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Chapter Nine

Ripples

June 21, Universal Calendar 796

Heinessenpolis Outskirts, Strategic Planning Center

As far as Frederica was concerned, funerals were things the living should stay away from, for their own sakes. It wasn't a charitable thought for the deceased, but it showed the personal dislike she had for them.

She had been to her mother's, dead through a disease which had taken her life. She clearly remembered the lacerating grief, the rage and despair she had felt. Her mother had been the kindest soul she had ever known, why did she have to go while so many horrible people lived on? No reasonable answer ever came forth, nor would there ever be one. She was sure of that.

She hadn't been obligated to go to Jessica Edwards' funeral, and hadn't been thrilled at the thought. But she had seen Yang's face when he had returned from Turneisen, she had felt the contained grief and anger, and so she had volunteered. And then had insisted. When she had, her commander had shot her a quizzical look, and then had folded. And so they had returned to Turneisen. Herself, Yang, Julian, as well as captain Attenborough and Admiral Cazerne and his family.

The others had gone partly out of respect and genuine affection for Jessica, but she could tell that they mostly went out of support for Yang.

Her commander had gone through the ceremony, sombre and solemn as it was, without betraying much emotional turmoil. Her knowledge of Yang the man told her that this was the way he dealt with loss, and Julian had told her as much in a private conversation during the wake.

"It was the same thing when commander Lapp died. He keeps those things to himself." The young man had said, and then had sighed, "But make no mistake about thid, lieutenant Greenhill: he loved them both very much."

She understood that much. Although Yang spoke and acted very much the same as he always had, she had seen him stare at Edwards' coffin for long periods of time. It was a closed coffin – the body had been burned too badly to be shown openly – and so he mostly stared at the picture of a smiling, determined looking young woman. Edwards had clearly been someone who fully grasped her life, and had no intention to waste it on things she didn't believe in.

Her father hadn't agreed with that at all. Clearly grief-stricken, the bald man, a retired Alliance officer no less, he railed against his daughter's choice.

"In the end, she's done nothing but raise Hell around her every single time something didn't suit her!" he had said, gruffly. "And for what? For what?!" Beside him, his wife barely seemed to notice his rant. Clearly she was dealing with her pain in her own way, by shutting the world out, registering little.

"She followed her sense of right and wrong." Yang had said. He hadn't been taking a side, simply stating what he saw as a truth. But the old man had rounded on him.

"A whole lot of good that did her! Stupid girl! Making scenes and getting into trouble without caring about anyone but herself! I never understood that. Stupid, stupid child!"

The words were harsh, the tone vindictive, but the elder Edwards's lips had trembled, his hand holding a drink had shaken. And more than once, he had touched the coffin as if lost. She understood it in a flash: he a stern father, she a rebellious child. They had never agreed on many things, and some things had been said that likely came to be regretted.

Perhaps Jessica's father had wanted to repair the rift, perhaps not. But all Frederica saw when she spotted the old man was bitter regrets. And now she was no more, and only the rift remained. However, if he was disappointed in her choices in life, he would clearly never forgive those who had snuffed it out so early.

Frederica Greenhill truly hated funerals. She had been glad when they had returned to Heinessenpolis. Although the mood retained a large measure of gloom, being removed from the city where the tragedy had occurred had helped.

The bombing, for it had been established as one quickly, had caused an uproar not only in Turneisen, but in the entire Alliance. Yang's declaration had likely only made it even greater. The special election, in the city and elsewhere, had been resounding victories for the Peace Party, and the Democratic Union was increasingly on the defensive.

Needless to say, Yang had never spoken at the Academy.

On the national scale, however, and despite the private mourning and related gloom of the Thirteenth Fleet's command which had been responsible for it, things were looking up for the Alliance for the first time in four years of near-constant reversals. With Iserlohn now firmly under the control of Vice Admiral Al-Salem's Ninth Fleet, the Iserlohn Corridor was far more secure. Without such a base from which to launch its assaults and provide a strong supply line, the Imperial Fleet's numbers were, for the first time since the brief if spectacular rise of Bruce Ashbey, almost completely negated.

She said as much to her commanding officer as they finished working through technical details related to the Thirteenth's conditions. Sipping tea with added brandy, he looked thoughtful and tired as he responded.

"You're right. To our side, it's a great occasion. Which path will we take, however?" he said.

"What do you mean, sir?"

Yang grinned as he looked at her, the sadness faded, but present. For some reason, ever since she had insisted in coming to Jessica Edwards' depressing funeral, he was more inclined to confide in her. Although not yet sure what to make of that, it was nonetheless something she cherished.

