An Ideal To Fight For Chapter Twenty-Six, a legend of galactic heroes fanfic

Another page of History is being turned...

Chapter Twenty-Six

Comrades No Longer

The Matamba Starzone was never considered as an actual battle site. It contained nothing of interest. It had no planetary body, gas giant, or asteroid belt that could yield resources. Its stellar body was by itself standard. There were no anomalies, no quirk to study. No colony, outpost or even manned station of any kind was ever considered. The only thing it had going for it was that the warp fields around it were above average in terms of stability.

It made for a good waypoint. And nothing more.

The Alliance Backbone Fleet, and the succeeding Star Fleet, never considered it much either, expect for a place for fleets and military goods to pass through. It was never involved in any of the myriad defence plans drafted in a quarter millennia of increased militarization of Alliance space. Only once was it ever considered as having a possible military usage.

In UC 574, a military analyst named Tobias Carridad-Mills raised the possibility of using Matamba or similar systems due to their very stable Warp. A short review was carried out, but by 576, it was deemed that such an ambush was unfeasible. The starzone had nothing that would hide a fleet, or fool a fleet, the moment the Warp was done. The only way such an ambush would happen, it was decided, would be if extremely precise entry and exit coordinates for a Warp Tunnel were sent to the ambushing Fleet.

It would mean having a confederate in the enemy fleet transmitting data that could easily be detected. What was worse, the final report stated, should such a transmission be discovered, it could be used to transform the ambusher into the ambushed. The difficulty was deemed too high, the danger of a backlash too great. The idea was dropped, and the military planners moved on to other plans.

These men and women would have been astounded to see Matamba used in battle, and successfully ambushing a fleet. They would have been all the more baffled that both sides were Alliance. To their credit, or discredit, the idea that Alliance would fight Alliance while the Empire still loomed large was never truly considered.

It was, however, entirely to credit of the self-styled Liberation Fleet, only ever acknowledged on Heinessen files as the Insurgent Fleet, or rarely the Shampool Insurgent Fleet, had managed to surprise the Tempest Task Force. Even discounting Yang Wen-li, the other admirals leading the fleet elements were hardened veterans who weren't the type to be caught unawares. Admiral Hogwood of the Seventh Fleet, in particular, had been the victim of an ambush before and was keen on recognizing its signs.

It was later accepted by the commanders of the time that there was no real trick involved, aside from learning the coordinates where Tempest would emerge. In the end, Yang, Hogwood, Greenhill and the others hadn't considered that the fight would happen at Matamba. It had never figured in their battle plans, and they hadn't prepared for it. When the Insurgency pounced on them, their first reaction was simply shock. Compounding the dismay was the fact that the rebels outnumbered the loyalist significantly, while Heinessen's projections pointed at roughly equal numbers at the first engagement.

But theories would have to wait. Tempest was surrounded on three sides, with Verdone's rebel Third plunging headlong into Carlsen's Fifth on one flank, while forces headed by Medina and his Twelfth moved against Hogwood's seventh on the other. And at the center of both formations, the Eleventh Fleet faced both the First Fleet under Paeta, and the smaller 'Headquarters' unit under Yang.

Neutron beams lanced out, shield sparked angrily, and armor plates disintegrated. The Battle of Matamba, unlikely as it was, had begun in earnest.

April 9, 797 UC, Matemba Starzone 9:12

Yang thoroughly hated this part of himself. It was an ability that his teachers at the Academy, and especially in Strategic Studies, had made a point to praise: his ability to completely compartmentalize when it came down to it.

It happened almost immediately as the direness of the situation became apparent. Part of him was bewildered, disbelieving. Another wondered how the enemy could tell where they would emerge. Another voice wanted to remind Yang that he was about to fight other Alliance soldiers. Shouldn't that be an issue? How could it possibly by right to fight against people you served with? Wasn't all of this serving the Empire? How could the Alliance truly come back from something like this?

He heard at these questions at the corners of his mind. He felt the uncertainty, the panic. The confusion threatened to overwhelm him. It all seemed to rush towards him for a single, frightening moment.

And then he took a deep breath, looked at the data in front of him, and pushed it all aside. All of these questions could be contemplated later, when the battle was over. Right now, he had to command, and find ways to fight, and kill, the enemy.

How he hated that side of himself. But the hard data was more important now, and it didn't lie.

"The forces at the center and the starboard side still aren't in optimum range," he mused to Greenhill, who had come up on the heels of the first shots being fired, "I give it a minute, two if I'm optimistic."

Frederica's father looked at the same data he was with as much calm as if this was a menu at some restaurant. He, too, Yang guessed, was burying his misgivings. They probably all were, at that. He nodded, "But the Fifth is exchanging fire. The Third is moving in fast."

"True enough," Yang concurred, "Comms, send this message to flagships Patoroklos and Quetzacoatl: standard combat formation. Engage and repulse, but remain on the defensive. Advise if there's a significant change." Calm, steady, matter-of-fact. Don't be surprised, don't sound surprised. They don't need this if they're going to fight.

"Sir!"

"To the Fifth Fleet, send this message: the Headquarters Fleet is coming to reinforce you and repulse the strike on the port flank."

That order was also acknowledged, even as stray beams of neutron light streaked past the stars in front of the ship. Yang squinted at the sudden illumination for a moment, but tore his gaze away from the unfolding battle, instead looking at the information that the Ajax's sensors were all too happy to provide.

9:17

Verdone couldn't help but smirk a little bit as the flank of the enemy was before him, in point-blank range. It seemed that the information they'd received was correct after all: they had been able to pinpoint the entry point of the enemy. Now it was caught with its pants down, no less.

"Enemy is into the Red Zone."

A bit close. But I'll take what I can get, he mused to himself, they only have their side cannons to fight against my mains, and it's too close for missiles.

"According to the data we have, these ships are from the Fifth Fleet," a sensor operator reported.

The Fifth Fleet. That's Carlsen out there. Carlsen, that old man who was cooling his heels back in Iserlohn while I was doing the real fighting at Dionsysus. Carlsen, who still got promoted. This is perfect.

"This is a wonderful opportunity, people," he all but snarled, "Don't let it pass us by! All ships, fire at the enemy, fire at will!"

The battle of Matamba was the largest battle ever fought so deep in Alliance space. Even the Kornelias Invasion hadn't struck as far before being forced to turn back. In fact until that battle, anything within five Warps of Heinessen was considered a safe zone, with even piracy being minimal.

Even the recent explosion at the shipyards, which had killed several including two prominent members of the Admiralty, had been explained as an accident rather than an attack, and the illusion of safety had remained. Not so anymore. In the days to come, the veil of safety that the Alliance population had placed over its collective face would be ripped off.

In this instance, as the Insurgent Fleet had managed to surround the entry point into Matamba, it had a distinct advantage over the combined forces of the Star Fleet task force, having effectively made a half encirclement without having had to fight to achieve it. At no point in the battle line was it made more clear than at the point where the forces of admiral Verdone assaulted those of admiral Carlsen.

Massive salvos from the main guns of hundreds of Insurgent battleships and cruisers tore into the side of the Star Fleet ships in torrents of neutron-rich, focused beams of death. The immediate outer layer of the Fifth Fleet, made up of destroyers and cruisers, suffered heavy losses even as it attempted to fight back, ships being gutted and exploding before they could redirect energy to the shields on their exposed side. The side cannons that peppered their hulls responded defiantly, but such weapons had nowhere near the power of main cannons, and were hitting the front shields of the enemy, the strongest point of any ship.

As it stood, the Fifth Fleet was in danger of being swept away, the Star Fleet's port flank in danger of collapse, as the battle had barely gotten underway.

10:48

"The Third Fleet has engaged the Fifth and is doing substantial damage. The Twelfth is closing in on the Seventh, it's on the outside range of the Yellow Zone!" came the voice of the operator, voice energetic and high-pitched, with all the excitation of youth. It grated on Lynch's ears as watched everything unfold, lazily checking the battle formation. If one saw things from the side of their little rebellion, he had to admit to himself, things were going really well.

Lagrange nodded, standing instead of sitting, looking satisfied as beams of neutron light flashed, the Leonidas II slightly trembling from a stray shot. "Have them hurry, Hogwood's not going to let them take their time. Is that the First Fleet we're exchanging fire with, then?"

"Yes, sir, we can confirm those are ships from the First in front of us."

Lagrange made a small grunt, "Too bad for Paeta, this won't be a good day for him," Even as he said so, his voice became sterner, "Don't let up fire. Keep the First Fleet on the back foot! Don give them any initiative!" He sat, then, and looked over to the man sitting next to Lynch, hardly sparing Lynch himself a glance. "Looks like the information was correct."

Bronze all but beamed as he nodded, insufferably pleased with himself in Lynch's eyes. "I told you, my source is extremely reliable. With this, I've no doubt we'll be able to strike a decisive blow."

Lynch shook his head. There was an encirclement, but it wasn't perfect, with the Third being incredibly close and the Twelfth stupendously far. The advantage was there, but it wasn't yet the overwhelming thing that Bronze seemed to think it was. El Facil had shown him that things could go turn on its head quicker than people could react.

Not that he voiced any of that. To begin with, he wouldn't be taken all that seriously. Bronze thought he was cynical and defeatist - he had a point there, he supposed - and Lagrange barely tolerated his presence because he had provided the first push towards rebellion. Whatever he would say would more than likely be ignored.

Which suited him completely fine. He had no desire to talk to these hypocrites, who looked at him with disdain even as they themselves had broken every oath they had ever taken. Besides, he had what he wanted right here. He had done what he'd promised that bionic-eyed freak at that blonde brat. He had stirred things up.

Holier-than-thou men who had turned their backs on him for his so-called cowardice were now tearing each other apart, and nothing could make him happier. Especially the unit that sat between the three embattled fleet. The force almost certainly led by the little man who had ruined his image with his jaundiced account about El Facil.

The other reason was that Lagrange seemed less convinced of victory than Bronze, which made sense. He was rusty from his time away from command, but unlike Bronze, he had commanded ships in battle before. And he, like Lagrange, had seen what seemed to be a victory transform into a defeat before. The commander of the Eleventh, he noticed, didn't respond to the Intelligence officer, merely turning back to giving commands.

He looked at the embattled formation again, pondering, So, what are you gonna do, now, Yang Wen-li? He wondered, Can't fake yourself out of this one. What to do, what to do, eh? Gotta admit,about time you didn't get it easy! His attention was drawn to the commander's voice.

"Signal admiral Stokes to move his fleet to cut off the enemy's stern," Lagrange ordered. Confirmation of the command swiftly followed.

"We have this," Bronze mused, likely more to himself than for Lynch's benefit.

He shrugged, wondering how these idiots would react if they knew how little he gave a damn.

12:03

Carlsen had been around long enough to know when a situation was bad. He didn't need the rising list of ships going dark to understand that this was one particularly nasty mess he found himself in. There was nothing more damaging than a flanking assault, especially one that comes in close. He found himself in the unenviable position of having to salvage something from that. It wasn't the first time it had happened, but it was the first time he'd let an enemy catch him so completely.

"Have the starboard units turn and form a secondary line! Have them come up to fortify our position!" He growled as he looked at the computer representation. Most of the units at the port side of the fleet were in shambles, some having turned, some still being in confusion. And the enemy forces, too close for comfort, were cutting those that were hesitating to ribbons.

"Battleships Katalina, Guidamo , Tanaka are confirmed sunk!"

"Commodore Omari confirmed killed in action! Port flank units are not maintaining cohesive command!"

He glared at the screen as bad became worse. Worry, and the first tint of panic, attempted to worm itself into his mind. Thoughts of ordering the port unit to flee behind the second line were paramount in those flickers of fear-induced reactions. These musings were fortunately countered, however, with images that his mind conjured of a moment when things had been like this during Fourth Iserlohn.

A cruiser commander back then, he had born witness to admiral Merkatz's masterful assault at the flank of an overconfident Alliance fleet. The commander at the time had ordered outer layers to retreat to a second line, but it had only exacerbated the confusion, as Merkatz had pounced on the fleeing ships, derailing attempts at fortification. The flank had caved in, leading to a bad situation snowballing into a disaster.

Retreat and Reorganize. It was the basics when suffering an assault you were unprepared for. It was the expected tactical reaction. He was pretty sure that it was what the guy over there - Verdone, he thought - was hoping for. Pull back and he'll pound. Stay there and he'll keep wreaking havoc. Win-win, to his mind.

Don't underestimate me, you Academy-trained asshole, he thought fiercely, I'm not going to make it easy on you just because it's part of what's 'supposed to be done'! You're expecting a defense? Fine, then!

"Have all units at port fire all of their missiles at the enemy," he ordered. There was a moment of silence when he said that.

"Sir?" Came the hesitant voice. Probably wondering why I'm not ordering a consolidation. Well, no time for questions. So this goes against the book? Well, damn the book! He raised his voice, his eyes narrowing.

"Move it! All port units, fire all missiles. Empty your racks! Right now!"

"Yes, sir!" Said the young man, prodded into action. "Port units, launch order of all missiles, command immediate! Repeat, launch order of all missiles, command immediate! Repeat, launch order..."

Carlsen nodded, turned his attention to the navigation hub. "Have all starboard units prepare to charge the enemy unit attacking us."

"A full charge?" His chief of staff questioned.

"That's all we can do," he told him, then raised his voice again, "Ready to charge with full weapons, at my command!"

12:26

Verdone looked at the situation, nodding. Just a little more, Carlsen. Retreat, or try to organize them, I'm going to rip right into you. It wouldn't make up for the pass-over he'd suffered, but it gave him more than a little satisfaction.

"Sir! The Fifth Fleet is launching missile salvoes!"

His head whipped around at those words, "Missiles? Confirm that. All ships, prepare for missile salvoes." Missiles, in the Red Zone fire arc? That's ridiculous, you might destroy some of your own ships!

"Missiles incoming!"

"Keep the ships in position, they're just trying to shake us off!" he ordered.

Flashes multiplied on the screens as missiles impacted shield and, in some lucky places, armor within the fleet. As the yellow and grey globes proliferated, he kept his eyes on the ships that had launched them.

What the Hell are you doing?! Are you insane?!

13:14

Carlsen watched as the front lines of the enemy weathered the offensive, holding position despite the missile swarms that his units had launched. Right now, he knew, would be the right time to attempt to retrieve his ships. Right now, he also was aware of, was when the enemy was ready to pounce.

They were pausing now, however. Verdone was shocked, uncomprehending of the risk he'd just taken. He stopped pounding. So he'd strike before he could find his guts again.

"Charge, full speed ahead!" he ordered, "Fire right into the front of the enemy before he reacts!"

13:35

Yang watched as he saw part of the port flank releasing missiles into the enemy, followed by Carlsen's remaining forces advancing. He had had ideas to shift his unit to support the Fifth Fleet as it retreated. Carlsen, however, had other ideas.

Beside him, admiral Greenhill was pensive. "An offensive used as a defensive measure," he mused calmly, as if this whole thing was a training exercise, "Unorthodox to say the least."

Yang made a small assent, giving a wan grin, "He'd get flak for it at the Academy, but this isn't the Academy. But it's not unheard of. Verdone was clearly fixated on holding his position, probably thinking he'd be chasing after units. He didn't even order the ships that bore the brunt of the missile salvoes back. Now they have damaged ships about to take a full charge. It's bold, and it's certainly risky. But I think he might do something with this." He had nothing to lose by trying it, either.

"Then, admiral, we should prepare to move in if admiral Carlsen manages to create an opportunity for us."

Yang agreed with the thought. "We'll keep moving in to do just that." Saying this, he turned his attention to the entire front.

The simultaneous attack had been well-crafted, and would have been devastating if Admirals Paeta and Hogwood weren't experienced in both ambushes and at being outnumbered, the latter being a situation that the Star Fleet had tended to find itself in since Dagon itself. Although caught up in the Yellow Zone arc of fire, they had redeployed into defensive lines which, although not particularly brilliant to Yang's eyes, were effective positions, with their battleships and cruisers laying out fire, while the destroyers harried forces that came too close. The carriers were being protected by being sent farther from the main field of fire.

The effective defense that the First and Seventh were conducting, however, didn't change anything to the precariousness of the situation. Despite the competent stalling of forces, they were still on the backfoot. Hogwood had been the luckiest, losing few ships, but that had been because, unlike the port side, which had been very close and deep within the Red Zone, the starboard side of the Insurgents was too far into the outer Yellow Zone to be effective.

Paeta had also been in the Yellow Zone, but the swiftness of the enemy at the front - the Eleventh Fleet, of course - had been greater, and he'd been pressured more. But they had held, however surprised they had been. And it gave them time to organize and fortify.

If, of course, Carlsen was holding so far. And then there was the other unit that was making its way around to catch them at the stern. The total count of ships had eventually been made clear: thirty thousand ships. Much more than the Intelligence analysis had surmised there would be. Even taking a margin for error, this was much more than he ever thought he'd have to face. And then, of course, there was the reason they were in this mess.

