleets! Why not? Who would refuse him, especially with Bucock in charge and Kubersly blind to everything?

A thought suddenly struck him, and the stopped in horror, no longer seeing the street, the people, anything at all as he came to a supreme understanding. Yang and his 'miracles', Bucock and his support. What if that was the plan? What if the entire ploy was for them to take control of the Star Fleet? Once Yang would come back, he'd simply need to ask to be put in charge, and everyone would do it with pleasure! And when that was done... that would mean... then...

"They'll take control," he muttered to himself, heedless of the stares this might create around him. "That was their plan all along," The shock he felt was immense. Lagrange and his rebellion, that was actually a decoy. Once the loyalists gathered, Yang would take control, and lead those he couldn't turn to the slaughter, to return and take complete control. People would stand no chance when he'd come back as the supreme military power in the Alliance, with no one left to oppose him. Then he'd take over, and he'd create another Empire with him at its head.

Or would he? Isn't it strange that Yang's always had so much success against the Empire? Against Lohengramm? It's almost like he has inside information. After all, they say Lohengramm surrounds himself with young talent. Yang's still pretty young...

Even to him, that was far-fetched. But either way, there was no time to lose. He had to save Kubersly from their plot, no matter what. Once he'd done that, and exposed them, they'd see he had been right all along. He'd be vindicated, and his place as the Star Fleet's rising star would be restored.

Of course, he'd have to be prepared. Who knew how those men would try to silence him, if they understood he understood what they were trying to achieve? They'd fooled everyone so well, they weren't about to let him muck it up. No, not them.

But one way or another, he was going to stop them. No matter what it took. The Alliance was in greater danger than Lagrange and his rebellion. There was danger from within. And he intended to eliminate that danger.

With renewed purpose, Falk continued on his way, his eyes gleaming with purpose, only barely noticing that people averted their eyes when looking at him, or got out of his way quickly. Fools. He'd save them anyway.

He'd show them the truth.

Fortress Iserlohn, 18:43 PM

"Uncle Wenny looked funny!" Patricia giggled as Yang left the stage on the television, even as the PR officer started waving off questions. Caserne looked at his daughter with a smile. The three year old toddler always manage to find levity in everything.

"It's Wen-li, honey," he reminded her gently. She frowned at the slight rebuke, and he softened it quickly, "But you're right, he did look a bit funny."

"Alex!" Hortense said half-heartedly as she came to the table with the food she had prepared, the smell that had wafted through their quarters had enticed his appetite. He grinned right back as she set the large bowl on the table, and started to put the food on the girl's plates. He looked at it and saw that it was pasta with a tomato and spinach sauce, and his grin probably went wider. Although Hortense was hailed by any who had eaten at the Casernes' as a splendid cook, it was one of her specialties, and a notch above most of the rest.

"I'm just saying it was bit funny," he defended himself. "Especially the beginning... well, the end too."

"I just find that it's not fair to mock your friend like that," she mused with a half-grin. He nodded as if this was a serious consideration he should take.

"You're absolutely right. I'll wait and laugh at him when he comes back here."

"Oh, I hope the girls don't end up with that kind of humor." But there was no sting to the words.

Patricia realized that the food had vegetables in it, and scrunched up her face. How kids could get from happy to dejected in two seconds, he couldn't fathom. Charlotte, sitting on the other side, didn't seem as bothered, although she stared at the green patches with suspicion.

"The green's spinach, Charlotte," Hortense said, having served everyone and sitting down herself, "It's good, and I want you to eat it. You too, Patricia."

She received vague, reluctant answers and looks that promised that getting them to stop picking at their food was going to be a chore.

Caserne himself, for his part, had thankfully outgrown disdain for vegetables a long time ago, after closing the vidscreen, he dug into it with enthusiasm. He wasn't disappointed in the slightest: it was excellent. They ate in relative silence for a bit, except for the first prodding to the girls to eat the vegetables and not just the pasta. He was watching Patricia doing a rather meticulous job at separating what she wanted to eat from the rest, when Hortense asked him a question, her tone serious.