"We have two options open to us now. Option number one: we use the fact that we have Iserlohn, coupled with our forces still retaining most of their strength, to broker a peace with the Empire." He summarized. "It might not be a totally effective peace, and I still don't think it would last more than ten to twenty years before restarting. But twenty years would go a long way in rebuilding our strained economy and restructure our society. It really would be ideal for us."

She nodded.

"Option number two: we continue the war by launching assaults of our own from Iserlohn, hoping to deal crippling damage to the Imperial war machine and ensure Alliance military dominance." He continued. "That option is more patriotic, but far less realistic. Since you've looked at the numbers, lieutenant, what do you think of the state of forces on both sides?"

It took her only a moment to recall the data. "Current Imperial forces are generally thought to have between two to three hundred thousand warships, with the latter number being far more accepted than the former by Alliance analysts. We currently have one hundred and eighty-six thousand warships. Our military is still vastly outnumbered and outgun."

"And you're absolutely right. Attacking the Empire would be the dumbest thing we could do right now. It'd be irrational to even try. Which is exactly why I think there will soon be a gigantic dispatch in order to do exactly that." Yang, at that, actually made a salute, as if in a helpless display of surrender, his smile tinged with bitterness.

"Why would the government do that, sir?" she inquired in disbelief.

"Because it has to keep winning, lieutenant. And because we, as a society, can't do anything else but think of fighting anymore."

June 26, Universal Calendar 796

Heinessenpolis, High Council Meeting Room

The Free Planets Alliance High Council had once had far less power than it had today.

Before the War, the High Council and its Chairman used to have to answer to the Alliance House of Representatives on all matters. As it was made up, barring exceptions, of men and women from the party which had won the most seats, the House had been there to impose checks on what might have become nothing less than a tool for one party line to take over the others.

For the first fourteen decades of the Alliance's existence, that was the way things had been. The Council would take the advice from the House, and act on it. If the House was divided, it had the power to force a resolution, but only for exceptional cases. On the other hand, the House had the power to reject a Council proposition through a majority. It had allowed power to everyone, but power within clear limits.

As far as Rebello was concerned, that time had ended in the years following Emperor Kornelias' nearly successful invasion, which but for a coup in the Empire, would have ended the Alliance.

In the frantic dash that had followed as the crippled Alliance sought to rebuild its forces quickly enough to counter the next Imperial assault, the Council was voted extraordinary powers which allowed it to supersede the House. Its twelve-member team would take control of the main facets of Alliance society.

It had been a temporary measure. But as the years went by, and the war continued its off-and-on dance of fire and death, these 'extraordinary powers' had become natural extensions. The Council led, and the Alliance followed. For every generation since 670 UC, things had been a little worse, despite there having been men who sought to rise above petty politics. Even the best of these men had been unable to stop the degradation, however.

The current room, with its great, circular table with in-built computer systems and its vaulting walls, was closed off to the public, ostensibly for security reasons. Even though it might have been the truth up to a point, Rebello wondered what Arle Heinessen would say if he saw it, and feared he knew what Nguyen Kim Hua, who had actually founded the Alliance, would think.

The current administration, the one he found himself increasingly shamed to be a part of, was probably one of the worst in the last century. Royal Standford, the Council Chairman, was a far cry from such great, apolitical democrats such as Manuel Juan Patricio, who had steered the Alliance during the first years of the war. And he knew now that, aside from himself and one other, no one else took their duties to heart as they should.

Only this went beyond reason. Despite being well aware that the Alliance was financially crippled because of decades of high military spending as well as enormous debts owed to the Dominion of Phezzan, plans were being made to invade the Galactic Empire, even now, with Iserlohn in their hands and the opportunities for negociations which had opened up because of that. As the chairman began talking about the military expedition, he felt that he couldn't hold his opinions to himself. It probably wouldn't do too much good, but he had to make the point again.

"Mister Chairman, if I may?" he asked.

Standford, a man used by decades of politics, looked at Rebello with eyes that, he knew had once been shining with dedication, but had lost all of their glitter through far too many compromises.

"Yes, mister Rebello. You certainly may." He answered. Some of the others rolled their eyes, but he ignored them. This was too important to allow himself to be riled up by slights.

"Thank you, mister Chairman." He replied, standing up. "I wish to remind the members of this Council that, over the last fifteen decades, the Alliance and the Empire have been engaged in a long conflict that our economies can barely sustain. I used the past tense because that has recently changed."

"Meaning?" Standford inquired.

"If I may be blunt, dear colleagues, our Alliance is financially and materially spent to say the least." He explained. He saw that he wasn't reaching most of them. Yet, he continued. He owed the men in the military who died every battle that much, and much more. "If this war continues at the same level that it has in the last half-decade, our national economy will collapse."