"More ships than we thought, and a surprise attack," He grunted, scratching his head. "This isn't good. The ancient Terran adage about no plan surviving actual combat is almost ridiculously appropriate here."

"Yes," Came the calm answer from his chief of staff.

"But they've made mistakes," Yang added, raising "Have the First and Seventh launch all Spartanians immediately. Have them harry their forces further, prevent them from coming in too close."

"Yes, sir!"

"Sowing confusion will buy us more time," Greenhill agreed.

Yang nodded, frowning, "What I don't understand is why Lagrange hasn't launched his own Spartanians already. And his lines have been static so far. I'd have charged closer to keep the heat on, and the detached force would have gone to help weaken the Fifth, not on a venture to cut us off."

"It's not that surprising, admiral," Greenhill mused, "He's the reactive type, not the proactive sort. Being on the offensive isn't his style. That's one reason he was named to rebuild the Eleventh after admiral Holland's death."

Yang noted that, raising an eyebrow, but new information stopped him from continuing that conversation. He silently filed this for later.

"Sir, the Fifth Fleet's assault has made contact with the enemy forces!"

He eyed the main screen, nodding. The rushing orange-hued units were effectively slamming into the blue-coloured units that defined the Insurgency. In this case, graphics and computer information made the situation far less confusing - both morally and materially - than visual information. After all, these were Alliance ships that were shooting each other up with alacrity.

"Ready our forces, and shunt all data to my private screen."

"Immediately, sir!" And, almost as soon as this was stated, the tactical information, narrowed on the tussle between Verdone and Carlsen, appeared, and he peered at it attentively. A flash of light illuminated the screen, a stray shot, a near miss. He ignored that and the shiver that ran through the ship's hull. He focused solely on the information.

He had to pick a target. His forces were hodgepodge, not as reliable as the three other fleets, which knew how to fight cohesively. He had to find a good spot, a weakness, a slowness.

Then Verdone clearly shifted his forces to compensate for the push, his units realigning. And he saw it. The enemy's starboard units. A weakness.

A momentary crack.

"Right there. All ships, increase speed, we're going to add strength to the Fifth's offensive."

14:39

"Push at them, keep up the heat!" Carlsen ordered, as the Diomedes, shook, neutron fire coming and going in wave as flashes of hits and explosions threatened to overwhelm the viewscreens. He actually had to hold himself steady after a particularly hard hit flashed, scoring some damage, thankfully none of if lethal. Stars seemed to explode all round him as hulls either resisted or yielded. "Don't let the enemy realign its forces, we can't let them use their numbers against us! Status report on the rest of the fleet, right now!"

"Sir! The other units are reforming behind us. Estimate ten minutes before they can lend us their full support."

"That's ten minutes too many, tell them to hurry their asses up." He grunted. "In those exact words, I don't care, get them moving!"

"Sir!" The communications officer said, with the look of someone who was likely trying to find a more suitable way of telling already overly-occupied commanders to get even busier. Carlsen had no time for sympathy. Before he could turn back to the fight, however, the same officer piped up again. "Sir, encrypted communication from the Ajax, audio only."

Carsen set his jaw a moment. The Ajax. Yang, eh? "Put it through."

"Diomedes, this is Ajex, Yang speaking." Came the now-familiar voice of the Task Force's commander.

"Rio Grande, we read you, go ahead."

"We're coming to assist, l, how are you holding up?"

"Could be a Hell of a lot better, but we're holding. Somehow," Carlsen grunted, having to steady himself as another shot got through the shields and into the armor, "But I won't say some backup wouldn't be nice. They're still reeling a bit, but if they solidify, well..." he left the rest unspoken.

"Right. Hang on, then. We're coming at maximum speed, and we'll hit hard on the slowest quarter. Yang out."

Carlsen frowned, thinking about the last words, 'Slowest quarter' He looked at the battle lines intently, trying to decipher what Yang had seen, and it took him a minute before he saw it. Although the portside units, which were moving in unison, the starboard units weren't. It wasn't much, but they were slower to respond, as if they weren't all that used to the orders they had received. Or perhaps more likely, they weren't used to the command style.

He knew that Verdone had fled from Kaffer with only about four thousand ships, the part of the the Third Fleet that was not either lost in battle or remained loyal. And there were more than four thousand ships attacking.

"They're not his fleet, they're from other units, other fleets," he said to himself, "Yang is attacking the starboard side because it doesn't have a good cohesion."

His chief of staff and adjutant gave him looks that showed some confusion, but there was no time to explain. He saw the crack, too. It was small, unnoticeable unless you paid careful attention. And Yang had seen it. He shook his head. Some people just had something.

Didn't matter. It was there, and he saw it now. And there was no way in Hell he was going to let the damned traitors enough time to heal it.

"I want every ship that's reforming behind us to strike the starboard units with everything they've got. Support Yang's command unit and break those bastards apart!"

15:21

Yang kept his eyes on the displays. The First and Seventh fleets were holding steady, interdicting the other units of the enemy forces. He could see that a separate force was attempting to circle around the battlefield, probably hoping to catch their rear and box them in. It wasn't a bad plan in itself, but the turn had been rather wide. Overcaution, inexperience? He couldn't tell. But they'd have time to strike before it came into any sort of effective range. The Fifth was still taking damage, but Carlsen's move had forced them to attempt to reorganize their lines, uncovering the lack of cohesion in the enemy force in front of it.

"Well," He heard Greenhill say with a calm that was nothing short of enviable, "We've managed to confirm that the command ship is indeed the Mundus, admiral Verdone's command ship. The force engaging the Seventh Fleet is the Sandaki. Medina."

Yang nodded. It made sense. The way the fleet had moved did remind him of how the Third had after Lefebvre's death. "Verdone to port, Medina to starboard, Lagrange obviously on our bow, and the stern would be..." he blinked, "What's the name of the Eleventh's second in command?"

Greenhill didn't even glance at any pad or screen, "Stokes. Commanding the Abai Geser. Most of that force is made up of destroyers and fast cruisers, which makes sense for what they're trying to do. Still, it's a very wide turn."

Noticed that, too, eh? "My thoughts exactly. Comms, I need a line with the Patrocles and the Quetzalcoatl . We need to align ourselves on this."

It wasn't long before the two commanders were answering. Both faces showed tension, but also control over their situation. Yang knew that they'd need to go back to their part of the battle as quickly as possible, so he skipped any pleasantries and delved into the heart of the matter.

"I'm going to hit the forces at our port side, and, if all goes well, create a breakthrough. Once that's done, I'll want all forces to progressively retreat in the same direction, through the gap in the enemy forces."

"Reform a battle-line," Paeta mused. His image wobbled a moment, and his head turned, "Send three cruiser units from our main force to strengthen that position!" he grunted, before returning his attention to Yang, "Whatever happens, it has to be soon. Lagrange gets what's up, he's pressuring me more than ever."

"Same thing here, they want us to stay put," Hogwood added, then seemed to hesitate, "Medina's not hitting me as hard as he could, though."

"Right. But I'm afraid the pressure's going to be on your forces for a while," Yang admitted, "You need to keep the rest of the enemy forces occupied while Carlsen and I try to take advantage of the enemy's lack of unity."

There was a short pause, but whatever the thoughts the two men were having, it was quickly settled.

"We can stabilize the front by throwing all of our Spartanians into the fray," The Seventh's commander announced,"It'll be bloody work, but..." his voice trailed off. Paeta nodded firmly.

"Yes, it's possible. We'll do our best to keep them off your back."

"Good," Yang said, "Then wait for my signal to reposition." he said, and closed the channel. A part of him was pleasantly surprised at how Paeta was reacting in this battle thus far, but he had to remind himself that the man had never lacked courage, just the ability to adapt to unusual tactics. Fortunately, while Lagrange seemed to be a steady and brave commander, his battlefield tactics remained almost completely by the book.

Not that this was anything new, far from it. The times when any tactics had been new were over before the men and women of Old Earth had left their planetary cradle. There had been slight additions. Refinements, for certain. Adjustments, as the centuries went on. But the student of history he had always been couldn't help but see that there were similarities between the great military minds. Although the leader of the Black Flag Fleet, Joliot Frankul, was nine centuries out of date compared to the average Alliance or Imperial commander of the War, he was fairly certain that he would be able to defeat them if given a comparable fleet and technology.

Tactics had remained the same, but what had ossified so much was how to use them. A commander would use a tactic that was considered 'normal' for the time, to be countered 'normally'. He had once written a dissertation that proposed the idea that the war had become such a fixture of both Alliance and Imperial society that conventions and battle 'steps' - unacknowledged, unspoken, but painfully present in many engagements - had been developed followed.

Why had the Alliance lost at Astarte, for instance? Reinhard von Lohengramm was swift, talented, but even then, a two-to-one fight should have been much harder even for him. As far as Yang was concerned - and he knew that many would disagree with his views, vociferously for some - Lohengramm had won because he had dared to defy convention. He was 'supposed' to be encircled, but he had dared to defy what others wanted. Faced with tactics that didn't fit in what was considered 'normal', their larger forces had stalled and floundered.

And it wasn't just Lohengramm. All of the great Alliance commanders that the history book extolled - Lin Pao, Topalour, Forbes, McGreer, Ashbey... they hadn't used especially new tactics. They had just refused to play by the 'rules'.

Well, doesn't that make you nothing but a weirdo? A voice that, with a pang, he recognized as Jessica told him. You always tend to overthink these things, always.

Time to get to work, sir, another voice said, one that sounded much like Frederica's this time, and he turned his attention to the sensor suite.

"How long before we're in attack range?"

"Three minutes until we're within the Yellow Zone, sir," came the prompt reply.

He nodded. Weirdo or not, he mused, he had a battle he needed to win, and he wasn't about to follow what the enemy expected because it was 'normal'. It was, he agreed wryly, time to get to work.

"Increase speed to maximum," he ordered, "And contact commodore MacNamara. Tell her to send her destroyers ahead. We need to make sure there's a breach."

15:50

"Sir, the enemy forces are shifting towards starboard, units moving fast,"

"Their headquarters unit is also coming in the same direction, sir."

Verdone frowned, "Have the starboard units contract their formation," he ordered, "Defense formation three." There was a flash in his mind at that, but then the deck shook as a hit was repelled by the Mundus' shield. Carlsen was really hitting back, for what it was worth. The Fifth was diminished, but it was living up to its reputation as though fighting unit. Too bad Old Man Bucock wasn't the one commanding. He might not have been in this mess.

"Once the enemy is repulsed," he ordered, "Concentrate on the center of the Fifth Fleet's line. Since they're that close, we can sow confusion between them and their headquarters. With some satisfaction, he thought that he just might take out not only Carlsen, but the Magician himself. Not bad for a passed-over officer.

But the response he received from his officers, however, wasn't an enthused confirmation, but a more cautious, concerned "Sir, our starboard units are..." The officer seemed to hesitate, "They're not moving into the pattern."

Verdone immediately watched the data on the main screen again, and realized to his horror that the sensor operator was right. They were moving much slower than they should. The gap was wider than before.

"Admiral," his communications officer relayed, "Message from captain Kuzuo. He's asking for confirmation. The order was unclear."

"Unclear?!" he growled, "Tell him to get into Defense Formation Three! It's a basic formation to repulse a damn..." He stopped, his eyes widening, his mind freezing for a moment as the flash from before returned, the once before the shot that tore into the Mundus's shields.

Defense Formation Three isn't the same in every Fleet. It's not a standard formation! And not all of these ships are from the Third Fleet!

"Tell captain Kuzuo to get into a standard fleet defense and close in with the rest of the fleet! Right now!"

16:28

"Admiral Carlsen, the crack's widened!"

"I see it, son. Are we in range?"

"Yes, sir, but it's not optimal. We might not do much damage."

"That's not important right now. Have all available ships fire in the space in-between the two parts of the Third Fleet. Don't let them reform, no matter what. Let the Headquarters unit tear into them!"

17:15

Yang saw the Fifth concentrate part of its remaining frontline ships into a suppressive action, and understood what Carlsen was telling him. The Fifth was going to pin those units down, and Headquarters was going to have lay into them as hard as they could. He turned his attention to sensors to his left. "Time for optimum firing?"

"Forty-seconds, sir!"

"To all ships, this is admiral Yang. Prepare to fire in forty-five seconds. Reserve power for that time. For now, weather their fire, concentrate on closing the distance." He pushed another button, putting him into a communication that had been readied already. "MacNamara?"

"Sir," came the commodore's ready voice.

"This is a big chance. Hit them with everything you have. They need to fall back. We need that hole."

"Understood, sir. They'll fall back."

He cut off communication, for the moment ignoring the rest of the battle. He was going to trust in his commanders' experience to see them through for now. He was going to focus his mismatched unit into a coherent assault.

While, and unlike its opponent, the Free Planets Alliance did allow women to participate at all levels of its military, there was a strong male-oriented undercurrent. The women in the Star Fleet, for instance, were often found in support roles, with only the Medical and Logistics Divisions having a large fraction of female enlisted officers, both of them being made of about forty percent women. The other divisions, however, never had more than thirty percent, with such niches such as Spartanian pilots having less than twenty percent.

It was not to say that there were not great female pilots, or officers, or fleet commanders for that matter. It was simply that the male-oriented favoritism, deplorable thought it was to many at the time, made it harder for women to push up the ranks. Those that did reach flag ranks were thus almost universally well above average in competence.

Commodore MacNamara was not an exception to that rule. At Matamba, she proved her mettle by remaining cool under fire, and driven to carry out her tasks. Her forces thus struck at the weakened part of the Third Fleet, forcing open the crack that admiral Carlsen and his forces had shed blood for.

Caught in a surprising backlash of seeing his own charge countered with a greater level of aggression, Verdone had to reluctantly give way, pulling back his forces slightly to reorganize. This allowed the Fifth Fleet to pull back in turn, strengthened as it was by the support of Yang's unit. The flank, to the dismay of the Insurgency, would not cave.

The other flank, under the protection of Hogwood's Seventh Fleet, held strong. Throughout the battle, Medina would remain cautious, only engaging stronger numbers whenever the other side's defenses would weaken. Hogwodd quickly saw this, and made sure to maintain strong lines in front of the Twelfth. This allowed him to personally bring a large part of his fleet in an interdicting movement, blocking Stokes' Insurgent force as it attempted to catch the loyalist forces in the metaphorical back.

As for the central lines, the Eleventh and the First found each other well-matched, with neither Lagrange nor Paeta giving ground. Several people were surprised at the latter's successful defense, with many having Tiamat and Astarte in mind as they expressed their shock. But admiral Paeta, while sometimes indecisive and showing a lack of ability to accept advice from lower-ranked officers, had never lacked bravery, and was well aware of the importance of his position. As such, he gave as good as got, and even showed flashes of brave initiative.

The attempt to rout the loyalist Star Fleet had clearly failed as the two sides broke off engagement and reorganized, many still shocked by the violence that they, as former comrades, had shown each other. Neither side, however, was ready to retire from the battlefield. Both fleet stared at each other, baleful, waiting for the next round.

19:43

Although they had managed to break away from the trap that the Insurgency had sprung on them, Yang knew exactly what the other commanders would request the moment both forces would break contact and regroup, and he tackled it almost as soon as he Carlsen, Hogwood and Paeta were on the screens in his office.

"I'd like nothing better than to pull back to the previous system," he freely admitted, "But it's very likely we can't."

"Sir," Paeta said, doing his best to take a neutral tone, even tough he likely dislike the thought of fighting in Matemba further, "It took a lot of fuel and energy to break off from their attempt at an encirclement. That's without going into the losses of ships and men."

"Right," Carlsen nodded, looking understandably tired and on edge, having been hit the hardest, "There's no point in denying that my Fifth Fleet can't work as a front line unit right now."

"If we could return to the previous starzone, or another nearby system, we could always return as soon as we've effected some repairs and transferred our wounded to the hospital ships. They outnumber us, but its not that like it's the first time this happened to us in this war," Paeta continued, "Even if they follow us, we'll probably have time to refuel, and our supplies would be nearby."

Yang normally wouldn't have said anything against what the two men were exposing. It was a reasonable position, in fact the sanest military position. It made no tactical sense to continue with the their fleets pretty much on the back-foot as they were. However, he couldn't help but remember his meeting with Rebello and Bancaud shortly before departure.

He'd hated to be there, would have preferred spending that time with Julian. He wanted to talk to his ward, make sure that there wasn't any lingering resentment that came from Yang having blocked the possibility of enlistment aside from the Academy. He knew why it irritated the determined and, dutiful young man, although he couldn't quite manage to feel guilty about it. They had patched up, and he had received a nice gift, but he wanted to go the extra mile.

It hadn't helped, of course, that the two had taken his time to make a point that, in many ways, was unfair to all of the officers and enlisted now under his command. What made the whole thing even lousier to him was that while the admiral in him had balked at what they had said, the historian in him couldn't help but see the point they were making as they talked.

"That's the way it has to be, Yang," Rebello had said, with a pained but wholly determined expression, "We're on spinning coin, and it can still fall either way."