"He doesn't like long speeches. That must have taken a lot out of him."

"Yeah," Except when it came to pure history, or talking about things within an historical context, Yang tended to talk little, if always a bit bluntly. This was one of the longest of such speeches he had heard in a long time. "Yeah, he must be exhausted. But I think he did the right thing."

"You think it'll have a good effect?" Hortense asked, looking at Patricia too, in a sort of fond exasperation.

He smiled, "Oh, I'm sure of it. Attenborough's off to get Schenkopp, but I've got a fair idea what Fisher will do."

Command Battleship Airget Lahm, 19:05 PM

"All ships, prepare to move out!" Fisher said in a strong, determined voice, "Time to show those bloody traitors that their little drama's not going to stand. Communications!"

"Sir!"

"Alert commodore Attenborough. As soon as he has the regiments with him, he's to rendez-vous with us as quickly as possible."

"Understood, admiral. What will be the meeting point."

That took just a moment of thought. The very edge between their jurisdiction and that of the Eleventh. The place they hadn't dared stretch to yet."

"Planet El Facil!"

Following Yang Wen-li's speech, Defence Secretary Negroponty declared an end to the ultimatum from the Alliance government, declaring the rogue elements of the Alliance Defence Forces to be in rebellion, and calling for the loyal military units to suppress the insurgents.

For the first time in its history, a part of the Free Planets Alliance was officially at war against another.

THE FEBRUARY ENCOUNTER

The Battle of Dagon was the first major engagement between the Galactic Empire and the Free Planets Alliance. It ended in a major tactical and strategic victory for the young republic, while the Imperial forces and its leadership had to deal with an undeniable break in their aura of invincibility. As the years went by, Dagon was immortalized in the psyche of both sides, and within a hundred years, had become legendary.

However, contrary to later impressions, the Battle of Dagon was not the first instance of military combat between the two powers. That honor belongs to the a small yet telling skirmish that occurred on February 20, 640 UC / 331 IC, and which would later simply be known as the February Encounter. It would herald the end of an age for both nations, and usher in the ongoing conflict of small conflicts, periods of wary peace, skirmishes and frantic, pitched battles, which would officially become known as the Alliance-Imperial War for the Alliance, the Sagittarius Rebellion for the Empire and, eventually, The War for all involved.

Background

By 331 of the Imperial Calendar, the Empire seemed solid and unassailable. With a large population of billions, and hundreds of vassal colonies, the Goldenbaum Dynasty and the rest of the ruling nobility were firmly entrenched, with the social mobility available in its early years not only absent, but actively discouraged by tradition and the Imperial laws themselves. The old, influential families were all at least two centuries old, and it had been three generations since a member of the lower classes had been raised to the peerage.

The power of the Imperial ruling class was maintained with the might of the Reichflotte, a force of 64,000 warships which patrolled the national borders incessantly, keeping vigilant watch for any sign of dissent. With the last major uprising having been put down in 217 IC, the fleet was increasingly considered too expensive by many in the nobility, and a downsize was put forward time and time again. Such attempts were often put down, sometimes brutally, owing to the fact that the Reichflotte was too powerful to disband. In effect, even the Emperor might not have been safe if the fleets rebelled.

Scouting elements from the Fleet had discovered the thin, warp-capable link between the Orion and Sagittarius Arms in 274 IC, but the first and second Corridor Exploratory Expedition, in 279 and 283, were ill-conceived affairs which failed abysmally, causing noble patronage to dry up. A Third Expedition was launched in 305 IC, but the rigours and length of the Corridor were underestimated, and the Imperial forces had to turn back due to lack of supplies. It would take another quarter century before enough money, ships and infrastructure could be put together, and the Fourth Expedition left Odin in January 8, 330 IC. This more cautious group would succeed where the others had failed. During that time, it would find debris of ships whose configuration they didn't know. They would also, unknown to them, be detected during the last stretch of their arduous journey.