That, if nothing else, caused some to pause. They may dislike what they saw as his 'defeatism', but they couldn't deny that he knew what he was talking about. Ever since the current administration had come into power, Rebello had been Chief Secretary of Finance. He knew more about how much money they had left than anyone else in the room.

Filip Luik, the Vice Chairman, clasped his hands together, deep in thought. "What if we increased the amount of paper money?" he asked.

And that's why I'm in charge of the money, and Luik's in charge of the fields, he thought, uncharitably. He regretted it at once, as Luik's ministry was just as crucial. But the question was truly rather dumb from an economic point of view.

"We wouldn't be able to do that for long at any rate." He replied more diplomatically than he felt, "The value of our dinar would eventually devaluate so badly that soon people would trade it by the bushels. If this continues, this generation will leave the next one with a history of deep financial debt."

Luik wasn't finished, however. "But if we don't win the war, there won't be any so-called 'next generation'." He pointed out.

"Then we should put all of our efforts into stopping the war, shouldn't we." He replied.

Immediately, a look of distaste crossed several faces. When the Patricio Administration had held power, the idea of stopping the war and coexisting had been a true option, and only the Empire's sheer power differential and its unwillingness to see anyone as independent from them had prevented it. Now, to think of stopping the war was borderline heresy.

Dear God, what have we become? It wasn't the first time the question had sprung up, either. Yet, he continued to present his point, doggedly.

"Admiral Yang's taking of Iserlohn Fortress has finally shifted things in our favour. The Imperials have lost their main invasion base, and our borders are now secured by Iserlohn on one side, and Phezzan's economic might on the other. I say this is the time to seek a peace treaty which would allow us to at least recuperate our depleted forces. A treaty favourable to us is even possible now."

Sitting next to him at the table, Huang Rui of Human Ressources stirred. "Be careful now," he cautioned.

Kristoph Romero, Chief Secretary of Justice, affected a rather offended mien. "I understand that things aren't very good, but this fight is against tyranny. Should we just stop because it's expensive?"

Jose Castro Garcia, of Economic Development, nodded at this. "That's exactly right. We should compensate for this through internal efforts."

Have they listened to a single word I've said?! He wondered with a sinking heart. He knew that, barring two notable exceptions, none of the people here actually meant badly. But they were all so caught up in continuing the fight, no matter what the cost, that they seemed to be unable to see anything else.

It was a social issue, he knew. The war had lasted so long, the fight had been so hard, that nobody seemed willing to entertain the possibility of coexistence anymore. The Alliance had, in fact, become as repulsed by the idea as the Empire had always been.

Huang stood up even as Rebelo sat. "As Chief Secretary of Human Ressources, I wish to point out another problem which is developing within the Alliance. Our gargantuan war machine is directly or indirectly taking too much of our young talent. If this continues, the chance exists that our social fabric will unravel under the strain."

Rebelo nodded as Huang sat back down. "That was well said," he concluded, and meant it. Of all of the current members of the Council, Huang was the most open-minded, a highly democratic man whose principles were generally quiet but at least equalled and probably surpassed Lebello's own. If Huang was Chairman, he knew that they wouldn't even be entertaining sending troops into the Galactic Empire. The man held too much good sense.

"Why thank you." Huang said, nodding back.

It was then that Trunicht spoke. The charismatic man looked good, but as far as the Chief Secretary of Finance was concerned, the man was a snake with a human appearance. He had learned to loathe the man over the years, and he was sure it was bound to increase after today.

He didn't disappoint.

"I see what the Secretary of Human Ressources is saying," Trunicht said in what truly sounded like an affable tone, "But as far as the current situation of national defense stands, this is the moment of truth. We need everyone we can have."

That didn't please the financial leader of the Alliance, nor did it amuse the one who controlled human ressources. The latter spoke up, polite as always but with an underlying terseness.

"The problem here is that we're asking the people to carry the weight of the war on their backs," he retorted, "The people can't take the burden anymore, mister Trunicht."

"That's not the point." A voice filled with what could only be described as self-indulgent zeal stated. Rebello sighed inwardly as the only Council member he distrusted as much as the Secretary of Defense rose, her eyes aflame with a light he didn't like.

Cornelia Windsor, Chief Secretary of Transport, was a woman who could be called pretty despite nearing fifty. Her face was almost unmarked, and as far as men knew her bright red hair was her natural colour – grey seemed to avoid her. She also had a rather nice-sounding voice and a passionate personality. There was a reason she had risen to the High Council despite women regrettably having a harder time of it in Alliance politics.

The problem was that anything good about her stopped at the physical level. Although Rebelo didn't think that the woman was unintelligent - you can't rise that high without intellect as far as he knew - but wisdom had taken a leave of her a long time ago and had gotten worse. She was an excellent example of what was wrong with current Alliance thinking.