Yang noted that Greenhill had said very little so far, as if he was waiting for all the commanders to be finished despite the fact that he was, Yang included, the highest-rank officer present due to his seniority. Perhaps, Yang wondered, he had already come to a conclusion about the battle.

He cleared his throat, removed his beret and sighed, "I agree with everything you've just said. We've been caught in a trap and it damaged us."

A trap that was too perfect, it went unsaid, for there not having been a leak from the loyal camp to the Insurgency. Greenhill had already said he was launching an investigation, and was adamant that the leak would be plugged, one way or the other. For now, however, the damage was done, and they had to make the best with the fallout that they had on their lap.

"I get it, I agree with it, that's really what we should do…" he mused, trailing off. After a beat, Hogwood interjected.

"But we're not going to do that," he hazarded. Sighing again, Yang wearily nodded, scratching his head with a defeated shrug.

"That's right, we can't move from this spot now that we've made contact with the enemy main force. We have to hold this ground. They have to leave us in control of the battlefield at the end. One way or they other."

There was a moment there. Hogwood leaned back on the screen, weary eyes closing. Carlsen grimaced, clearly displeased, but saying nothing. Paeta's jaw worked a moment, as if he was attempting to chew something particularly vile – which was metaphorically the case, Yang was sure.

"I…" Paeta mused, started to say something, thought better of it, 'Admiral, we lost more ships than they did, we lost more men than they did. There's no way they'll leave us the field. They'll force us from it at the very least."

"Not automatically," Hogwood reasoned, "If we go on complete defensive, we can minimize the damage, we can stretch how long we can hold out. We might even strike back if they make mistakes."

"Whatever for?!" that one came from Carlsen, "Why are we making sure to make this whole thing even worse on the men and the ships?! With all due respect, admiral Yang, I hope this isn't some misplaced pride at work here!"

Frowning, Yang was however spared from retorting, as Greenhill's calm voice speared through the rising tension from Yang's side.

"If we leave this battlefield, they most likely will regroup here, and then leave themselves," the task force's chief of staff mused, "They'll retrieve their escape pods, capture the ones of ours still out there. They'll call it a victory and go."

"At first look, it doesn't seem to be a particular event, until you realize that at least fifteen thousand, up to perhaps twenty thousand ships, are still officially considered neutral. They've been careful not to take a side. I'd think that they're waiting for a sign on which way the wind will blow."

There was unhappy silence at that. Hogwood looked pensive, Paeta's eyes seemed to indicate disbelief, and Carlsen seemed to want to rage at something without knowing exactly who or what.

"It goes without saying that even fifteen thousand ships and their crews would be a significant boost to their current power," he added, "If they managed to link up, and if I were in their shoes I would make sure that I could do that, they might have to the strength to pull up stakes and relocate to a more long-term position."

Hogwood caught on to that immediately, " Good point. Shampool's got many facilities, but it's too poor in resources to hold out without a link to the rest of Alliance space. But if they managed to use their forces, and take hold of a rich world with plenty of food like, say, Palmeland…" The rest went unsaid. There was no need to. The implications lying in the Insurgency getting a grip on one of the Alliance's main breadbaskets was almost hilarious in how much harder it would be to deal with it.

"We do have an advantage that they don't right now," Yang continued, "We have reinforcements while they don't. The Thirteenth Fleet is coming to Shampool. It will put them on a timetable of their."

"There's still several thousand ships that side with the Insurgency, out between Jhamseed and Santuario," Paeta pointed out.

Greenhill interjected smoothly, "I remind you that those units are being pursued by the loyal forces under admirals Appleton and Ulanf. Even if they did manage to escape them, which is rather unlikely given the difference in both size and combat experience, the Thirteenth is comparatively far nearer to Shampool than they are."

"Not to mention that it's not being pursued, which always helps," Hogwood noted.

Of course, the Thirteenth seemed to have been greatly hampered by the people of El Facil, and it was father than it should be, lengthening the enemy's timetable. No one seemed eager to point that out. They were all too aware of it.

After a moment, Yang spoke up, "It gives credence to the idea that they were trying to go for a knockout blow here, to force our fleet to fall back and regroup, wasting significant time. Then, once we were out of their hair, they could turn around and attack the Thirteenth, which is far smaller in size."

"Smart move," Carlsen grudgingly agreed, closing his eyes a second, before opening them again, "So, where does that leave us right now? How do we handle this mess we're finding ourselves into?"

It was Paeta who answered, looking distinctly unhappy, but also resigned, "I think, given what we've just discussed, there's nothing much to think about, is there? There's only one way this can really work."

At that, Yang leaned back on his chair, and looked towards Greenhill, who nodded just that tiny bit, a wordless show of support. He then straightened. There was a time, he knew, when what he was about to say would have bothered him far more than it did right this moment. It seemed like he was getting used to ordering men to their deaths, and he was anything but happy about it.

"We need to buy time. We need to hold out here so that the Thirteenth can close in enough to get Lagrange to go to Enyo and reinforce it. That means we're going to have to deny them any knockout blow."

A breath, a look, an order. "Gentlemen, I can't believe I'm saying this, but you'd better prepare for a battle of attrition."

20:16

"We don't have a choice, we have to make them fall back. It's the only way to ensure that they won't be nipping at our tail while we try and cut the Thirteenth off before they reach our home starzone," Lagrange mused, looking rather incensed about the entire thing. The same expression was copied on many a face around the meeting table, which Lynch found extremely funny.

A man who could engineer things in El Facil to make himself look good and his commander seem to be in the worst possible light, wasn't a man that was to be taken lightly. Hatred or no hatred, Yang knew what he was doing, it was a fact he had reluctantly come to accept.

So far, it seems that the people present had somehow expected Yang and the others to fold under the pressure of the assault. Up to and including that pompous little twat of an officer, Verdone. The man seemed intent in thinking that whatever successes had happened with Yang – or Lohengramm, for that matter – were a fluke, happenstances. There was no way men who was thirty or under would ever be able to pull off a real fight. Only older men, who knew how real tactics worked, could do it.

What was funny was that he would have spouted the same nonsense. He knew better now. Yang had only been a fresh little speck back at El Facil, and had managed to pull off a convincing set-up. This needed some cold thinking, and people that calculating, who could hide it behind a veneer of humility, weren't the type to fold under pressure.

It was exhilarating . He had wanted to humiliate self-righteous fleet officers who had all of the answers, and here he was in a room full of them, witnessing them humiliating themselves. He wouldn't have missed it for the world. It beat the finest bourbon he had ever tasted, the most well-aged whiskey.

Verdone's face told him that he was going to compound the humiliation he was kind enough to be subjecting himself to, and the fool didn't disappoint, "They're at the end of their rope, anyway. Just a bit more and they'll shatter," he said, with a tone of self-assured finality.

Yep, Lynch enthused inwardly, this is perfect. I couldn't be more entertained if I tried. With that, he poured himself another drink from the bottle, cheerfully ignoring the disdainful looks the action managed to get him. The taste of the drink added more zest to the pleasure he felt.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Medina retorted, "I worked with admiral Hogwood, and he's steady under fire."

"Hogwood isn't in charge of that fleet," Verdone retorted.

"Admiral Hogwood," Stokes mused. Verdone turned to him, surprised at the sudden interjection.

"I'm sorry?" He asked, in a tone that left no illusions that he was.

"It's admiral Hogwood," Stokes returned evenly, "He's a respected member of the Star Fleet, no matter what side he's on." Lynch had heard somewhere that Stokes had served under Verdone before. He supposed there was not helping the man feeling some leftover loyalty.

Verdone seemed about to open his mouth, but before he could say something else that might entertain, Lagrange interjected with a stern, "Agreed, let's remember that. They're serving a corrupt government, but they're still doing their duty as far as they're concerned."

The arrogant leader of what remained of the Third Fleet was loud in his idiocy, but there was no way he was going to go up against the one that was leading the most powerful element of the Insurgency. After a moment of tension, he wisely subsided, and thing settled down a bit.

"We're on a tight schedule," Bronze said, "Always have been. We can't stay here long if we want to be able to deal with the Thirteenth Fleet. There's only so much time we could create with El Facil."

Ah, admiral Bronze, you're remarkable when you state what's painfully obvious to anyone with half a tactical brain, Lynch mused, fighting an impulse to raise his glass in a sarcastic salute. He only just managed it.

The initial plan had been to take on the Thirteenth Fleet itself, which had stood at about twelve thousand ships at best estimates. As far as he was concerned, they still should have done it, given that the size differential was large, a more than two-to-one advantage. Three-to-one if you took into account the 'decommissioned' ships that Lagrange had taken upon himself to 'acquire' and strike out from the fleet register. That had been an impressive move. Really, of all the fools he'd taken in with his story, Lagrange had been the greatest catch, especially with Greenhill's ultimate refusal.

The idea to go up against the Thirteenth was dropped, however, when Bronze received an encrypted transmission from what he called a very trusted source. That transmission talked about the main task force that Heinessen had put together and sent off with some fanfare. It wasn't just vague information, however: whoever the source was – and Bronze had kept that name very close to himself – had managed to get the exact route that the enemy fleet would be taking, with exact dates and warp vectors. It had made Lagrange reconsider his options after yet another lengthy discussion.

The battle plan had been changed; instead of first hitting the Thirteenth, putting it to flight, and then wait for the main task force to arrive in Enyo, where any size difference would be negated through a series of holding actions a siege mentality, Lagrange – with Verdone being the most vocal advocate of the new plan – decided that they would ambush the main force, turn around, then go for the Thirteenth and defeat it in detail. This, Lagrange had been sure, would allow anyone who wished to follow their rebellion to do so freely.

To make certain that the smaller governmental fleet didn't catch up, Bronze had used the panic on El Facil and a few well-placed agents to stall talks for reinforcements when the Thirteenth came by it. It had worked well so far.

A part of Lynch, the commander that had been vilified by small-minded men, still saw that it was a risky move, but years of bitter introspection told him that it made sense for these foolish officers to seize such an opportunity without thinking too deeply into it.

The war had left the Alliance in the position of almost always reacting to what the Empire did, as it generally lacked the resources and the manpower to be on the offensive. In fact, there had been only two major offensive operations against the Imperial domain in the last century, and the latest was nothing less than a dismal failure.

Given that, it wasn't surprising that the people formerly in charge of the Star Fleet tended to jump at the chance to finally act offensively. The Battles of Iserlohn were the best proof of that, minor, wasteful tactical offensives, all but the last.

Now he understood why he had been so easily conned by that Yang Wen-li, even though he'd only been a youngster at the time. The man knew how to use the weaknesses in the officers and the system. He was more than likely riding the coattails of admirals like Bucock, or Hogwood, after having used his newfound fame at El Facil and the fluke that had been Astarte, hiding behind a veil of humility.

The discussion had continued meanwhile, and he found himself drawn back to it as the tone rose. Medina was speaking, unsurprisingly looking at Verdone.

"Once they've scattered, we should take care of our wounded and our dead, not pursue them like fools!"

"There's nothing idiotic about pursuing enemy forces and shaving off their numbers! It's a common tactic when fighting the Imperials, on both sides."

"Except they're not Imperials, they're members of the Star Fleet, people we fought beside. They're still comrades!"

"Stop living in a fantasy. They're still leashed to their Heinessen masters, and that makes them the enemy! Its bad enough with what you did with admiral Borodin…"

Ah. Here we go, Lynch mused merrily as Medina's face coloured in indignation.

"Admiral Borodin was my commanding officer, and deserved better than to become some prisoner in a Shampool cell. Letting him go was the honorable thing to do, and what I promised I'd do!"

"Admirals, gentlemen..." Bronze tried to interject. Neither listened.

Verdone scoffed, "And because of that 'honor' of yours, we're down one prisoner and one command ship set adrift between the stars. Tell me, admiral Medina, when you joined our rebellion, did you really want to join this cause at all?"

"What are you implying with that?"

"You know damn well what I'm…"

"That'll be enough," Lagrange growled, somehow glaring at both men at the same time. This time, they did stop. "Whatever flag you fly under, you two are admirals. Remember that instead of acting like some school children. What admiral Medina did or did not do is in the past, he is one of us, and this discussion is done." He maintained his glare for a moment, daring anyone from defying his authority. Lynch took that opportunity to get another drink.

"You should ease up," Bronze mused, giving him a disdainful look.

"Well, yes, maybe I should," he said, frowning, pretending to consider the idiot's assertion. He gave Bronze the time to get a self-satisfied look on his face, before he beamed and added, "But I don't think so," he said, downing the drink in one swallow. "Besides, it looks like you've got everything well in hand here. I'd never dream to get in your way.

Lagrange pretended he hadn't spoken at all, which was the way both men preferred it. Lynch had no intention of taking part in the hypocritical stunt they were doing, and Lagrange had no intention of Lynch associating himself to the grand crusade that self-important little puppet thought he was crafting.

"They're close to breaking, especially the Fifth," he stated with determination, "We'll concentrate on those ships and, if they're too protected, we'll try to take out Yang's unit. It's small, and it moved sluggishly, meaning its a bunch of units slapped together. He can't control it the way he wants.

"The First and the Seventh Fleets are still solid," Medina mused, 'They'll probably be the front lines for this one. And then there's the Thirteenth. It's going to move closer, no matter what, and we all know thatg if they come to Enyo and hit the installations while we're gone, we might just find ourselves winning here, but without a base."

"The risk exists," Lagrange admitted, then drew himself up, a sure sign that he was going to give one of his resolute little speeches of his, "But the risk was always present. When we made it our duty to wake our comrades up from the corruption and negligence of the government, we knew it could end badly. I believe, however, that our best choice is to fight here. If we break Heinessen's patchwork fleet here, then it means that Heinessen itself will have lost. And that is our duty: to break the governemnt of Heinessen, and to do our true duty: to bring back the Alliance to the strength and glory it has lost!"

Lynch found the words trite at best, but Lagrange said it with such passion, even he almost bought it. The man had the makings of a fun, self-absorbed statesman, if only too stiff for the general populace.

"No, we still have the advantage here," the admiral of the Eleventh Fleet continued, Yang can't move either, he won't dare to. And we're going to do what we need to do, as distasteful as it might be. We'll break Yang, Hogwood, all of them. We'll scatter them, and once our comrades join us after our victory, we will turn back and take care of the Thirteenth Fleet."

Caatinga Starzone, 21:58

"We're one Warp away. One damn Warp."

"Yup. With twelve hundred ships." The man in front smirked.

"Stealth scout says they probably have no more than three thousand around the planet."

The smirked widened, the eyes twinkled. "Probably a few carriers, meaning a big edge in Spartanian fighters."

He grunted, taking a bite out of his food. Potatoes, he guessed. He couldn't taste it. He had already finished, he saw with some resentment, "We don't need to make this a big engagement."

"Long enough for them to call for help. Raise a little Hell, or it's pointless."

Attenborough gave another grunt, glared at Schenkopp in annoyance. "Are you being difficult on purpose here, or does it just come naturally to you."

"Just talking sense, nothing else," the larger man mused, leaning backward, the very image of insouciance.

"Well, stop that!" Attenborough retorted, "It's making me sound like I'm some kid!" He heard a whine in his voice, and stopped. For a moment, they stared at each other over the table, nonplussed. And then they both gave a wry laugh.

After the nervous moment passed, he continued more seriously. "You know there's no way he can fall back. It's a battle of attrition, or it's retreat. And if its retreat, he might lose a lot of the Fleet."

"I saw the same info you did, my good admiral," Schenkopp said, and the smile wasn't wry anymore. The eyes were deadly serious as well, "And my point's the same: if you're not gonna make a splash that gets them to call for help, it's pointless."

That womanizing ass of a soldier was right, and he knew it. He couldn't go in without a damn good plan. He had sneaked his unit in, he was in position for a strike. But if the strike went into the drink, he wouldn't be any help to Yang. That was why he had invited Schenkopp. Well, that and that ability to remain jovial in most situations. He was the perfect guy to bounce ideas off. Lao was nice and all, but he was a bit too nice for some of the ideas that sometimes whirled around them.

He knew he had to act soon. They had received enough information to understand that the battle in Matamba wasn't going all that well. Yang and his forces were giving as good as they got, but the initial ambush had put them on the backfoot. And Lagrange wasn't going to let go, no now, not when he could actually make the man who could mobilize the Fleet against him lose face.

And that was the point, wasn't it? That was why Yang was holding his ground, instead of retreating and regrouping: if he did, the whole 'Magician' thing was gone. He was sure that Yang himself didn't give a damn. It wasn't about pride. It was all about the bigger picture. So he dug in, held his own. But he wasn't going to be able to do that forever. Not even him could do that. If things went too hard, he'd take his chances retreating. The men would come before it became about pride, or the Alliance.

And he could help before it came to that. He could launch one strike. He had to make it count. The question was: how?

"Alright, let's think about this," he mused, walking to the viewport. Unlike most of those aboard the Triglav, this wasn't a screen reflecting the outside, but the real deal. Not that it was glass, but a crystaline compound that was nearly as durable as the hull. And five times as pricey. Looking out the real stars was a luxury that few could afford to have aboard Alliance ships.