The Free Planets Alliance, in 640 UC, was a comparatively very small and fragile nation. It had a population of just over 156 million citizens, 147 of which lived on its capitol world, Heinessen. Aside from the homeworld, only the oldest of its colonies, the four million-strong Liore, had any sort of industry. Despite this, the Alliance was in a state of expansion, with strong democratic traditions backed by an era of social and economic wealth which had lasted nearly six decades.

The Alliance had never allowed itself the luxury of forgetting its root as Imperial exiles, and consequently had spent nearly all of its existence building up its space force, the Star Fleet. 2,000 ships were on active duty at all times, but eleven decades of constant, sometimes dogged, work had crafted a further 23,000 warships. These had been kept in storage onboard hollowed-out asteroids, waiting for the day when they would have to use them. To crew such a fleet, as well as its support units, the Alliance Reserve existed, all diligently trained in ship operations.

As descendants of the Exodus Fleet, the Alliance was intimately aware of the Corridor, and had spent the economically-stable last few decades building listening posts near the mouth of it, as well as a few within, built specifically to send a signal if the artificial energy signature of a Warp engine appeared. The Star Fleet also maintained patrol groups in the area, the duty being one that all within the space forces had done at one point during their space career. These preparations would pay dividend when one of the Corridor Buoys would activate, sending a signal that had been both awaited and dreaded by the entire Alliance.

The Encounter

The signal, unmistakable to Alliance communication arrays. was brushed aside as background noise by the Imperial Expedition. Its commanding officer, one Bruno von Silberstein, was said to have received the report, and three others that followed and have barely glanced at them. The log entries sent back to Odin - through Warp communication buoys the expedition had installed, were focused more on the debris the expedition had found, which seemed to fit ancient colony ships, and requested a search for a possible effort that the Galactic Federation or, more unlikely, the United Earth Dominion, might have undertaken. Aside from this, his logs spoke of his men's exhaustion but also of their eagerness, as the Corridor's end was in sight, giving way to the stable stars of the Sagittarius Arm.

On the Alliance side, the first signal was received with trepidation, but also a sense of doubt. It had been several generations since the Exodus Fleet had arrived on Heinessen, and those who had firsthand knowledge of those years were long gone. The Alliance officers were trained and ready to defend the nation, certainly, but many half-believed by this point that the Empire would stagnate or collapse before it would ever reach the corridor. When three more signals arrived, however, doubts evaporated. Someone was definitely coming, and the military forces in the area mobilize. A message was also sent to Heinessen of this momentous development.

On February 20th, at 14:27, the Imperial expedition successfully warped to what was the Alliance star system of Volhan. The celebration, if there was one, was short-lived, as an Alliance force warped into the same system at 15:02. According to the Alliance officers present at the time, the Imperial forces took a long time before responding to their approach, forming into a defensive posture when they where almost on top of the enemy. This seemed to indicate that the Imperials were shocked by the unexpected arrivals, as it would have been impossible not to detect them at this point.

At that moment, the two forces faced each other cautiously. The Fourth Expedition was made up of sixty ships, and the Alliance force which had responded to its appearance numbered fifty. While this gave the Empire the numerical advantage on paper, a third of the Imperial force was actually made up of support, construction, and science ships. The remaining ships were forty Imperial battleships, again a strong force in theory. However, these battleships had been stripped of some of their weaponry, to make space for greater supply space and equipment.

The Alliance force, for its part, was entirely made up of warships, under the overall command of captain Damien Albertson who, at the age of fifty-three, was by far the most senior present. He commanded a force of eighteen battleships, twenty cruisers, and twelve destroyers. Other small forces were on their way to reinforce, but wouldn't be there in time to take part in the military confrontation.

It was von Silberstein who made the first move, demanding to know who he was facing. At this point, Albertson made the choice to initiate a dialogue, a decision he defended under the fact that he didn't know if the ships he was facing were truly belligerent, or actually from the Galactic Empire itself. He thus identified himself to the Imperial leader.