"It's our national duty to topple the Empire's despotic government. We can and must explain things to the citizens and appeal to their sense of patriotism." Windsor looked completely confident as she spoke, and many heads were nodding. She was speaking a language that most were used to, had been raised with. "Nothing great has ever been accomplished without sacrifice!"

"The problem with that thinking, Secretary Windsor, is that the people of the Alliance are starting to wonder whether the sacrifice is too great." Rebelo felt compelled to point out.

Her zealous look increased in intensity if nothing else. "No sacrifice is too great! We must struggle on, even if we die!"

That was rich coming from a woman who had never spent a day in the military institution. Rebelo was just as guilty of this as she was, but at least he wasn't spouting nonsense without having personal knowledge of the truth behind the words.

"That's no longer a political argument here!" he retorted.

It, of course, had no effect. Windsor was in full swing, and wouldn't be stopped by such words as those that made up his argument.

"We have a noble goal. That goal is to rid the universe of the evil of the Galactic Empire." She continued, either not hearing or, more likely, not caring about Rebelo's words. "This is a sacred duty to the human race as a whole. Because of that, we can't allow ourselves to become intoxicated by such cheap humanitarianism."

"Which of us is intoxicated, I wonder?" Huang breathed sarcastically, with Rebelo nodding. This was Windsor at her most potent and most narrow-minded type of zeal.

Chairman Stanford waited until Windsor was done before speaking. If power had used him nearly to the bone, he still had enough presence to bring things back to order with only a few looks, before speaking to the rest of the Council.

"More importantly is what I have to show you. If you'll turn your attention to the screen…" at this, he flicked a switch, and the giant screen behind him came to life. On it were graphic data, showing lines that became shorter the closer the date came to the present. Rebelo saw at once that these were polls.

"As you can see," Stanford continued, "the proportion of people who support the council is growing smaller every month. Groan or protest, that's the real truth of things." Another flick of a switch, another graphic, this time, the lines were growing. "On the other hand, the people who are actively against us is growing. Members of the Council, if this continues, there is no chance that we will be elected again."

Grumbles of assent. Even Rebelo had nothing to say to that. The people were turning away from the war. It had cost them too much, and they were tired. He decided that it might not be a bad thing if new blood, perhaps less jaded and less power-abusive, tried a hand in saving the wounded nation.

"However, if we time a military expedition, a successful one, in the near future, our chances of being elected will increase greatly. For that reason, I feel we must give the go-ahead for what the military is dubbing Operation Free Stars."

Other mutters, louder and in agreement. Rebelo shot to his feet.

"No! We can't do a thing like that! We have no right!" he all but shouted at them, barely holding back his despair. He knew this was going to happen, but to hear that level of self-entitlement was too much. The founders of the Alliance were likely spinning in their graves. This was an affront to everything they had built. "We can't allow a major military operation of that magnitude just to keep ourselves in power. It flies in the face of everything the Alliance stands for." Or at least used to stand for, he silently amended.

Windsor shot him a look of mixed amusement and contempt.

"My, how naïve." She chuckled.

Rebelo bristled. Not only was that woman giving senseless advice about the war, she was willingly going into the farce in the making that was the military operation. There should be limits to being a hypocrite!

That damn woman, doesn't she understand anything? He thought blackly.

"Careful, Joao. Don't lose your temper." Huang's voice said, again cautious. He looked at the only man in the council he saw as a true comrade, even a friend, and saw him shake his head. The meaning was clear: getting angry would get him nowhere fast.

Taking a deep breath, Rebelo sat down heavily. Then Stanford asked the council to decide if they approved of the military dispatch by standing up.

Quickly, eagerly, Windsor stood up, as did Luik, and Romero, and Garcia. Rebelo sayed seated. He would never stand up for such a thing, no matter what. Huang also stayed seated, his face an expression of quiet contempt.

Eventually, all the others were standing, aside from Trunicht and Stanford. Surprisingly, despite looks being thrown his way, the Chief Secretary of Defense stayed seated. Although puzzled, Rebello believed that the man probably had a plan, some way to get on top of the situation no matter how things went. He'd never believe Trunicht would do this out of a sense of obligation or decency. He wondered if those words even meant something to that two-faced snake.

Stanford then stood up. Nine people were up. The legal majority for Council decision. "The military operation is approved by the Alliance High Council." The Chairman said solemnly. With varying degrees of eagerness, those members who had stood up started clapping. Windsor actually shot both Rebelo and Huang a triumphant look.

He didn't even see it. He didn't hear the congratulations. He barely felt Huang standing up and putting a friendly, understanding hand on his shoulder.

All Rebelo could think about was that his old friend, Fleet Admiral Sitolet, had told him that the military had drafted a plan as per orders given by the government. But the soldier had also pointed out that few in the military actually wished to see it put into action.