"So, the enemy's managed to stall the Thirteenth Fleet, as far as he knows. We're not going to be a problem for days. Plenty of time to fight the Heinessen strike force, come back, and fight us."

"So you think the stall at El Facil is Lagrange's doing?" Schenkopp asked from behing him. He didn't sound too shocked about the whole concept.

"Maybe not Lagrange. Maybe it's Bronze and his guys. They're Intelligence, so why not. And yeah, I think it's them."

"The timing's too convenient," Schenkopp said, "Probably why Fisher let us go without making any fuss about it. He tried to keep quiet."

"For all the good we're doing so far," Attenborough retorted, briefly looking back at the seated general before returning to his survey of the stars. They stared back, completely unaware and uncaring of his frustration.

"The Thirteenth is stalled, so they have to send everything they can to take on what Heinessen's put together. If they can't stop that force, it doesn't matter whether we're a threat or not, its game over. So they'll send everything worthwhile."

"So the ships at Shampool?"

"They can't be the best units they have. This is an afterthought, a way to keep a tight grip on that world. At least that's the most sensible thing. They couldn't afford to keep an elite unit there," he scratched his neck and grunted in frustration, "No way they did."

"And what if they did?" Schenkopp asked suddenly. His tone was so serious that Attenborough turned back to him blinking in surprise.

"I'm sorry?"

"What if they're an elite unit?" the general persisted, his brown eyes intent and fierce, "Does it change anything to what's happening? Does it mean we give up, go back, wait for the rest of the fleet?"

"Of course not!" Attenborough retorted immediately, "Our help'll be wasted if we wait!"

"Agreed," Schenkopp said, his stance softening, almost in relief, "We're here now, and it's not time to doubt ourselves."

"Who's doubting?!" Attenborough grunted, stopping himself from saying more. Instead, he drew a steadying breath, "Alright, alright, fair point. Let's be logical and assume it's not the best unit. It's still too big. I mean, I could defend against it, but a frontal attack."

"How about break through the center? Seems like something that works," the general suggested.

A central breakthrough? He shook his head. "Near a planet, it'll be difficult to go completely through, and the enemy would have enough time to..." He stopped, thinking, "...yeah... there's that. It's nonsense, but... if its timed right..."

Schenkopp made a small, impatient gesture. "It's a bit frustrating when someone talks in broken sentences. Do you have something."

"Yeah," he stopped, then smiled, "Yeah, just might. It makes no sense at face value, but if they're really not elite, it's possible. What if we don't break through?"

An inquisitive eyebrow raised, "Sounds suicidal."

"But it might work... if we mess them up at the same time." He crossed his arms, his smiled widening. The more he thought about it, the crazier it seemed, but the more he loved it. No, he bet they'd never see it coming. "General Schenkopp, you said your men craved a bit of action, right?"

"Yeah," he answered carefully.

"Then I think I've got something right up your alley."

At this point, the Battle of Matemba had been swift, energy draining. One side had done its best to give a crippling blow to the other, or at the very least box it in, while the other had fought desperately to escape the trap it had found itself in. The escape had narrowly succeeded, and the crushing blow had failed, but the damages remained severe. The frantic fighting had left both sides tired, but ultimately unwilling to leave the field, for to leave would be to effectively forfeit the battle to the other. The battle for the loyalty of the Star Fleet and the many units watching from the sideline. was about to start. Both sides knew it would be a gruelling battle of attrition before it was through.

April 10, Matamba Starzone, 5:32

"The enemy is advancing towards the first defense line. Yellow zone in three minutes!"

Yang acknowledged the information, ignoring the restrained nervousness he heard in the officer's voice. The enemy was coming in full force, with the units of the Eleventh Fleet leading the charge. As it should be, he supposed. The Eleventh was the strongest and most coherent force that the other side had. He'd have done the same in that situation.

To counter it, he'd placed the Seventh Fleet, which had been able to hold off the enemy with the least casualties so far, with the First Fleet as support. His headquarters fleet and the Fifth were too diminished or – although he didn't want to say it out loud – not reliable enough to bear the brunt of an all-out assault. They would serve to prevent flanking and to plug up any breach.

It was the only way to place his units that made sense, and he knew that Lagrange had to have seen it at his own meeting. There was nothing surprising about either formation, really.

"They're moving at full speed. Spindle formation?" Greenhill mused from the seat beside him.

"Yeah, they want to drill right through our center, that's bold," Yang mused, remembering when he had faced a similar assault at Astarte. In that case, however, it had been due more to the fact that von Lohengramm had been flushed with an unlikely victory. In Lagrange's case, he just wanted to cause as much damage as he could. "I had to deal with that lately. But it's not exactly the same. The spindle looks thicker, almost as if…" he trailed off, looking at the data. The dispersion of the units were strange, too. The battleships were in three different bunches.

His eyes widened, "That's it. Have the First Fleet prepare to send separate combat units."

Greenhill didn't even bother to acknowledge the order farther than a nod. He immediately got the order moving. It reminded Yang of Murai's no-nonsense, efficient style. It was a good thing to have with you.

Then the sensors reported exactly what he though he was seeing, confirming his impression.

"Admiral Yang, the enemy formation has split in three smaller spindle formations!"

"Yes, that's what it looked like, alright. Vanguard units?"

"Battleships, sir."

"Yellow zone, one minute for the Seventh Fleet!"

This wasn't going to be easy. Even with the Thirteenth, with Fischer's masterful fleet movements supplementing his orders, with Murai's efficiency, McNamara's fire and Attenborough's swiftness… it still wouldn't have been easy. Unlike what the media seemed to think, it never was.

"Hold them, Hogwood," he found himself musing under his breath, "They can't breach this early."

"The enemy has entered the Yellow Zone. The two sides are exchanging fire!"

6:09

"Mass our firepower. Use missiles if there's an opening. I don't want even a measly destroyer getting through our lines!" Hogwood ordered. His voice was firm, but he didn't shout. Shouting, he felt, tended to make people nervous, and he didn't need his people to be unnerved more than they already were..

As if to give a physical representation of that fear, the Quetzalcoatl shook from a near-miss, and the ship's captain turned to Hogwood.

"Sir, we're too close to the front, with our long-range artillery, we should be at the back of the line."

"That'd makes sense, I know, but not this time. We need to be seen holding. The other ships can't have us falling back."

"Sir…"

"Captain, I understand," he said, as the ship shook again, "But there's no other way about it. We can't risk any drop in morale."

A brisk nod, "Aye, aye, sir. But I must respectfully point out that the loss of this ship might affect the morale of the fleet much more than our falling back."

Hogwood wordlessly conceded what the captain – a sturdy man who'd been with him for four years now – was trying to tell him. He agreed for a compromise. "We'll see off the first attack, then we'll move back to the middle of the line. Right now, however, they need the firepower and armor up front."

The captain let go of the argument at that, but that moment of calm didn't last.

"Sir! Three battleships have firing solutions on us! The Kastamon, Du Gange, and Cuerios!"

The captain didn't hesitate. "All available power on forward shields. Fire, three times, on the Kastamon."

"Have our escort unit try and engage the Du Gange and Cuerios," Hogwood mused with a frown, "But all other forces are to work to repulse the Eleventh's push. We musn't loose our focus. Bring up our own battleships to withstand them."

"The Kastamon is firing!" Just as this was said, the command ship shook, the lights momentarily flickering as Hogwood and others struggled to retain their balance, even as fierce streams of light caused some monitors to go out. "A hit! Minor damage to the hull, two of our main cannons have lost fifty percent power!"

"Returning fire!" Came the report from the main gunnery console, "Direct hit on the Kastamon, shields are reading as inoperative."

It would never settle, that feeling of wrongness, of killing men who ought to be on their side. But at that moment, there was no choice.. At that moment, they were Insurgents, they were the enemy. The captain's voice showed that he understood that much, for he didn't hesitate. "Second barrage. Sink the Kastamon."

The ship's forty main cannons, heavier than anything on a standard battleship, belched forth another salvo of neutron beams into the cacophony of explosions and streaks of light that crisscrossed on the viewscreens as the Eleventh made its push. Hogwood couldn't see the enemy battleship with the naked eye, but the sensors gave enough information. The battleship's silhouette flared, and then vasnished. A moment lated, the report came.

"Battleship Kastamon, sunk, Our escorts are engaging the Du Gange and Cuerios." An officer reported.

Hogwood considered his next move., "Monitor the situation, and get us back into position. Communication. Send a message to admiral Yang: the enemy has been engaged, three-pronged assault by battleship units. Still holding."

"Yes, sir."

He sighed. "This is just the first taste. Lagrange won't stop because we're shooting back."

The second part of the Battle of Matemba began on a particularly fierce note, as the full strength of the Eleventh Fleet engaged both the First and the Seventh, with the latter receiving the brunt of the initial assault, a battleship assault that pushed the main line slightly before Hogwood could stabilize. Having less battleships against it, the First under Paeta fared better but was pushed hard enough that it couldn't help the Seventh.

While the Eleventh had weathered some losses as it as it attempted to take Task Force Dawn by surprise, the fact remained that it outnumbered the combined forces of the First and Seventh, albeit not by a large margin. The Eleventh was also led by only one man instead of two, and many of the units that Lagrange commanded remained from the Third Battle of Tiamat, having been trained in aggressive tactics by the infamous vice admiral Holland.

The loyalist forces weren't without advantages of their own, however. Admirals Paeta and Hogwood were of the cautious types, which was excellent when one wanted to carry out a defensive action. Both commanders also adopted curved lines, which taken together made for a ragged half-circle. This allowed the rest of the task force to provide support through internal lines. In this the Fifth Fleet, which was the weakest unit in terms of numbers, gave an excellent accounting of itself. The unit under Yang, for its part, found itself often trying to keep the enemy from outflanking the task force, finding itself clashing with the forces under rear admiral Medina.

6:44

"He doesn't like this," Yang noted wearily, "This constant charging forward, he doesn't like the toll its doing to his side."

"Or perhaps both sides," Greenhill added pensively as they looked at the approaching unit. It was making a textbook approach, the second it had attempted. But one could say it wasn't coming up at full speed.

"That's true enough, on both sides," Yang corrected. It made sense that there would be hesitation on the Insurgent side as well. How strange, and yet how human, for them to think that the other side couldn't feel the same amount of hesitation, of regret. Historically, it was a natural way for any military commander to think. It was naturally easier to strike at an opponent that appeared less than you. "He was a bit… passive… when he fought the Seventh Fleet."

"Something I'm sure the other commanders noticed by now," Greenhill mused, "Same approach vector. I makes sense."

"It does?" Yang enquired.

"Yes. Medina has a cerebral approach to combat. A bit like Borodin himself, I'm afraid, but to a far greater degree," a shrug, 'A lack of independent command doesn't help, I suppose. He's imitating his former commander, but without the practical knowledge behind it."

Yang thought about that. He had overlooked the battle between the Twelfth-driven unit and the Seventh, occupied with his own battles. Still, it had been rather clear that admiral Hogwood had been able to keep Medina at a distance rather handily, using small counterstrikes with destroyers and Spartanians being used to cover the flanks.

The way Hogwood had used it was a variation in the way an aggressive defense was taught, prioritizing fighters over destroyers, which was risky for the fighters and, on paper at least, frowned upon as a central tactic. However, it was only dangerous because the Empire had gunships which, if they slipped past the fighters, could easily wreak havoc upon Alliance ranks, sometimes leaving carrier groups open to slaughter.

"Sir, the enemy forces have stopped," came the voice of the sensor operator. Immediately, Yang looked at the sensor data. It was true. Thousands of enemy ships had stopped just short of the Yellow zone and effective fire exchange.

Seeing this, Yang felt a cold chill. Lagrange had hit the Seventh Fleet's side of the line, forcing the Fifth into diverting its forces to plug up any minor breaches. So far, the Seventh under Hogwood had held very well, but then the forces under Medina had mounted an assault, which Yang had been forced to repulse. He had stayed since their forces seemed to be reforming.

Seeing the enemy stop, he felt a cold sliver run down his spine. These people didn't look like they were going to attack. They stayed near, so that they'd have no choice but commit to that space, and wonder what was going on. A delaying tactic...

"We've committed too much over there," he mused.

"A decoy?" Greenhill asked.

Had Yang been in any way inclined to do so, he would have cursed out loud. As it was, the urge to do it anyway made itself known with a self-reproaching growl that surprised even him. He turned his sights to the communications officer.

'Priority message to admiral Paeta: look to your fleet, they're about to put pressure on you. Verdone and the Third will likely try to outflank!'

And even as he said so, he saw the Verdone unit, which had held back so far, go for the First's part of the circle with clear abandon. Yang's unit had been on the Seventh's side to begin with, and with the Fifth joining, the First Fleet was virutally on its own for now.

Yang grimaced, taking his beret off of his head and squeezing it in one hand. This wasn't good. Not at all.

6:51

Verdone grinned. The ploy had worked. The Heinessen followers had diverted their forces away from the First, leaving only Paeta to deal with. At that moment, he knew, Lagrange would shift the forces under stokes to put increased pressure on that sector. This would be their hunt, Verdone's and his boys.

"This is it, people!" He called over the comms. "This is our time to strike back at the fools that cover for a damned government of criminals and incompetents! We will strike a telling blow against those that spit on those who died for this ungrateful nation!"

He had never felt so good. Finally, admiral Lefebvre, his friend and mentor, forgotten by all of his so-called peers, would be avenged. And with him all of those who died because of the snakes that inhabited the rat-hole that people called the Hub. The rebellion was a righteous move against those that turned away from the Third Fleet.

But this? This felt like outright destiny: to fight against the government apologist among government apologists, the great admiral Paeta! The man that lost them so many men due to his blind incompetence! He wished he could see the man's face!

"All forces, pick your targets and charge. Sear those ships out of space!" he growled as his forces surged forward.

"Sir, some of the enemy forces are turning to meet us. Fighter forces are diverting."

Verdone nodded, his personal morale untainted by the news. It was fast movement for Paeta, he supposed, but it wasn't going to be enough, he'd make sure of that.

"A few groups of Spartanians and a couple of destroyers, is that the best the Failure of Astarte can do?" he mused, "Try to at least make it some kind of challenge!"

'Entering Yellow zone range!'

'Need I say more, then? Fire away!'

It must be said that, in the last two years, admiral Paeta's reputation as a commander had suffered quite a bit. He had lost a significant amount of ships at Legnica, falling for the ploy of one Reinhard von Musel, before letting the forces of the same man pass unmolested right before the main guns of the then-his Second Fleet at the Fourth Battle of Tiamat. The final straw, however, had been at Astarte, when later analysis of the battle showed that Paeta should have met up with the remaining fleet once it had seemed the plan to encircle the enemy – again commanded by the recently renamed Reinhard von Musel.

Other commanders, however, had come to Paeta's defense. Legnica had been a blunder, but it had come from the fact that young Imperial commanders did tend to be reckless in the past, leading to experienced Alliance officers striking telling blows. As for Tiamat, although the Second Fleet had had the enemy in sight the longest, other forces had failed to unleash their own firepower, and the commander-in-chief of the time never ordered such a firing.

In the case Astarte, while Paeta's choice had turned out to be the wrong one, it was made with the desire to aid an allied fleet instead of abandoning it. Although it almost led to a complete defeat, the move was human and honorable.

Because of these factors, Paeta wasn't troubled much beyond a rather harsh debriefing, and had been allowed to retain command of a fleet. Him having been cleared of wrongdoing by the high command, however, didn't change the fact that many officers took a dim view of the commander of the First Fleet, to the extent that even soldiers in his new command were known to bemoan, sometimes no-so-privately, that they had traded the competent, steadfast Kubersly for the unreliable Paeta.

In the Third Fleet, Verdone had been of that opinion, although his commander, Lefebvre, had been one of Paeta's defenders, one thing they disagreed on. It was thus no surprise that he would think that the 'Failure of Astarte' would fold when being faced with pressure from two forces.

Although there was some reason behind this idea, most of it was wishful thinking that forgot a crucial fact: Paeta was an experienced officer, with twenty-eight years of active duty and participation in several key battles. If he tended to befriend politicians and was subservient to those in governmental authority, he had also gained his commands the hard way, rising to vice-admiral on merit.

Finally, for all of his blunders, real or imagined, those who knew Paeta as a person were aware that, when pushed, he would not run. When pushed, he would fight.

And Paeta, at that moment, had no intention to fail again.

9:37

He was fairly certain that he could discern what the enemy wanted to do, as it was as blunt and obvious as a transport ship. The enemy was going to hit him hard from the front, just as Verdone tried his best to smash him from the side. If it went well, his side would cave in, possibly dooming the entire effort and forcing a collapse.

They might still win in the long run after that. He was sure they could. But it'd be another damned reverse. On his head.

The Failure of Astarte, become Failure of Matemba?

Hell no. Not this time. The Third's no passing here!

"Get me rear admiral Zarniel on the line. Now."

It didn't take long. In seconds, his second in command was looking across the screen at him, face tense yet resolute.