It didn't take long for the discussion, already somewhat tense, to worsen by a significant degree. Not only was von Silberstein open about his Imperial affiliation, but reacted with disdain when Albertson stated that his nation was independent from the Goldenbaum Dynasty. The Imperial noble quickly retorted that the entire human race was under the aegis of the Empire, and that anything else was a rebellion. He subsequently ordered the Alliance forces to stand down. Undeterred, Albertson retorted that the current star system belonged to the Alliance, and in turn offered the Expedition to surrender.

Upon hearing this, von Silberstein closed communication and ordered his forty battleships to open fire.

There have been theories as to why captain von Silberstein was so quick to open hostilities with a force he had no knowledge of. While the truth would always remain unknown, it came to be accepted, mainly by Alliance historians, that several factors were at work at that moment. To begin, he was a very patriotic Imperial nobles, and Albertson's natural disdain towards the Goldenbaum Emperors, which the republican commander made no attempt to hide, was an unforgivable insult. Secondly, he was leading forty battleships in a force that had never been defeated in combat.

Most of all, however, he underestimated Alliance warship design. This was based on fact as far as he was concerned. In the past three centuries, a few rebellions had managed to build small fleets. These ships, lacking firepower and armor, were easily destroyed by the Reichflotte. The Star Fleet, however, was not a beleaguered, ad hoc force, but one which had had over a century to research and improve its baseline technology. Although small compared to the great Imperial battleships, the Alliance vessels were roughly equal to them, and were fully armed to boot.

Von Silberstein ordered a volley at extreme range, perhaps counting on past experiences with rebel forces, namely that they would be destabilized and lost cohesion. The Alliance forces, however, weathered the minimal amount of fire and engaged the Imperial force.

The stripped down weaponry of the battleships and the Imperial crews' general exhaustion - mental and physical - from the lengthy mapping of the Corridor, quickly took its toll. The Alliance battleships, fully armed, returned fire and withstood the fire, supported by the cruisers, while the destroyers, finding the trimmed down defenses on the sides, carried out successful hit-and-run attacks. Within an hour, the Imperial forces had lost eighteen ships, against five for the Alliance. Tired and unprepared to fight, the Imperial force began to lose cohesion. Von Silberstein attempted to regain control, and might have been able to do so, but his ship was hit by a barrage of cruiser fire, and exploded, taking him with it.

Organization fell almost entirely after this, with the remaining Imperial ships striking out individually in confusion, yet refusing demands for them to surrender. Faced with this inflexibility, the Alliance forces struck down every single ship in the expedition by 18:10, a mere seven minutes before reinforcements arrived on the scene. As they fell, however, some ships manage to send some data to their Imperial buoys, information which quickly made its way to Odin.

Aftermath

The February Encounter, as it came to be known, had a very different impact on the two powers.

In the Empire, the shock was total. An Imperial force, small though it may have been, had been defeated, an unthinkable outcome only a few days earlier. Efforts were put into understanding who the enemy was, until the review of old records took note of a major prison break on the penal colony of Altair VII. Although quickly forgotten beneath the other troubles of that time, it became all but certain that the criminals who escaped in 164 IC had successfully fled to the Sagittarius Arm and founded a separatist nation.

This was unacceptable to the Emperor and the nobility, and it was quickly decided to mount an invasion force. At first a force of 34,500, Grand Duke Herbert, heir to the Imperial Throne, arranged a far larger punitive force with himself at its head, with his father's blessings. Eventually, a force of 52,600 warships was decided upon.

In the Free Planets Alliance, the news was welcomed with a remarkable lack of panic, despite the fact that it was clear that the Empire still existed, and that it now knew about their nation. The skirmish had, however, given them reassuring information, especially since Imperial prisoners were captured and questioned. The Star Fleet ships had also proven themselves able to withstand and even triumph over Imperial ships.

The Alliance High Council acted quickly, appointing vice admiral Lin Pao, an eccentric but highly gifted officer, as commander of the fleet, while calling up the Alliance Reserve and taking the stockpiled warships out of storage. Not one warship would be spared, and the fleet would number 25,000 ships.

The stage was set for the Battle of Dagon, and decades of further strife.