The underlying plea had been there: Don't send more of those boys to their deaths for politics.

He had failed. Failed his friend, and failed the boys who would surely die soon. There was no way around it.

I'm sorry, Sitolet. I really am.

July 2, Universal Calendar 796

Iserlohn Fortress

The imperial officer screamed. He couldn't help it, not with his veins coursing with drugs and serum which set his nerves afire. Not with electricity coursing through those nerves through an interrogation machine he was strapped to. He screamed in pain, overseen by five Alliance soldiers who looked as if they were looking at a bug being fried.

Bagdash wasn't going to give himself more credit than was his due: he probably didn't look any gentler. Yet, it was his job to try and be as genial as he could.

So when the current had runs its course and stopped, he walked to the suffering man in a tattered Imperial uniform, making his demeanor as disarming as possible.

"Really, sir, this isn't the way I want this to go," he started, "but at the same time, I don't really have a choice. You have information we need, and it's my job to get it. Just answer our questions and everything will be over as quick as snapping a finger." Or a neck.

The officer trembled, but it was likely because of the nerves trying to cope with everything more than any fear. The man's thin, cracked lips then moved.

"M… m-my…" he mumbled.

"Yes?"

"My… my… n-name is P-Paul Harrock… Engineering Division… r-rank: commodore…" The prisoner continued. Bagdash sighed. He had truly wished that this time would have been more constructive.

"And here I felt that we were starting to understand one another." He told the suffering man.

A rasp that almost sounded like a laugh came out of the enemy soldier. "S-screw you, d-damn Rebels… the Empire'll… conquer you one day…"

"Ah, well, keep thinking that if it makes you feel any better."

He nodded to the officer manning the panel controlling the machine, and it hummed to life again. Once more, the man's scream resounded within the chamber.

He sighed inwardly. He was more of an information-gatherer than an interrogator, but orders were orders. Still, he wished he was involved with the change which was occurring within Iserlohn Fortress more…openly.

Iserlohn Fortress had become the boogeyman in the mind of many Alliance officers. An entire generation had been born and raised hearing of the dangers of the gigantic station even existing. Millions of soldiers were lost to the six previous crusades to take it. It had truthfully been a Damocles blade hanging over the republican national self-confidence.

All of this, of course, was now in the past. The seventh attempt had been carried out, successfully despite the odds, and there were many who fully intended to reap the benefits of that significant prize.

After the Thirteenth Fleet had taken the Fortress, it had stayed long enough for them to establish a certain amount of control over key aspects of the station, slowly forcing the military elements defending it to surrender. Within a week, however, the Ninth Fleet under Vice Admiral Al-Salem had arrived, with orders to take command, and the Thirteenth had been sent home to what was a deserved heroes' welcome.

Admiral Al-Salem had been selected for a reason. Neither the worst nor the best tactical fleet commander, the brown-haired, bearded middle-aged officer was well-known as a good administrator.

Solid, dependable, always willing to put the needs of the civilian population first, Al-Salem was a well-liked commander who had earned the respect of peers and underlings alike. It came as no surprise when he was commanded to take over Iserlohn as Interim Base Commander, with his fleet as the Interim Garrison. The situation needed a moderate man, not a warrior calling for blood.

Al-Salem had quickly reassured the resident population that they would not be harmed in any way, and had quickly cracked down on any military excess. A million Imperial citizens were quickly told that they were free to stay, or free to go, as long as they choice was made within a week. To many officers' surprise, a fifth elected to stay, while the others were loaded unto ships and sent into Imperial space.

At the same time, tens of thousands of Alliance citizens arrived on the station, eager for new opportunities. Cultural clashes occurred, but Al-Salaem managed to keep the peace with only a light military presence throughout the civilian district. Forbidding travel to key facilities, he kept his hand light, and when the people wished to elect a new civilian governing body, the admiral had given his full support.

The asteroid-sized battlestation was quickly returning to a sort of routine as it shifted owners.

That was the official face, the one the media knew about. The one Bagdash was deling with, deep within Iserlohn's bowels, would never be learned by civilian authorities, save perhaps Trunicht himself. And even then, only perhaps.

The Intelligence Division had arrived with the Seventh Fleet. No less than a full section under the command of Rear Admiral Candace Auclair, it had set up its headquarters in a section of Iserlohn which was usually used for storage, and transformed it into a proper home-away-from-home. There, they cracked files, and cracked skulls, they forced information from computer banks, inert or living.

They had started when Yang had been there, and continued under Al-Salem. Although the latter suspected things, there was nothing he could do. Although he controlled Iserlohn Fortress, its fleet, and most of the soldiers, their operation was independent, answerable only to the people who worked in a wing of the Strategic Planning Center which didn't exist on paper.