"They're going to hit us hard, so focus on holding them here. Use destroyers to plug in any breaches, and don't be stingy with the fighters. I'm going to leave the port units entirely to you, with Belenus as flag."

There was a slight narrowing of Zarnial's eyes, but nothing else. There was no time for that. "I suppose the starboard units are going to be used against Verdone, sir?"

Paeta nodded. He'd had enough of youngster showing him up. Yang, he could – reluctantly – accept. There had always been something that man, no matter how irritating he could be. But to be shown up by Verdone, that Lefebvre had to keep under control all the time? No way.

"You bet. The Patrocles and I are gonna show that excited kid why he should respect his elders."

10:08

"Sir! The First Fleet is charging us!" Came the voice of his comms officer, a note of shock and disbelief easy to spot.

For a moment, Verdone thought he'd heard wrong. Surely, a charge wasn't going to be answered by another charge. That made no sense at all, Paeta didn't react to an offensive with another offensive. No, Paeta'd dither, and then he'd…

"Sir, confirmed presence of battleships, coming at our center full speed. Command battleship Patrocles detected at the center of the formation."

Verdone gritted his teeth, "Confirm that. Divert cruisers towards the center to support our own battleships."

"Sir, the cruiser squadrons are currently embattled with Spartanian fighter squadrons. It'll take them some time to make their way to the center."

Verdone glared at the screen as the force of battleships barrelled right towards the center of his lines. He didn't have time to wait for the cruisers. Suddenly, and without thinking much about it, he gave what orders seemed to make the most sense.

"Pull back our lines, fortify behind our battleships, and send out the Spartanians! Blunt the enemy's charge!"

"Sir, message incoming from the enemy fleet! It's vice admiral Paeta on a direct channel, audio only!"

For a moment, he considered not answering, giving the enemy the silent treatment. However, not giving such an answer was generally considered to be a sign of weakness. And he wasn't about to show weakness now. "Patch it through."

Paeta's voice came through clearly, dripping with contempt. "You think you're the first man who ever tried a flanking maneuver? Please. Let me show you how a fleet rushes people."

With that, the link went dead.

To defend by launching an offensive wasn't new. In fact, Andrew Forbes, who had led the restored Star Fleet in the Battle of Shandarua a century ago, had been one of the rare masters of the 'offensive defense', and numerous other officers had used it with varying degrees of success during the War.

The main variable of such a military move was timing, as acting too early would reveal the unit and allow the enemy to entrench, while acting too late would strip away ships from defenses, making the flanking action a nearly assured success.

It was often debated as to why rear admiral Verdone abandoned his plan to rush forward, as he was already in the Yellow Zone when Paeta began to move forward, and had the initiative. Some said that Verdone might have been surprised by the move, as it went against conventional tactics for the situation the First Fleet found itself in. Others mused that it was disbelief that a cautious commander like Paeta would suddenly rush out. A third faction yet wondered if there wasn't a plan to catch the First's rush and shatter it.

None of the facts allowed for one of the options to be declared as more likely, although it was agreed by most that there were elements of all three likely present.

Whatever the case, Paeta's charge of twenty-eight hundred ships wasn't meant to succeed, but only surprise Verdone into backing off. As the rebelling admiral created an hasty line, the First's ships made an attack, then retreated back in good order, their Spartanians providing successful fighter cover.

With their momentum stopped and the ships already in confusion as they shifted from offense to defense, admiral Verdone was unable to attack the retreating enemy for nearly twenty minutes, which allowed the First to retreat a bit further inward and fortify, changing the shape of the formation from a quarter circle into a rough v-shaped sector.

Meanwhile, Hogwood and Medina finally exchanged fire, but the heat on both sides was lukewarm, confirming to the loyalist commanders that the efforts had been a faint, and nothing more. With the flanks momentarily secure, the action fully shifted back to the center, where the Seventh and First kept exchanging beam fire and missile salvos with the Eleventh Fleet, whittling down the strength of both sides and gaining little for either in return.

The next ten hours became far more violent than the failed ambush had ever been. The initial movements were intended, many believed, as an operation to quickly force the Star Fleet to retreat, lose face, and for the Insurgency to appeal to the neutral units. Despite the losses, leeway was given for wounded ships to limp away, or for lifeboats to be rescued by either side.

The second phase of Matamba was very different, as both sides knew that they were playing not for tactical, but for strategic gains, and that it hinged on the other side leaving the field no matter the cost. As such, the fight rapidly devolved into a fierce battle of attrition that almost rivalled the second day of Dionysus. The tragic difference being that, this time, it wasn't the conventional Imperial versus Republican fight. This time, both sides were of the Free Planets Alliance, and both sides tried to destroy each other with abandon. Camaraderie and shared battles burned away in the heat of cannons and missiles.

Torrents of alloy-destroying neutrons lashed out all throughout the line, shattering shields, burning through layers of armor, cooking men and women alive as they fled. Wounded ships were mercilessly hunted down by enemy kills squads, fire on both sides were to concentrated to allow for many escape pods to survive. Dozens of ships and thousands of lives were lost to each shift of the battle-lines, even as swarms of Spartanians engaged lone ships and each other like angry wasps around enraged beasts, giving no quarter and expecting none.

Independent of the commanders' intention, the fight slowly devolved into an effective brawl, with each side intent on only one goal: breaking the enemy.

Many would later say that it broke an illusion that the Free Planets Star Fleet had clung to ever since its inception, and more tightly than ever since the beginning of the War: that for all of their hardships, for all of the battles, the Fleet would remain a unified whole, one in purpose to defend their nation from the machinations of the autocratic Empire and its despised nobility. Small instances of limited rebellions and mutinies had happened over the last two centuries to be sure, but those had been brushed aside as aberrations, not representative of the will of the Fleet. The core of it, people had perhaps stubbornly maintained, remained strong and unified.

Even the early fighting hadn't quite shattered that illusion, as the casualties had been rather minimal, especially as, on the other side of the Alliance, the Eight and Tenth Fleet were pursuing their own insurrectionists, but hadn't fought more than skirmishes thus far. There had been minor ground battles, yes, but officers still said that the Fleet remained one.

At Matemba, there was no such excuse possible. Even the most even-headed commander couldn't see the battle and think that it was anything but a fierce clash between actual enemies. The forces of the Free Planets Star Fleet had split in ideology, one wishing for change at all costs and the other aiming to preserve the nation's institutions at all costs. Their positions were now cemented by an increasing amount of shattered hulls and lost was no middle ground.

The Free Planets Alliance was facing a major rebellion, like its enemy the Empire had before, and the ramifications of the knowledge that they weren't any safer from such things as their autocratic nemesis would have repercussions far beyond Matamba's sun.

As these thoughts became clear to many a mind, however, the slaughter continued.

Strategic Planning Centre, Heinessen, 10:43

"You should get some sleep, old man."

"Not really sleepy at the moment. Haven't been for a while, really."

"Same here. But you should really get some sleep."

"Is that an order?"

"I sure as Hell can make it one. For pity's sake, has your wife seen your recently?"

"I'm sure we met sometimes this week."

"All the more reason to go home already, Alex!"

"I'll make a deal with you, Luis. We both go home together."

Kubersly - only a select few ever earned the right to call him by his first name, and that only in private - gave him a stern look that Bucock figured probably worked with anybody who had less then forty years of military experience under his belt. It probably sent captains running, lieutenants into mental fits, and ensigns into comas.

However, over fifty years had made him immune to any physical coercion, eyes or otherwise. So he only raised his eyebrows and dared the only man in the military to blatantly outrank him to make him go home through an actual order.

He could see that the fleet admiral truly toyed with the idea, the desire to put his foot down warring with the fact that, then, he'd be alone overseeing the horrifying situation at Matamba alone in his office, without someone to freely vent with. There were certainly a few aides and zealous men and women on their level of the Centre, certainly, but he was sure that the Joint Forces Commander inviting a junior lieutenant for a chat would leave the poor young man bedridden out of sheer stress for a week afterwards.

The idea of drinking himself into a stupor alone, even with the best - and totally illegal - Imperial cognac - clearly held no appeal to the top-ranked soldier of the Alliance, and he relented with a sigh. "Damn, can't you let me pretend I'm your superior officer and just do what I say?"

"Well," Bucock drawled a bit, putting his glass forward, "You can refuse me a refill, but I'll still think you're sort of cheap about it."

A shake of the head was all Kubersly did at that, before he took the half-emptied bottle that had throned in the middle of the table for the last hour, and poured the reddish liquid into Bucock's glass.

"You're an insubordinate ass. I should get you demoted," came the grumble.

"My wife'd probably throw you a party," Was Bucock's immediate and completely sincere reply. He wasn't even joking about that: at this point, she really just might.

All banter, of coure and all of it meaningless. All of it a feint, to keep themselves from the silence, and the data that was scrolling down from the satellites, outposts, and scanners that were fixed the Matamba Starzone. Anything for them to get a breather from the combat information that it was decided would be kept, for now at least, completely on a need-to-know basis.

It was a wise move, too, Bucock told himself. Because he was one of the people who needed to know, and even he could have done without the knowledge that two Alliance forces were busy smashing each other to bits.

The reports from that battlefield came in a steady stream, but the calculations from all quarters were such that there was nearly an hour of lag. In effect, what they were watching was what the combattants had been doing fifty-three minutes ago.

They hadn't seen much of the ambush, simply due to the fact that nobody had thought that a fight would happen at Matemba, a minor system, almost an afterthought. They had seen the separation of the units, then the regrouping. And then, of course, the clash of two large fleets.

There had been attempts at tactics at first, and both sides were sensibly placed. Certainly, with the Insurgents having the larger fleet – someone had seriously screwed up there – Tempest had been forced into the defensive. True tactics would have needed a full resupply and regrouping, something neither side had the ability to do. Lousy political imperative made sure of that.

"How many ships have been lost so far?" He wondered, refusing to ask the human death toll. He had no need for that knowledge at the moment. Or at any other moment, come to think of it, but he'd have to get around to it. Just not now.

"Calculations are sketchy, Matemba's not exactly a major system," Kubersly said, a variant of what he said anytime Bucok had asked over the last three hours. He, too, didn't want to know anything about it if he could help it, "But best guess? About six thousand ships between the two sides."

With an average of at least fifty casualties per ship, his mind unhelpfully supplied, that's three hundred thousand at minimum, and if they can't get to the escape pods…

He turned away from the thought, sickened. The equivalent of a small city, wiped out not by Imperials, but by fellow Alliance soldiers. In all of his years, despite all of the rising cynicism he felt, the institutional corruption he saw, this was one thing he'd never imagined would happen, yet there it was.

"They're going to break eventually," he noted, knowing it was something they both knew, "It's a battle of attrition, and the other side has more numbers. They'll cross the cohesion threshold, and then they'll have to pull back."

"And we'll look bad enough for those who still have 'issues', the fleet admiral noted, the last word tinged with disgust, "By the way, any success on that front?"

"For now? I'm planning a few things, gathering some ships for a little tour. Sure would be useful if we could find Borodin, but so far, finding him has been..."

"Right, still a blank on that one, too."

Bucock frowned. He knew that his friend and his flagship had been left adrift by Medina somewhere between Neptise and Shampool, although where exactly was the mystery. He knew that his friend would be willing, if not outright eager, to lead the loyal parts of the fleet against the men that had betrayed him. But nothing so far.

"He's out there, I'm sure," Bucock said with certainty. In fact, he wasn't all that certain, but he hoped that admiral Medina's basic sense of loyalty maintained itself long enough. He had to cling to that.

"At least Ulanf and Appleton don't seem to be running into that sort of problem," Kubersly noted, his friend likely wanting to talk about something else with the depressing data coming in.

"The day's still young, so they say," Bucock growled, "We can't think its absolutely going to go their way."

"No, of course not, but so far its more of a question of catching rather than fighting,"

That was true enough, if nothing else. While Lagrange had rebelled with his entire fleet, and others had brought him significant increases in battleships, carriers and fighters. Certainly, destroyers were superb units for scouting, and cruisers were the mainstay of any fleet, but battleships were always a fleet's heavy firepower, and carriers really helped in creating fighter support.

In the cases of the Eight and Tenth, however, their commanders had acted fast enough, and they few battleships or carriers were left to the Insurgents. And since less than a fifth of each fleet had gone over to the other side in the end, it gave Ulanf and Appleton a tremendous edge that was almost certain to get them a victory when it finally came down to a fight.

That, however, was the problem. The enemy forces – he couldn't believe he had really started calling former comrades by the word that was strictly reserved for the Imperial forces – were outgunned and outnumbered, but they had yet to be pinned down, and so far they had been roaming around, raiding small bases, and clearly trying to get a path towards Shampool.

They had been stopped from that much through the two men's cooperation, but a battle eluded the two. And until they dealt with their elusive prey, the two fleets weren't able to go and help Tempest.

What a mess.

"However, there's still the Thirteenth," Kubersly mused pensively. Bucock took a sip from the cognac, sighing wearily. I'm getting really old for this kind of constant… then his tired mind caught up with what his friend had said.

"The Thirteenth? What about it?" he asked.

"Well, we've been so intent of the clash at Matemba, we haven't thought much about the Thirteenth Fleet. They're the main asset, you can't argue with that."

"Sure, they're a war-hardened unit, and they're used to Yang's command style. But there's a problem about them. They're too far away to make the difference we want."

Kubersly's voice, however, was more doubtful. 'Are you sure about that? While you've been wallowing in self-pity…'

"I certainly haven't been wallowing in anything," Bucock retorted, 'And if I have, so have you.'

Kubersly acted as if he hadn't talked. "While that happened, I've been checking their sector from time to time, and I've noticed something interesting about the way they've been coming to help us out."

With that said, like a magician finally agreeing to show his trick, he tapped a few buttons on his desk, and the screen shifted from Matemba to the field of stars that stretched from Volhan at the mouth of Iserlohn Corridor to Enyo Starzone itself. Blue icons peppered that field, showing inhabited system, while grey icons showed simple warp transit points. On that field, two such points were highlighted, one at an inhabited system, one at a transit.

"Haan Starzone," Kubersly said, pointing at the first, "That's where we got one of the signals from the Thirteenth, and that's about where they're supposed to be." He then pointed to another system, grey, smaller, barely worthy of notice aside as a link, much like Matemba had been until recently.

"Caatinga, another possible detection, much farther than they're supposed to be. Flared up around Enyo itself."

Bucock frowned as he looked at the data. It was hard to believe that the Thirteenth Fleet were at two points, and even if they did divide, why would one part be at one point that is farther than the other? A small force, maybe? But to what end?

Whoever that was was taking a huge risk. He wondered what the commander of that unit was thinking of doing. And hoped he achieved it, possibly without getting killed.

"Well, that's something alright," was all he said on the moment.

Enyo Starzone, 12:09

He refused to think about the important of what he was undertaking could be in the long run, or how dangerous in the short run. Some might have pointed out the strategic value of the plan, if it worked. Some would also muse about the tactical futility of it if it didn't. The more narrow-minded might have gone on about glory, or honor. He was sure that even Yang would have commented about the historical aspect of the whole thing.

He wasn't even going to try any of those things. Attenborough knew this for what it was: a reckless romp, a jaunt into danger. A whimsical idea he had come up to help his friend in a very tough battle. That was enough for him.

"Alright," Attenborough mused, looking over the Triglav's bridge, and the data in front of him, "Communications, the enemy portside will have a ship that's giving most of the orders. I want you to pinpoint the area the orders are coming from. Sensor, your job is to find me the ship it's from. It's probably going to be one of the battleships they have but keep an eye out."

"Yes, commodore."

"Affirmative, sir."

He immediately opened communications, "Triglav to Arrowhead, are you ready?"

"This is Arrowhead," came the voice of Kasper Lintz, "We're ready. Get us those coordinates, and we'll get through."

Attenborough looked at Lao, his chief of staff, "So far so good."

The Asian-descended officer looked at the data around Shampool 'Especially since they haven't attacked yet.'

"They're already pretty surprised to see us here," Attenborough retorted, smiling even as he looked at the screen in front of him, at the green ships laid out in a defensive posture, Shampool's yellow orb, flecked with scant blue and green, dancing in the background. 'They probably weren't expecting us for days, yet. And we're not about to let them start thinking about an attack. What we need is for them to start giving orders. Lots of them. Have the ships take a spindle formation.'

"Right down the middle?"

"Nothing like a frontal attack to have people panicking," he said, still smiling, "I like the simplicity of it."

Honestly, he was just as worried about the operation as the next guy. Oh, he was pretty confident that, if it came to that, he could get his forces out of this mess. What he was concerned about, however, was the idea of failure. The thought that the men and women who would certainly be killed or wounded would have paid the price without managing to do what they wanted: cause a panic big enough for the enemy to outright call for help. A simple report of enemy activity simply wasn't going to do. It had to be bigger than that.

Lao probably got the worry under the satisfied grin, but wasn't going to call him on it, simply carrying out the instructions. Quickly and efficiently, the forces assumed a spindle shape, ready to strike. Not that he was surprised at the quickness of it. His unit was all part of the former Ninth Fleet. He had been commanding them when Yang had come to the rescue at Dionysus, and he his friend had made sure he stayed in command afterwards. Thirteenth Fleet now, but still Ninth Fleet before that, they'd follow him to Hell and back, he was sure of it.

A whimsy? Perhaps not as much as he wanted it to be. But it was too late to consider anything else about it.

"This is it, then," he said, "All ships, move in! Hard and fast, all guns blazing! Knock down the door! But don't get killed out there, and get ready to pull back once we've done what we came to do!"

12:24

The ships shook slightly from time to time, as they waited in the hold, ready to breach the moment they could attach. Schenkopp barely registered it. Alliance assault ships were both fast and heavily armored, at the cost of it being utterly devoid of anything that remotely could be called comfort. Long rows of benches filled the breach room, an hexagonal zero-g room with ment strapped in, waiting to surge through the hatch and the forward boarding tube that would attach to their target.

There was a grim sense of understanding that some there wouldn't be coming back, of course. But also present was an underlying electricity in the air. The Rosen Ritter were going to fight, and they couldn't be happier for it. The men that made up the unit were not only trained for it, many of them craved the challenge of breaching and taking a ship.

People from fifty years ago, when the unit was barely formed, would have been astounded at what they'd see, as the level of preparedness, of competence in the room. A publicity stunt by the Alliance had become one of the best units on both sides of the conflict. Men seen as spoiled Imperial brats were now renowned and feared for the patch they wore. Whoever saw that rose knew better than to pick a fight if they could help it.

Schenkopp, who had known the cold gaze of Alliance officials, the disdain of those who had seen only an Imperial kid, could fully appreciate the respect. It had been his original goal for joining, passing the grueling training regimen and the psychological demands that would get one to join. Over the years, however, that need had become less important than the camaraderie found among these men, and the expectation of a good scrap here and there.

And the women at every port, part of him teased as he checked his axe, activating it. It hummed softly, he noted with satisfaction. It was ready to tear through armor as it had many times before. Deactivating it, he also made one final check to his combat armor, carefully checking if the its integrity. He particularly made certain that the sealant compound was in working order, reading to seal any gash. He didn't mind dying in battle all that much, but suffocating in the vaccum was something he'd really like to avoid. He also checked his boots, making sure they were properly magnetized. Cutting gravity and removing life support were standard ways to try to expel boarders, after all.

Everything checked out. He had just finished placing his helmet – still open – on his head, locking it in place, when Lintz floated to him, using his boots to brace himself next to where he was strapped in. He looked at his second-in-command with pride mingled with a bit of envy. The man was four years younger than he was, and he'd seen him grow from a new recruit to one of the few in the unit who'd be a challenge to fight. Not only that, but Lintz had shown an ease of command, one quieter than his commander's, that made him reliable and popular among the men.

Ex-commander, a voice reminded him mercilessly, I'm just here because of self-indulgence. The Rosen Ritter aren't mine anymore. But it was hard to not think of the unit he had spent a decade in as anything else but family.

"We're all ready," Lintz told him, as easily as any other report he had given him, no hint of resentment registering. Not that Lintz would ever show that sort of thing. He was way better than that.

"Good," Schenkopp mused then felt compelled to add, "And sorry about this."

"Sir?" Lintz queried. He sounded confused about the last words.

"I should be on the Triglav, not here," the general said with a wry grin, "Don't pretend that's not true. I'm muddling the command structure before an operation, your command structure. So, sorry about that."

Lintz smiled in response, "I don't see the point in changing the command structure just yet. If anything, sir, I'll have to wait to see if your promotion will stick. If you manage to burn through admiral Caserne or admiral Yang's patience and get demoted. I'm just keep a spot ready for you.

Schenkopp grinned at the image he saw, although he doubted that would happen. Caserne was a devoted family man – something he couldn't quite grasp – who seemed hard to push to anger. And Yang's ability to deflect words was far better than it seemed at first glance. And neither man was the petty kind. No, they'd stick with him.

"Thanks," he answered, "But I think that's the last indulgence I'll have. These guys are your guys now."

"So I'll see it as a vacation, then."

"Most people wouldn't call a boarding action a vacation, you know."

"Right," Lintz said dismissively, "But the Rosen Ritter aren't most people. On that note, sir, I think it's time to the little pep talk. If that's going to be your last romp with us, you should do this one. You've always somewhat been good at it." With another smile, Lintz took off and returned to his seat.

Schenkopp grinned, touched by the gesture, and unbuckled himself, making his way to the hatch, grasping one of the handles to steady himself. He banged it twice, the sound reverberating through the chamber. Almost immediately, the low-key conversations fizzled or cut of, and in seconds all eyes were on him.

"Alright, you Roses," he called, 'Called to show your thorns as always. This isn't your first op, so I'll spare you the cuddling." A few chuckled at that. Another tremor, another near hit. Nobody took notice.

"Right now, Attenborough and the other gentlemen from the Fleet are raising a huge fuss. They're going to split the fleet in two, and stay there, while they pinpoint the main ship from of the enemy. Our job is to take over that ship, and get it to send a signal to regroup to reform and counter. This'll allow our side to even things out numerically. I'll trust Attenborough to put the half that remains to flight."

"If we scare them badly enough, the enemy's going to ask for reinforcements, especially as we're making it clear we're Thirteenth Fleet. That'll relieve pressure on admiral Yang and the others at Matamba,' he stopped, 'If we don't screw up, that is."

"So, no pressure!" One of the seated man said with a mock sigh. A short laugh went through the six platoons. Schenkopp grinned briefly, but continued seriously.

"We've got a small window to take control of the ship. So, let's do this by the numbers. First platoon, you secure our landing zone. Third platoon goes right after with the heavy toys. I want that level suppressed and ours. Its our safe zone if things go South."

"Second platoon, you take the engine. Fifth is the armory. First platoon, environmental control. Thrust, weapons, emergency bulkheads. Fourth platoon goes for the brains, the bridge. It's where we've got fleet comms, and we'll need it to get the enemy on this side to scram. Questions."

It was Lintz that spoke up, "Sir, what about resistance? How far are we allowed to go on this one? This isn't an Imperial ship, after all."

That was a good question. Generally, taking an Imperial ship was simple: a surrendering enemy was to be given quarter if at all possible, but armed resistance was to be put down at all costs. This, however, was an Alliance ship. Even Attenborough had cautioned Schenkopp to be extra careful about how he went about taking the ship.

But a caution wasn't an order, and the admiral had been careful not to frame it as such. Meaning that the command was ultimately his. And as far as he was concern, the flag that had enemy ship wore made no difference.

"We're not here to play nice," he said, "And if they didn't want us to come down on them hard, these guys shouldn't have made it so they'd be on the side opposite the likes of us. They made their damn bed, they sleep in it. As far as I'm concern, this is just another Imperial ship, and there's too much riding on this for it to be anything else. They're the enemy and are to be treated like the enemy! Understood?"

"Sir!" The chamber echoed with the response from dozens of throats.

"Then get ready, kids," he ordered, "I expect you to hit the ground fighting, axes and guns blazing and not stop until that ship's under our control! You with me, Rosen Ritter?!"

Their roar shook the hold this time.

12:48

"We're cutting through the enemy forces, admiral. Middling resistance."

If someone looked outside, he'd be tempted to say that the report was incorrect, what with the almost manic beams lancing out from one side to the other, as well as blueish sparks from shields withstanding a hit the explosive clouds of sorts from shields being bypassed, and the bright, orange-white balls that showed when a ship sank. But despite the apparent level of violence, Attenborough saw that the operator was right – the spindle formation had already gone through two thirds of the enemy formation.

"Make sure we're jamming both halves, comms, or this is gonna be an exercise in futility," the admiral mused, barely listening to the officer's assurance that it would be so. Instead, he kept watching. Most of the operators being occupied elsewhere, he felt the need to see how the enemy was reacting in detail.

There were certainly attempts to stop the focused beam attacks of the spindle as it came in, defensive lines trying to cushion or outright negate the effect. But those attempts had been uneven, with some spots using missiles, others beams. Some used focused artillery, others focused on ships. Yet some sent Spartanians, while others eschewed them completely.

It was a very random defense, with no real focus or accord, although there were attempts to do exactly that. It showed that each unit wasn't inexperienced, but that they had seen very limited action as a whole. The synergy of purpose, as some called particularly efficient fleet movements, was absent.

"Are they trying to get around us?" he asked himself, "No, they're too dogged in trying to hold cohesion. They don't want us cutting them, because they don't have the ability to work as one once jammed." He nodded to himself. He'd gambled that it would be something like that. With the Thirteenth supposed to be days away, Lagrange wasn't about to take lesser units in a fight with the fleet barrelling down on him from Heinessen.

Meanwhile, the sensor and communications operators were busy deciphering fleet movements and communications, sifting through mounds of data, not concentrating on decryption but on source.

'Rotate our cruisers and battleships,' he reminded his fleet, 'Let them show a different side every half hour, no more. Keep the formation tight, and keep up the forward firepower!' Another flash of light. His side. He grimaced. "Casualties?"

"Unclear. Between fifty and sixty ships, including those ships that may be jammed in some way."

Five or so percent of his force. Not too bad for now, but that was only if he intended to carry out a breakthrough. If he did what he intended to do, and Schenkopp failed, that number was going to rise. Fast.

They was only one defensive line left when one of the operator, then another, confirmed the main transmission hub. It was a battleship located to starboard, named Moyosan. The moment he heard that information, he ordered the fleet to send the strike ship that the Rosen Ritter were onboard of to give Schenkopp the coordinates, then ordered his forward batteries to redouble their efforts.

"Don't let them maintain communications!' he ordered, his clear voice resounding in the cavernous bridge, 'Cut that final link with everything we've got!"

His orders were obeyed, but at this point, he needn't have bothered. The enemy was clearly intent on reforming their ranks once the breakthrough was completed. It was the usual way for a force that hadn't been routed to do so. Even Yang's method at Astarted had only differed by having the two sides offer only token resistance, then moving immediately to the rear of the enemy force, rather than wait and reform away from the enemy altogether. It had been a brilliant move that played well on an overconfident enemy.

His move was going to be different. It was the sort of thing that, if he'd tried it at the Academy, he'd have been sternly admonished for its recklessness, and he probably would have gotten in trouble over it. Not that he was the kind to keep out of trouble, but something like what he was prepared to do would have been a special case, no question about it.

"We've broken through, admiral!"

"Strike ship acknowledges the information and is on its way, sir."

"Alright," Attenborough could help but smiled at the absurdity of the order he was going to give, "All ships, full stop. Stay in the middle of the enemy formation. Keep jamming both halves. I want no intercommunications."

The order was acknowledged and obeyed, but the tone from his officers showed the nervousness that no amount of professionalism could erase. Stopping in the middle of what were now two distinct enemy formations certainly would create surprise, but also made his units ripe targets for pincer assaults and outright getting surrounded. It was so potentially dangerous that he probably would have thought anybody but Yang crazy to try it. Maybe Yang included, come to think of it.

"Reorient ships to fire on both sides of the enemy force. How is the enemy responding?' he demanded.

"Sporadically, sir. Its… like they don't know what to make of us."

That makes sense. I'd be confused to, to be honest. I can use that confusion, though. "Fire volleys into the enemy, and prepare for defensive actions. The moment they realize were not going to move, things are gonna get pretty messy around here."

The ball's in your court, Schenkopp, he thought as he looked a the tactical screen, Make it happen. Make it happen fast.

13:01

It wasn't the place to feel that sort of relish, Schenkopp knew as the strike ship made contact with the enemy's hull with a resounding clang of metal, its magnetic clamps attaching it even as the boarding tube started to tear into the battleship's thick hull. It wasn't the sort of place at all, but he couldn't help himself. There was a thrill of expectation that he couldn't repress.

"We've broken through the hull. Pressure on the other side," the captain's voice came through the intercom, "Give them Hell, gentlemen."

Schenkopp tapped his helmet's comms, "Thanks for the cheer, bridge. First platoon, you're up."

Four dozen men immediately all but flew through the boarding tube, using their suits' limited thrusters. All of them were ready with their axes, and had a heavy rifle slung across their backs. In one efficient minute, they were out.

"We're clear," came captain Sanblöm's voice, "No resistance for now, third platoon can…" there was a sudden sound of a commotion, and the distinctive sound of laser rifles erupted, "Amend that, LZ is not clear, engaging!"

There were sounds of a struggle, frantic laser fire, and then screams. First, many, then fewer. The sound of fire also lessened abruptly. Then Sandblöm's voice came back.

"LZ is clear. Second platoon can come up."

A sign from Schenkopp, and third platoon was going through the boarding tube. They carried heavy lasers with a heavy tripod. Once installed at strategic location, the entire level would be a safe zone to fall back on in case things went wrong. Not that he foresaw things going wrong, but taking chances was for rookies and dumb military groups. The Rosen Ritter were neither of these things.

There was no more noise, and each of the other four platoon quickly went up the boarding tube. Schenkopp's platoon was the first of these, coming up to the scene of a small fight with the ship's security. Even as first platoon continued its sweep and third were busy installing defenses, he spotted the uniformed, helmeted bodies of these security men, all of them lying in pools of their own blood, all of them sporting fatal axe slashes. Designed to pierce combat armour, the damage these weapons could do on less protected bodies was nasty to behold. The closest body had his head all but cleaved in two, the one next to him had his midsection opened wide, entrails visible like so much fleshy spaghetti.

There was a time when he'd have been bothered by it. Now they barely registered. His trainers and years of subsequent experience had taught him not to see the bodies. These were mounds of meat, nothing else. As long as they fight was on, that was all the value his eyes would give them. Good mental health demanded it.

So he barely glanced at the broken bodies, at the blood, and hefted his axe. "Fourth platoon, with me. We don't stop until we take that bridge."

He received acknowledgements from his commanders, and suppressing a grin of excitement, Schenkopp started to lead his force down the blood-spattered, metallic corridor.

13:09

"Commander, the Insurgent forces are increasing their firepower," came the sensor operator's voice.

Attenborough nodded as he heard it. It had taken them eight minutes to figure out that they were never going to pass through them as the book told them should happen. It was longer than he'd feared, shorter than he'd hoped. He'd have to make do, he supposed.

"This is where we need to hold on," he ordered, "Transfer any available energy to the defense systems." The jamming was preventing both sides from coordinating, so he could probably take them on by alternating his defense schemes. But they were bound to catch on through that timing.

Hurry up, you cocky bastard, he thought, I don't know how long we can keep up a pincer attack in this situation.

"Sir, the enemy from the starboard side are making a push!"

"I see them! Battleships, shift to starboard, protect the carriers. Prepare to repel the assault!"

13:18

The two axes clashed, jarring Schenkopp's arms as the lethal vibration was felt through his suit. Armored and insulated it might be, but there was a limit to what it could do. The blow forced him and the enemy soldier back for a moment, but nothing else. He set his feet and push forward instead, striking a blow for the neck of the other soldier.

The other man parried, but imperfectly, his own axe being driven to hit the helmet with a loud noise. For a moment, the enemy lost his footing, and Schenkopp saw his chance. He shifted his stance, and before the Insurgent could recover, swept his adversary's foot from under him. Flailing, the enemy went down. Likely knowing what would happen, the downed man clutched his axe and tried to bring it up for another parry.

He never got the chance.

Even as the other men fell, Schenkopp had shifted again, raising his arms in a wide upward arc, bringing it down like a lumberjack of old attacking a particularly stubborn branch. The blow smashed into the enemy's face plate, burying itself deep. The Insurgent soldier seemed make a half grasp for his destroyed face, spasms coursing through a body in its death throes, before his axe fell from dead fingers, and the body lay still.

Schenkopp spared no thought to his enemy beyind registering that it had become lifeless meat. He swiftly tore the axe from the bleeding pulp that had been a man's face, bringing himself to a ready position, waiting for more attackers. None came, and he allowed himself to take stock of the situation.

They had been attacked by an armored combat unit on the way to the bridge, at an intersection. The enemy had attempted to attack from both sides, hoping to catch them by surprise no doubt. But his platoon had reacted like the well-oiled machine it was, turning about into pre-determined sections and engaging with hardly a pause.

The enemy had fought well, he had to admit it, but the difference of experience was flagrant. It hadn't taken long before the tide had turned. Schenkopp himself had killed four men, the last now lying at his feet, and from what he saw, the few men from the Insurgency who were still alive were fleeing back down the corridors. The Rosen Ritter certainly wished to give chase and finish them off, he knew, but discipline forced them to be still, awaiting his orders. Some had been wounded, but there didn't seem to be any casualties, which heartened him.

"Don't pursue them," he ordered, "It'd take too much time, and we're near the bridge. That comes first. If they attack us there, let them try their luck then if they're feeling suicidal. Luntz, how far from the bridge?"

"Standard configuration, we're two levels down," came the quick answer.

"Second platoon to Command, the engine is ours. Repeat, the engine is pacified and under our control," came Lintz's voice over his comm system.