For that matter, neither did the man in front of him. Taken by the Thirteenth Fleet and sent home, unfortunate accidents had occurred which had killed several highly-placed officers. These had been taken back to the new facilities. Far away from Heinessen and its massive media apparatus, their agents were able to do what was needed to safeguard the Alliance without any worry.

The computer files, at least, had proven a boon to their division. Several Imperial bases on the Imperial side of Iserlohn, several of which were unknown, had been earmarked for possible infiltration, while ship manifests and other transfer data had allowed a more complete picture of the array of forces that the Empire possessed.

That knowledge alone was staggering. Although the Empire had always had the larger space forces, the updated data confirmed their worst fears: the Imperial Fleet was truly double the size of the current Star Fleet. Bagdash and others supposed that the infighting between Imperial interest groups kept the bulk of those forces in check.

But there was also one item which particularly bothered admiral Auclair. A few coded files had been broken, and the term 'Directional Seffle Particle Generator' was mentioned. It sounded like a new technological application to the dangerous particle. One that could be a true edge for the Imperial Fleet.

And edge that they had to eliminate by whatever means at their disposal.

The man screamed again, and Bagdash signalled the officer to stop.

"You're making this too hard on yourself. All I want to know is what a Directional Seffle Particle Generator is. That's it. Don't make it harder on yourself."

No answer. Only a baleful gaze which spasmed with pain. They truly were throwing away the Alliance Constitution out the window with that man, and he was just one out of many.

"That's your choice, then." He reminded the enemy officer, when the door opened. As soon as they saw the officer who entered, all stood at attention on impulse.

A woman of sixty-five, Candace Auclair was shorter than the average, but what she lacked in height, she more than made up for in presence. Wiry, with a slightly stocky build and an impassive, hawkish face, she kept her grey hair short in such a way that seemed to accentuate the commanding aura she exuded. She took in the prisoner without a hint of emotion, and fixed her gaze on Bagdash.

"At ease, Captain." She commanded, "Any progress?"

"No, ma'am, nothing."

"I see." She answered, her voice even. "We're pulling out with what we can use."

That was odd, to say the least. "If I may ask, what's the reason for this?"

"It's quite simple, captain: the government has decided to send a massive strike force through the Corridor. Soon, Iserlohn'll be filled with too many soldiers for us to work safely around. The Head Office has decided that they can't take the risk. Clean up everything here."

"Yes, admiral." Bagdash answered, although his mind whirled from the revelation that his government was about to attack the Empire. "Then what about the prisoner?"

Auclair gratified the beaten, trembling Imperial officer with a look of distaste only one who had worked one's whole life against the Galactic Empire could feasibly give. It actually sent chills down his spine when he saw the void of emotions.

"What can't be used," she replied icily, "Is useless and will be discarded."

July 5, Universal Calendar 796

Heinessenpolis Outskirts, Tactical Planning Center

It was Yang's first time sitting in on the main conference table in the Strategic Planning Center. The room, which consisted of a main central table in the shape of a u, with another table, slightly raised and removed, which made up the fourth side. Around the sides of the U were long tables where lesser officers could sit. All around the room, immense screens displayed enormous amounts of data.

On the raised table were the highest ranked officers in the room: Fleet Admiral Sitolet, Joint Forces Commander was in the center, with Fleet Admiral Lobos, the Space Fleet Commander, was on his left. On his right sat Admiral Greenhill, HQ Chief of Staff.

While the low end of the U was occupied squarely by support unit commanders, the right side of the U and the table behind it were made up largely of logistics officers. On the other side were fleet commanders with their vice-fleet commanders seated at the table behind them.

Eight fleet commanders, and eight vice-commanders. All in all, about eighty percent of the active Star Fleet was being called upon in the room. It was the first time that Yang sat at such a meeting as a vice admiral. Only two days had passed since the final word had been given, that over six thousand ships from the now-defunct Second Fleet were officially added to his Thirteenth, bringing his fleet to full strength.

Many momentous decisions had been made in that very room over the years. Some had been good, and many more had likely been bad in his opinion. But none of them likely came close to the one on the table at the moment.

Operation Free Stars had been given the go-ahead, something which reeked of politicking and lacked any strategic sense in Yang's mind. On the logistics side, Alex Cazerne stated how the force was to composed.

Lobos would head the Combined Fleet as Space Fleet Commander, with Admiral Greenhill as his Chief of Staff. Vice Admiral Konev would be Operations Chief of the Fleet and Vice Admiral Biroleinen will be the Head Intelligence Officers. Four Rear Admirals will complete the main logistics command staff, with Cazerne being included in those four.