Schenkopp couldn't help but feel a certain amount of pride, mingled with a sense of loss, when he heard this. Lintz had always been one of his most, and lately his most, solid soldier. He had long groomed him to take over if something happened to him.

Now, it had. Not the death on the battlefield that he had thought it would be, but it had happened. Lintz was now ready to take over, and it was time for him to bow out of direct command. This might well be his last time with the Rosen Ritter proper.

He grinned, however, "Understood. Well done," he answered, and turned to his men, 'Alright, we've got her legs, now let's go for the brain. Team three, bring the wounded back to the safe zone. Team one and two, with me. Let's pick up the pace."

They moved down the corridor with purpose now, ready for another ambush. He was sure that the men who had fled would regroup with others and try again if they dallied. He didn't intend to give them that time.

They found the lift easily enough, locked of course. One of the men got out a decryption device even as they secured the corridor. Plugging it into the system, he watched as it did its work.

He heard a ping in his helmet, and grimaced. Two minutes left. They were going to be tight at best. He had to trust that Attenborough would be able to hold out. Not that he was too worried, but he'd never hear the end of it if he went too far overtime.

The decryption beeped, and the lift door opened. Empty. They were going to make a stand directly at the bridge, then.

Only ten people could fit in the lift. He was one of them. If it was going to be the last time, he fully intended to be part of the last breach his team would take part in. No one protested, who was going to say no to him? A last, selfish action, that's what it was, and he knew it.

The lift went up, two levels. It would open on the lower level of the bridge, that one. 'They'll pour fire, try to pin us down. No worries. Pick your target and move in.' They knew that much, of course, but he had found that a matter-of-fact reminder tended to put nerves at ease. Just before they arrived, two men readied themselves with smoke grenades.

The moment that the doors opened, the fire started as if on cue. Not combat armors, there, but ship security with rifles. He had time to pick out where the nearest men where even as they grenades were thrown, throwing off huge clouds of smoke. Without a moment's hesitation, they fanned out, trusting their armor to weather the initial storm. He went left, towards two men, who at the moment weren't actually shooting at him. The smoke obscured them, but the shots they let off told him where they was. Without hesitation, he rushed them.

One man was taller and burlier, so he directed his assault towards him. He saw their eyes widen with horror as he came out of the obscuring matter, their weapons swiveling towards him. He was already swinging his axe, however, and in one swift strike separated struck off the taller man's head.

Setting his feet to focus on the remaining soldier took him but before he could fight his final opponent, he felt himself being lifted, and before he fully registered it, impacted the floor with a thud. The suit greatly cushioned the impact, and he was more surprised than anything else.

A judo throw? Just as that thought went through his mind, as well as the disbelief over someone having lifted a man in full combat suit, he saw the muzzle of the laser rifle. He instinctively rolled to its side, narrowly missing a pointblank shot that his faceplate wouldn't have been able to take. At the same time he grabbed the man's left foot and pulled, forcing the other man on the ground as well.

At the same time, he drew his service knife, bringing it down on the man's exposed chest, only to find the man stopping his strike with both hands. At that, he positioned his body over the enemy, using his full personal weight and that of his suit to drive the knife into the man's chest right to the hilt.

The man jerked, gasped, tried to speak, but his words were gargoyles as the blood rushed from severed flesh into his throat. Schenkopp met his eyes, and grabbed his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

"Good fight," he said, aware that those words would bring the other man no comfort at this moment, "You gave a good fight. No shame, no shame kid." But the man was no longer present, shock and dying body forcing him into unconsciousness. Sighing, he stood up, wrenching back his bloody blade at the same time. He immediately returned to the fight.

It wasn't long before it was over. The violence was brief, if intense, and he saw two of his men fall to particularly good shots before the defenders were overwhelmed. He didn't look at the faces of those two men. Not yet. He'd put a name and a face on the dead Rosen Ritter soldiers once the operation was done.

As the remaining bridge crew was subdued, the rest of his platoon arrived, and he ordered all lifts sealed. While that happened, he received confirmation that the main armory had been taken. All that remained was the last piece. He walked towards the captain of the ship – and probably the de facto commanding officers of the ships in the area – who was seated at the upper level, looking grim, flanked by one of his soldiers.

He'd usually ease in his demands. He didn't have the luxury of that, certainly not the time. He opened his helmet and looked at the other man.

"We control your bridge, your armory, your engines. We've by now disabled self-destruct. So, I give you two choices: you give the ships on this side of the Thirteenth Fleet an order to retreat and regroup at the coordinates you see on your screen. Your men stand down, we take your ship back with us, and you get lenient treatment." He showed one finger on his hand.

The man glared at him. He matched it.

"Or you get stubborn. We take our chances with a fake message. We kill everybody here. And we scuttle this ship. Don't call my bluff on this."

He showed two fingers now. His voice was even, calm. Waiting. "Now. Choose."

13:24

"Admiral," Lao reported, with a note of grim satisfaction, "I think they did it. Fire to port is stopping. The enemy is pulling back."

"I see it," Attenborough mused, his eyes never leaving the tactical display, his arms crossed, "Looks like everyone here owes the Rosen Ritter a few rounds of drinks."

"Happily buy the first, sir.'

"I hear you," he smiled, then raised his voice, "Now it's our turn. Every gun, every fighter, concentrate on the starboard side. Have at them, everything we've got, until they rout!"

The Raid on Shampool, later renamed to Attenborough's Attack, showed the superiority of the veteran Alliance units that the Thirteenth Fleet possessed. The Rosen Ritter swiftly took the enemy flagship, forcing it to send a signal to retreat, while the fleet itself fell on those ships that remained with savage efficiency.

A more experienced commander wouldn't have buckled when the lines began to break. He or she would have regrouped, reformed, and struck again. But there was no experienced commander with the ability to command thousands of ships left. Panic set in, and a decision was made that would have greater repercussions than those who made it would have thought.

They sense an urgent message for aid towards the Matamba Stazone, where two far larger fleets were still locked in combat.

Although the Battle of Matemba wasn't a continuous series of combat actions, there lulls in the fighting were few and far between, with the longest time without any skirmish along the battlelines being sixteen minutes, and most being under ten. Engagements between fighters were more intercut with rest periods, but the fights themselves were far more damaging each time.

Both sides started with fleets that were patchwork and often mismatched, but Matemba forced a coherence to emerge, and competence among ship commanders to become evident. Whether they were commanding only through the deaths of all superiors on the ship, because of sheer happenstance, or still because they were at the proper place, didn't matter for those in command of each fleet.

Yang was especially ready to field promote men who seemed to know what they were about, including promoting a junior grade lieutenant from the Fifth Fleet to command of a destroyer due to fine tactical thinking. Although slower at the beginning, Lagrange began to do the same as his own losses began to take a toll on his officer pool.

While the ship movements had stagnated due to neither side wishing to give the other any opening, the brutality of the fighting hadn't let up, and after twenty-three hours of violent fighting, of small raids and large frontal assaults, the damage was becoming too much for either side.

The loyalists had it especially rough, as their lower numbers meant that they had to reuse the same ships without rotating them to a secondary line. Although mitigated by the fact that they had interior lines and could plug any hole more quickly, their losses were mounting quickly, especially in ships sunk. As for the Spartanians, they had lost over half of their number.

The Insurgency was doing marginally better, although not enough to be able to win decisively. They had started with more ships, although they had little superiority in heavy firepower and actually had a slight fighter disadvantage. Also, they had almost constantly been the attackers all along the line, except for the First Fleet's brief sortie, a position that always tended to proportionally accrue the larger share of the casualties.

At that point, the Insurgent casualties were smaller, but their fighter cover had suffed, and become particularly thin.

Numbers alone, however, couldn't convey the brutality of the battle, as gushes of missiles and battery fire lanced out all along the lines, wreaking havoc and reaping lives. This, however, was seen in many battles with the Imperial Fleet, although not often to the level that was seen on that battlefield. What wasn't seen was the quickly mounting amount of hatred each side showed the other.

It was seen in the communications between both sides, as anger, contempt, and vengefulness filled the transmissions ships from one side sent the other, and vice-versa. Accusations of cowardice and treason were rife, and in more than one case a vitriolic back-and-forth happened between individual ships even as they exchanged fire.

The officers and enlisted from Planet Shampool, almost all of which had unsurprisingly chosen the side of the loyalists, were especially hate-filled, pointing out that the Insurgency was holding their home and families hostage and, thus, had no right calling anyone out for corruption or injustice.

That this was done largely without any input or even permission from each side's high command. The sentiment was grass-root and natural rather than any propaganda, and two sides that hadn't really wanted to fight each other were now dug in. The hesitancy, for better or for ill, was gone.

However, hour upon hour of death and destruction, no matter how buoyed by anger and defiance, could only go so far. A break was coming. And it was the Heinessen task force that was approaching it fast.

Matamba Starzone, 16:45

"Sir, message from the Fifth Fleet. They're running low on energy, and their missiles are nearly spent. Admiral Carlsen also reports that he may no longer be able to support forces in three of his sectors."

"Admiral, report from the Seventh Fleet. Their forces are starting to falter at many points across their battle-lines. Admiral Hogwood is requesting any reinforcements we can spare."

Yang heard this through the haze of a growing headache, brought upon by lack of sleep, little food, and a mounting array of unresolvable problems. He could see the situation of the Fifth and Seventh clear enough without even hearing a report. Any commander worth his salt, he was sure, would know what was happening, and what was needed.

The problem was that his reserves were already all in, and there was nothing of consequence he could do. They were inexorably reaching a breaking point.

As if to prove the point, the lights flickered a moment, a power issue that hadn't gone away since the Rio Grande had taken a hit. The massive armor had soaked up most of the damage, but it had still hit some power systems, and repairs hadn't quite been enough.

When even the flagship had needed to get to the front to plug up a hole, it was clear that something was wrong. And the ship had done that many times so far.

"I want a secure channel to the First, Fifth and Seventh immediately," he ordered, trying hard not to let his weariness creep into his voice. The staff around him had been getting little sleep as well, he was sure, and they knew how bad things were.

"Yes, sir," There was no way this was going to be good news, and the communications officer had a hard time hiding a bitter edge to his voice. Yang shook his head. The ability for men under fire to become stubborn in their wish to hold their ground always managed to surprise him.

Greenhill had found a way not to appear bedraggled in some way, which made the resemblance with Murai all the more clear to Yang's mind. Only a tightening of his expression and a reddish tint to his eyes showed just how spent the other man felt.

"We've held out well," Greenhill said. In his voice, however, nothing pierced; He may as well have been speaking about the weather. To deny this, the ship trembled, a shot having flashed near the hull despite the front's best efforts.

"Yeah, we did. But we're at the end of our strength. We don't have much more to give."

Attenborough would have argued, he was sure, and Murai's conservative streak when it came to retreats might have prodded him to respectfully protest. But Greenhilll nodded his head as if what Yang was saying was the most natural thing in the world, despite the consequences that were involved.

"I believe most forces will still join us," he stated.

"Because of a soldier's natural loyalty?" Yang noted, letting a cynical edge into his voice. Boy, but he was tired.

"No, nothing like that. But certainly because the government does, in fact, sign the checks." There was no hint that this was a joke, until the older man smiled mirthlessly. Yes, it was meant to lighten the mood, but it was also something Greenhill believed. Yang grinned wanly, something which vanished as the ship shook again.

It took some doing in the middle of a battle, but the other three commanders were soon onscreen with him, their features a mix of determination and utter exhaustion. Yang thought that this accounted for the slow reaction they initially had to his proposal. Once they did understand, however, their reaction was swift and immediate.

"We can't break off at this point, admiral!" Carlsen growled, "Not like this!"

"Admiral, I have to agree," Paeta said with more controlled heat, "Our lines are still holding, and every moment we stand is another moment for the Thirteenth Fleet to come as reinforcements."

"Even at best speeds, they couldn't relieve us," Hogwood pointed out tiredly, shaking his head, 'Warp travel is fast, but not fast enough for our needs.'

"With respect, does it mean we just pack up and leave," Carlsen mused tautly.

"Admiral Carlsen," Yang mused, cutting in. It didn't seem to get the man to calm down.

"If we leave now, everyone who died holding this line did it for nothing! If that's all we've got to show for it, then what's the point…!"

"Admiral Carlsen, I understand," Yang said, his voice rising slightly. He was surprised that he felt quite a bit of anger at the moment. It seemed that the battle had taken its toll on him, too. He immediately sighed, however, loathing the momentary loss of control. "I do understand, admiral. And I agree that we can still hold a while. But it's a question of how close we are to the end of our reserves

"We're closer to that than they are," Greenhill supplied in a weary yet firm tone, "If this continues, our losses will mount far more sharply than theirs. The data doesn't lie on this."

"We've beaten the odds before," Paeta ventured. Clearly, none of the commanders wanted to call it quits, mirroring what seemed to be happening from the ranks. Yang, however, took off and squeezed his beret, once more cursing the strain of command. He wondered when he'd have enough of it, and why he hadn't had enough to begin with.

"Yeah, I guess so," he retorted, thinking of his lucky shots at Astarte and Dionysus, "But I'm not too big on putting our men on the firing line more than this on a bet. They're at the end of the line, too. A battle that keeps going because of pride is just the worst." As if to punctuate this, a flash of light to the side, which Yang saw was a destroyer having been hit by concentrated fire. Its hull, strained beyond endurance, split apart into a fireball.

Dozens more dead, with only that one ship, came the grim thought, how many more of them am I going to see?

"We're going to launch what remains of our missiles and pour whatever we're got left in one assault. That should hopefully get them to back off and reorganize. During that lull in the fighting, we land our Spartanians and move to the edge of the system to warp. Understood?"

They did, although they didn't like it at all. "And if the enemy doesn't take the bait?"

"Then we hold on and wait until they rotate their forces, I'm sure we've all noticed there's a lull in the fighting there, too. It's not as good a gap, but it's a fair chance of an opening. Let's do it."

There was no more discussion after that. Yang was the fleet commander, and had made his decision. Although unhappy, all of them took their orders in, saluted, and signed off to carry them out.

Yang sighed. He wished he could actually get more worked up, but even the exchange of fire was being muted by the overwhelming fatigue brought on by the constant stress. He had accepted that his orders might not be achievable.

By leaving, he'd be ceding the field, marking Matamba as a propaganda Insurgent victory. He hated it more than he thought it would, but it was either give him that sort of a win, or let them truly break the fleet he was commanding. And he had no intention of having the men suffer because he was too prideful to give up, to disastrous results. He'd seen that happen too often for his liking.

Still, this wouldn't have happened if they hadn't been able to jump us right as we were exiting the Warp, he reminded himself grimly, Someone gave them precise tunneling information. That's a hole that'll need plugging before we can do anything else with this fleet. Fortunately, he had admiral Greenhill, who had agreed with the sentiment and was already moving to put men on the trail of the one or ones responsible for the leak.

As it was, even the last mock charge and salvo proved to be unnecessary - it seemed that the enemy was also tired of this round of fighting, and the officer in charge of the sensor data told him that the enemy was starting to pull out of the red zone in pieces.

Yang nodded, "Standard disengagement pattern, get us back into the Yellow Zone for reorganization. Let's not give them any ideas before we have to."

"Aye, sir."

There would be a good thing about going from this now-infamous combat site: they'd be able to fully resupply and take care of their wounded. Without access from their hospital ships and ammunition transports, they had had to resupply by shuttle runs, and that hadn't been nearly enough for their needs. Most of their ammunitions and medical capabilities were deep in the red, another reason to abort this... fight to the death they were busy perpetrating.

"Admiral," Came the report, "We're leaving the Red Zone. All ships will be out into the Yellow Zone in eighty-three seconds at this rate. The enemy is no longer firing on us."

"We'll do the same as usual. Let's not provoke anything until we're as close to the Green as we can."

"Lagrange is no fool," Greenhill noted, "He'll see what we're doing. He'll launch a pursuit to make his point."

That, too, was standard. When an enemy left the field, there was often a pursuit that caused some damage, but was mostly there to make clear the point of who had won. He was sure that Lagrange wouldn't pass up the political points, especially with subordinates pushing him.

"We're getting near our standard position for reorganization,"

"Make sure all Spartanians are recalled. I don't want to leave any of them out to dry," Goodness knew that they had done a good job at providing cover and raiding in that nightmare of a fight. There was no way they were leaving any of them out there. On the other side, the enemy fleet was doing the same, he was sure.

"Keep track of their position," he ordered after a few tense minutes had passed, "I want to know if they're getting into an attack posture."

"Yes, sir." The sensor officer acknowledged, and the communications officer, his hand on his commbead, started reporting after a few moments of nodding to someone on the other side of the link.

"Acknowledged. Sir, fighter control reporting in. Ninety-five percent of our Spartanians have regained their berth. Remaining five percent in two minutes."

"Good job to the carrier units," Yang acknowledged, "All ships, prepare to pull back at full speed in one hundred and fifty seconds."

"Emergency Warp procedure?" Greenhill inquired.