The main combat units would be the Third Fleet under admiral Lefebvre; The Fifth Fleet under admiral Bucock; The Seventh Fleet under admiral Hogwood; The Eight Fleet under admiral Appleton; The Ninth Fleet under admiral Al-Salem, the admiral having made the trip from Iserlohn for the meeting; The Tenth Fleet under admiral Ulanf; The Twelfth Fleet under admiral Borodin. And finally Yang's own Thirteenth fleet.

When the warships, headquarters fleet ships, and support ships of all types were included, the force amounted to about two hundred thousand ships and over thirty million soldiers.

Yang felt absolutely sick.

"The strategic goals of this operation haven't been fully set yet." Sitolet told the assembled officers. "That's the goal of today's meeting. I would like opinions and constructive criticism."

"Sir!" A voice filled with altogether too much zeal and eagerness was heard, and a young man with what could only be called downright creepy and wild eyes shot to his feet. Yang had met the man once before, and he had a pretty good idea what he would say. "I am Commodore Falk, Operations Officer. I wish to state that I believe that this is the most daring undertaking in the history of the Alliance. I am honoured to be here, and as a soldier can wish for nothing else!"

Yang could only shake his head as the man sat down. Yes, that was the tone: patriotic to the point of complete blindness, completely void of anything constructive. Sitolet only nodded, and the commander of the Thirteenth would bet he was thinking similar thoughts. This had been a useless verbal sortie.

"I have a question for the Commander-in-Chief," came the calmer, more rational voice of admiral Ulanf of the Tenth Fleet, who stood up to address Lobos. "As soldiers of democracy, we'll go where ordered to go. But this operation will take us deep within Goldenbaum territory, and we have to be fully prepared. So, I'd like to know what the strategic goals of this operation will be."

Yang and other fleet commanders nodded. That, if nothing else, was a good, solid query. Lobos, however, didn't even answer it himself, which was true to form from what he had heard of the man. Instead, he turned to the wild-eyed Falk and asked him to explain. Yang set himself up for a vague answer from Falk.

"Our goal is to strike deep into Imperial Territory with our large force. With that, we will make the blood of the Imperial citizens run cold."

Yang noted to himself that he might have set the bar too high where Falk was concerned. Surprising, given it had been rather low to begin with. He saw Ulanf frown slightly at the nearly-meaningless sentence.

"Are you saying we'll just go in and go out without fighting?" the fleet commander asked.

"That's not it. We must also maintain flexibility and react as the situation changes."

"Please be more precise. That's a little abstract." Ulanf said, prompting a smirk from Borodin and a short smile from Hogwood. That had been understating the case at its finest.

"He means we need to look for our own chances." Bucock said evenly. Falk nodded. Yang wondered if the younger man even realized he had pretty much said nothing at all, much less answered the question satisfactorily.

"Any more questions?" Falk said almost haughtily, as if he had all of the answers.

Ah, well. This won't help, but at least I'll earn my pay. As he thought that and started raising his hand, an image of Jessica flashed in his mind. Angered, disappointed, disgusted. He flinched inwardly. The grief was still there, still vivid, but it was the first time it interfered with him. Still, his hand was raised.

"If…if I may?" he asked. Sitolet nodded at him that he indeed could. He rose. "I'd like to know why it was decided to invade the Empire at this point in time."

"Well, isn't it an election year?" Admiral Bucock drawled. Many officers openly chuckled at that, including most of the fleet commanders. Falk wasn't one of those who looked amused.

"There are opportunities in war, admiral," the wild-eyed man stated, "If we don't act, we're just at fate's mercy."

That doesn't even begin to make sense. "Are you saying this is the right time to assault the Galactic Empire?"

The man's eyes became even wilder, something Yang found hard to believe. He leaned forward eagerly. "It's not just and assault, it's a great crusade!"

Yang flinched at that tone. He'd heard it before, and it had never gotten anybody anywhere good. Falk was, however, in full verbal swing.

As Falk told the assembled commanders that the unprecedented, gigantic Alliance fleet would overwhelm the Imperial forces through their own righteousness rather than by solid tactical means, Yang saw Ulanf shake his head, while Appleton was looking away from Falk in what seemed to be disgust. In fact, not one of the commanders seemed to agree with what the man was saying. Only Lobos at the raised table actually seemed interested.

"Even if you say that," Yang continued despite knowing he wouldn't get through to the blind fool in front of him, "Our supply lines will be so long and thin that the enemy will be able to cut us apart."

Falk now looked triumphant. "Why does this possibility stress you? If they try to cut us apart, our fleets will encircle them. What you're worried about is an insignificant risk."

By their looks, none of the other fleet commanders seemed to fully agree with that statement.

"The commander of the enemy forces might be Count Lohengramm. Considering his previous achievements, we must prepare a more cautious plan." Yang retorted.

Although he believed what he'd said, he realized at once that this had been a mistake. Despite his achievements, Lohengramm was too new on the landscape to be a truly serious name. Several faces exchanged sardonic looks, and eyes rolled. No, not the right time to mention that guy, no matter how right it felt.

"Admiral Yang," Greenhill mused calmly, "We know you highly respect Lohengramm. But he is a very young commander. He might well make a mistake."

"That's possible." He admitted, although he didn't believe it much. "But if we make a mistake before he does, the result could be catastrophic."

"That's mere speculation, admiral Yang." Falk now fairly dripped contempt, a twisted smile was on his lips as his wild eyes blazed, "You seem to overestimate the enemy. As a warrior, that's disgraceful. Furthermore, you're lowering your allies' morale with insinuations."

Falk then lowered his voice slightly. "It's as if you're aiding the enemy…"

Yang's eyes widened as he was reminded of Jessica. Jessica who, hours before her untimely death, had obliquely accused him of the same. He was aiding the enemy, in her mind, because he never acted, always reacted. The grief he'd kept bottled up ever since he had been looking at the burning building which had been the Peace Party Headquarters, suddenly came out, and he staggered. For e moment, all he saw was Jessica. Saddened, angered…

Disappointed. Disillusioned.

Yang took a deep breath as a surprising jolt of anger went through, even as he vaguely heard Bucock dressing down Falk for his rude comments. Suddenly, as he saw Jessica's face overlapping with Falk's arrogant mien, something in him realized something: it was men like these who caused the deaths of people like Lapp. It was people like these who made desperate widows and broken families like Jessica and hers.

And it had never really bothered him before. Not in a real sense.

Part of him told him to sit back down. What was left to say? He couldn't win against zeal like Falk's. He never wanted to be in the military, didn't need to involve himself further. Yet another part of him was reminded of Jessica's plea, of that last argument between them where things had been said he would have killed to take back. Torn with indecision, his gaze wandered to the other seven fleet commanders.

Seven gloomy-faced commanders. With a start, he realized that each of these men likely agreed with him, not Falk. But they were too used to things rolling over their objections, too jaded by their greater experience. They wouldn't speak up. The system had been in them too long.

Suddenly, while Falk was starting to extoll the nobility of the task before them, Yang ignored him and called out to his peers. "Gentlemen, do you see any tactical or strategic value in this plan?" he said, loudly, cutting Falk off.

They all looked at him with varying degrees of shock. They didn't expect that. From Falk's expression, neither did he. Even Sitolet and Lobos looked a bit nonplussed. Greenhill, for his part, showed no change in his expression.

"So far, gentlemen, all I've heard is a plan with no tactical plan except to fight, no strategic goal except to go forward. It hopes for the best without preparing for the worst." Yang told them, "Do you think we can beat the Imperial Fleet with fancy words and wishful thinking?" He realized he shouldn't be doing this, but the anger, the grief, were spurring him on.

Falk looked like he didn't know whether to be stunned or furious. He quickly rallied, however.

"Admiral Yang, you go too far. One would almost think you just called my plan worthless."

Yang turned to Falk again, opened his mouth to retort, but was beaten to the punch by Ulanf's voice.

"That's what he said, is it?" the commander of the Tenth Fleet wondered with a wry undertone, rising. "Strange, that's exactly what I've been thinking."

"It is very vague," Al-Salem noted.

"Vague?" Bucock scoffed, his aged voice disdainful, "There's nothing in there, you mean."

With that, the ice was broken, and Appleton, Hogwood and Lefebvre quickly added their dissent with the plan. Even Borodin, quiet for most of the meeting, admitted that he wished the plan was more structured. Falk attemped to talk several times, but was unable to be heard by the commanders. At the head table, Sitolet and Lobos conferred even as Greenhill surveyed the situation.

Yang spotted Cazerned grinning at him, arms crossed. All he could do was shrug helplessly in response and scratch his head. Maybe it was a bit too much. Sitolet's voice then cut through the chatter and forced everyone back to their seat and silence.

"Admiral Yang, since you were the most vocal against the current plan, do you have an alternative to offer this meeting?"

Yang nodded. Now that he had started thinking, now that the course was set, it made sense to him.

"Yes sir, I do." Yang looked at Falk across the table, and almost flinched at the naked hatred he now saw in the man's wild eyes. Whatever happened after today, he now had a dedicated enemy. But that paled, he realized, next to making sure thirty million soldiers wouldn't battle without a clear plan.

I promised her I wouldn't let something like this roll over me. If this ruins my time in the military, what do I care?

He took a breath, and spoke. "Since we must invade the Empire, I propose that the eight fleet commanders assigned to the front lines be allowed to alter the plan and give it tactical and strategic guidelines."

Verbal pandemonium ensued for quite a bit after that.