"Sure seems like it,' he retorted, 'I don't think we should give too much away yet." It seems he was going to return to the unpleasantness that he had been experiencing in the flight from Shampool, something he could really have done without.

"One hundred and forty seconds have passed, admiral," came the acknowledgement from the ship captain. "Ready to move at your command."

"Let's see what they do," he mused, 'All ships, turn one hundred and eighty degrees. Prepare for temporary engine overclock."

"All units, turn one hundred and eighty degrees. Stand-bye for engine overclock."

This was it, Yang knew. There was no way that the Insurgents were going to see this and not react to it. Lagrange would know what a retreat looks like, and most likely the other commanders wouldn't be far behind him.

"On my mark," Yang mused, lifting his arm. It was a completely useless gesture, he knew, but he sometimes felt the need to physically represent what he was feeling – in this instance, the timing of his orders. The useless arm went down in an equally useless chopping motion. "Now, hard about! Engines to full as soon as the one-eighty is achieved. Target is the Red Oak Warp Tunnel."

"Aye aye, sir!" Said the captain, "Ajax, hard about, one-eighty, full burn towards the Red Oak Warp Tunnel. Warm the warp systems for emergency use!"

Yang could hear the order being passed on to the commanding ships, to be passed to others. He saw his forces turning around even as the enemy fleet remained in the Yellow Zone, still reorganizing its forces. And then the other forces stopped for a moment, before starting to move into ad hoc attack postures.

"Sir, enemy forces have resumed firing on us!" Said the sensor operator.

Yeah, I can see that just fine, he told himself grimly keeping himself from cursing – a harder task than usual, given his fatigue, Hoped Lagrange would take a few seconds to organize properly, but he's going as is. He must have felt we were near the end. He was preparing for it.

"Sir, one-eighty complete, full engines engaged towards target tunnel!"

'The enemy fleet is accelerating as well, admiral, trying to match our speed!'

That was worrisome in itself. The fastest ships of the enemy vanguard were bound to catch up with his own slower elements. And there was no contest between the firepower that ships had in front of themselves compared to the near-afterthought that the rear could bring to bear. That was the reason that fighting retreats were so hard, and pursuit so potentially lethal.

But turning around now could be just as damaging. This was a dilemma he had hoped against hope that it wouldn't be the case, although he knew that it could happen, the admiral in him reminding him of how likely it would be.

But he couldn't just let ships of his be shaved off, could he?

"Have all rear line ships redirect all possible power to rear shields," he ordered, while aware that ship captain would likely be doing just that whether he thought about it or not, "Have them prepare to launch timed mines in their wake."

"Sir?" Came the hesitant reply. He ignored it.

"Send it."

"Yes, sir!"

Greenhill, beside him, gave him a look, "You know that they'll detect the mines," he mused.

"I know, it's a speed bump at best, but that's the best we can hope for right now," he answered, knowing how flimsy that hope was becoming. He was sure he could make it to Warp, but he'd have to sacrifice ships, and that just made the churning in his stomach stronger than ever.

"Sir, some units are falling back!" Came the sensor operator. Yang stared at the main screen as he heard that. It was true: some ships seemed to be slowing down. He grimaced: those ships had been hit, likely enough to force a shutdown. Without support, destruction and capture were the only possible outcomes for them.

It was on moments like these, he figured, that things either went very wrong, or very strange. And for the second time since he had come to Matemba, something happened that he hadn't counted on. His communications officer turned to him with a bemused look.

"Sir, there's a message coming directly from Enyo Starzone,"

"Can you identify?"

"They've encrypted it, sir... but there's partial recognition. It's consistent with a distress code."

He looked at the tactical screen. A distress code, was it? That might be nothing, but it also might be a strategic game-changer. The question was, which one was he going to bet on? If he made a mistake here, he might be creating a situation that would be very difficult to get out from.

Yang looked at the communications officer, who shook his head. "Sorry, sir. The communication's getting jammed. There's nothing I can do on my end, it's at the source."

It's something big, then. Something they don't want us to know. It was enough for him. "To all ships, all stop and turn back around towards the enemy!"

"Aye, sir!" came the reply, "All ships, from admiral Yang. All stop, immediate turn towards the enemy!"

As the orders were being carried out, Yang gritted his teeth, as the enemy wasn't relenting on their pursuit. He just hoped that the damage wouldn't be too severe. Whatever happened over there, couldn't it have happened just a tiny bit earlier?

He knew, of course, that the gripe was ultimately pointless, and a little childish. Whatever had happened had stopped the enemy in its tracks, and he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. His intuition told him that something must have happened at Shampool itself. Had the Thirteenth managed to do something that upset the balance over there? It was the only force threatening enough to force the enemy to reconsider, but he wasn't sure.

"We should push forward a bit, so that the stragglers don't get attacked," Greenhill suggested.

"Right. Navigation, one the turn is complete, thirty second forward movement towards the insurgent fleet. Comms, pass it on." Acknowledgments came from the two quarters.

"I don't see how they'd make it there so fast with what we know," There was no doubt who the older admiral was referring to.

"Yes, well, there are possibilities. Fischer probably figured out he was being stalled…" he trailed off.

"A smaller force? Dangerous, that. Reckless, even."

"It's something I'd have done. The Thirteenth would have known we couldn't hold out that long. Their best bet would be to cause panic, to shake up the timetable. Although I admit I didn't think they'd be able to pull it off so soon."

"And with this new information?"

"We hold. And hope Lagrange has more sense than pride."

17:25

'"We can't be considering pulling out, are we?!"

"What choice do we have? The other side's stopped, they clearly mean to fight. They know we're hesitating."

"Then let's damn well fight! They were pulling out because they were that close to breaking. They couldn't take it. The great Magician himself couldn't take it!"

"They were running out of supplies, but I don't think they were breaking. And now they've gotten a reason to hold on. And every minute we stay is one minute the Thirteenth gets closer to Enyo and starts a second front on us. We can't afford to be stubborn anymore!"

"We're one step away from victory!"

"And another step away from defeat!"

Lynch couldn't believe that he probably once took part in absurd discussions like these and didn't see them for the worthless clashes of egos that they were. But that realization only made the constant clash between the fire and water that admirals Verdone and Medina were always engaging in. Certainly, fatigue made their tempers shorter, but it was a nice show nonetheless.

Stokes tended to side with Verdone more often than not, but at this juncture, he reluctantly advised caution, it seemed. "Our own losses are considerable, and the Thirteenth Fleet is a veteran unit. Even without their usual commanding officer, it's better not to underestimate it."

"Agreed," Medina said empathetically, "We should go to Enyo, repair, and recuperate. We've done a strong enough show of force that at least some of the neutral units will join us."

"That's wishful thinking," Verdone retorted hotly, "The best way to consolidate a win is to drive the enemy from the field."

"My sources do say that the bulk of the Thirteenth, at least, is still in transit. We still have some time," Bronze stated.

Lagrange made a point of always appearing as ready as he could, but there was a detectable slump to his shoulders that noted the toll the battle had had on him. In fact, everyone looked rather beat up.

Well, Lynch amended, everyone but him. With the nebulous and rather worthless position of Special Fleet Advisor that they put on him, he pretty much had nothing to do throughout the entire battle. With the Leonidas generally far from the field and away from direct danger, he had spent the time drinking and sleeping.

As such, he felt perfectly well rested at the moment, not to mention in a rather jovial mood that barely worked to conceal.

"Yang knows there's at least some of the Thirteenth near enough to cause trouble," Lagrange said at last, "That's why he stopped his forces. That's why he turned around. His men just got a morale boost from that transmission, I'm sure. They'll be ready to scrap with us even harder now. Longer."

"They don't have the strength," Verdone grunted, aware that with Lagrange not siding with him, he may lose the argument altogether, "We'll crush them in the end."

"And by the time we do, we'll be so damaged that the Thirteenth will just have to give one big push and we'll shatter," Medina grunted right back, "Face it, admiral, this operation has failed. We wanted to knock Yang Wen-li out of the fight early. He's bruised, but he's ready to fight. The ambush had failed."

Yup, that's a bitter pill to swallow, isn't it, you self-righteous hypocrites, Lynch drawled inwardly. He had brought nothing to drink for this meeting, and wished for the bottles still in his quarters. But seeing these egotistical men brought low was a pretty good compensation.

"Order the fleet to return towards Shampool," Lagrange said at last, "We're heading back home."

"Sir!"

"That's enough! Yang must have been pulling back because he was tired of the meat grinder this has become. We will return and consolidate!"

Lagrange looked at the assembled men with a look that Lynch admitted didn't lack determination despite the tiredness he could read there.

"But mark my words, this fight is far from over."

18:11

"Sir, it seems… sir, the enemy forces seem to be pulling back in good order!"

Yang's eyelids, which had become heavy as dumb bells in the last few minutes, flew open. There was no time to even consider the mild awkwardness that he had been falling asleep on his own bridge. After a moment of confusion – he had just started dreaming that he was petting Admiral back in his house, a weird moment since the cat often seemed to barely tolerate him.

Fortunately, he shook off the cobwebs quickly enough not to look too much like a fool, he hoped. He coughed, once, to keep the sleep out of his voice. On the screen, the enemy units seemed to be pulling off, but it might be a lure.

"Do you detect fighter cover?" he inquired.

"Minimal, sir."

"Well, they don't seem to be getting into an attack formation," Greenhill noted.

"But they're not turning about, either."

"Keeping a fierce visage while slowly backing away, then?"

He didn't allow himself to feel hope, although the swelling in his breast, the unbidden relief, told him he was only mildly successful. "Maybe," he said as noncommittally as he could, "But we can't assume that's it. I don't really believe it, but could be a trap."

"It always can be, yes."

"Still…" he looked to the side, "Give me fleetwide," he ordered.

The officer gave a swift nod, and quickly pressed a few buttons. "You're on, sir."

He coughed again, willing the fatigue away, if only for a few moments, "This is Yang Wen-li," he started, "I want every ship on ready alert. Maintain defensive positions for now, but do not prepare to pursue. I repeat, no pursuit of the enemy in any way, shape, or form, will be tolerated in the slightest. Standby for new orders."

With that said, he leaned back with a sigh, keeping his eye on the fleet lines. The Insurgency was moving away, deeper and deeper into the Red Zone. Even now, any exchange of fire would be at extreme range, and would do little to no damage. Still, he would wait.

"He couldn't afford to wait any longer," Greenhill noted, "The message was a tipping point. It renewed our morale, and was a blow to theirs. Every hours this battle continued would increase the fear of the Thirteenth taking Shampool."

"If it was me…" Yang started, then stopped.

"Yes?" The older admiral mused, with a voice that prodded ever so slightly, like some old school teacher. It reminded Yang of his father when he felt the need to needle him, and he couldn't help but grin wistfully.

"If it was me, I'd have struck at our fleet again," he continued, "We were getting ready to go. Morale would have gone back up if they managed to make us flee. And I don't believe that the Thirteenth is close enough to be a threat. This was Attenborough being reckless. Likely taking a fast road with a small group."

"Possible," Greenhill stated neutrally.

"Then I'd send most of my fleet to fortify against the Thirteenth, and use the rest to drum up support."

"It's a strategic, long-term way of seeing things, admiral Yang."

"Yes, I suppose it is?" he mused, framing it as a question. There was a wry note in Greenhill's calm voice.

"Lagrange is a valiant man, but at the end of the day, he flinched. He didn't dare to risk a reversal."

Not after Holland and Third Tiamat, was the unspoken part. Yang nodded. He hadn't been part of the battle per se, but he remembered Holland and all the alarm bells the man had triggered. He'd subsequently gotten a clear picture when he spoke to Bucock and Ulanf, who had few kind words to say about their deceased peer's mental health.

Lagrange was a convinced man, who thought he was doing the right thing, Yang was sure. But he wasn't the sort of reckless that would get himself killed in a megalomaniacal need for personal glory. That man was cautious, and likely thought to maintain the strength he still had. He could respect that sort of thing better.

On the screen, the enemy fleet left the Red Zone, still moving back cautiously. Yang let out a long sigh, and his eyelids once again began to gain an odd amount of weight. He asked to be patched through to the fleet again.

"To all units," he mused, the weariness that he had worked through with coffee, the all-too-infrequent naps, the few, reluctantly taken stims, and more willpower than he thought he ever had, threatening to take hold of him, "This is admiral Yang," stand down from combat status, but maintain alert until the enemy unit has jumped, then stand down for refueling and rearmament. Triage and damage reports should be sent to the support units as they come in."

He thought about it, "Once the enemy has warped, all active personnel will take twelve hours of rest."

The men heard him, and let out a cheer that was as contrary to professionalism as it was giddy with excitement. Yang turned to Greenhill, who simply shrugged.

"Well, this gruelling slugfest is over," Yang sighed.

"Indeed it is," Greenhill answered seriously, "And now the next step is knowing how they managed to pinpoint us in the first place." And from the look in the admiral's eyes, it seemed that he already had an idea how to go about that step.

April 11, Strategic Planning Centre, 1:02

At the nervous word of 'admiral', and the hesitant shake of his shoulder, Bucock woke up with a start. For a confused moment, he wondered why the Hell captain Pfeifer was in his house and shaking him out of blissful sleep. The only one who could do that without ill effect from him was his wife, and that was mainly because she just ignored him when he grumbled at her.

Then the moment of confusion passed as reason reasserted itself. He was at Fleet Headquarters, where he had been ever since he had learned of the tangle at Matemba. He had pretty much lived there, only going back home for shower and a change of uniform once.

It had had the benefit that his highly-disapproving wife, once she had told him exactly what she thought of his course of action, had pressed meals for the day. It was simple fare, but head and shoulders above what the commissary had. He had likely fallen asleep when he had gone to rest a bit from eating one of those meals.

"I'm sorry sir,É the captain said apologetically, looking as spent as Bucock felt, which saved him from the grumbling he was prepared to dish out, "But you did order to be given this information as soon as it came in."

What it meant was enough to drive any other thought out as he sat up from his office sofa, "The battle has been deciced?" he asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. Nodding and smiling tiredly, his aide handed him a datapad.

"Yes, sir," he said without preamble – Pfeifer had learned to be direct with him, "Following a message from the Thirteenth Fleet, The Shampool Insurgency has pulled out of Matemba."

"Our forces?"

"They're still holding at Matemba, getting rearmed and refueled."

Bucock scanned the contents of the padd quickly, willingly skipping the expected damages and casualties for now, and getting the main pieces of information he needed from it, while Pfeifer waited dutifully. At last, Bucock looked back up.

"This is good,' Bucock mused, but for Pfeifer and himself, 'They've left the field to us. It's the best strategic outcome we could expect. Has this information reached Fleet Admiral Kubersly?"

"Yes, sir. The information was sent to both offices simultaneously."

"Alright, good, then I need to meet with him soon. But before that, I want this information sent to the Ministry of Defence, and to our Press Corps. We'll need to move fast and use this to our advantage."

The fear that Yang might be forced to leave the battle first, thereby shattering the public's illusions that the young man was some sort of invulnerable fleet commander, left him, a weight on his shoulders he didn't know that he had. Now, with this new information, they would be able to maintain that illusion.

It wasn't the sort of thing he relished, playing upon the people's hopes and fears, but in this case it was crucial that they did so. The idea that Yang still stood unconquered would be helpful in getting the slowpokes in the Fleet to finally join the fray – on the government's side.'

He wondered how that young commodore, that Dusty Attenborough, was doing along with the men with him. He had put himself and certainly others in a very precarious position at best. Bucock hoped he wasn't going to pay a steep price for the crucial push he had been able to make for morale.

There was nothing he could do about that, however. He was far from the front, something that made him nothing but uncomfortable. His job, right now, was to lean as hard as he could on reluctant men and drum up as many ships as he could.

And that job, already started, was about to continue in earnest. After, of course, he called his wife to tell him that no, he wasn't dead and yes, he was coming home.

The Battle of Matamba was the first major engagement between Task Force Tempest and the Liberation Fleet, known colloquially as Tempest Fleet and the Insurgency Fleet. In this battle, the loyalist forces fielded 25,421 warships and 2,948,800 men, while the Insurgency numbered 30,508 and 3,112,300 men.

In this first, fierce clash, the total loyalist losses, sunk and damaged ships included, neared 33%, and 19% of its personnel, while the Insurgent lost about 20% of its forces and 14% of its personel. Although the fact that Tempest remained on the field allowed Heinessen to claim victory - as it did at Astarte - it would later be acknowledged that the battle, while perhaps strategically useful to the loyalist side, was a clear Insurgenct victory on the tactical side.

More importantly, that battle, more than anything, burned away the last vestiges of camaraderie that either side might have felt for the other. They weren't former comrades anymore. Going further, they would be enemies.

THE ALLIANCE GOLDEN AGE

Although the time between the years UC 527 and 640 is considered to have been an era of boundless prosperity for the Free Planets Alliance, scholars and historians remark that this is largely due to the benefit of hindsight, and mostly compared to the eras of history that both preceded and followed it.

Before 527, the first Alliance settlers of the First Exodus had lived over half a century of a difficult voyage in space, aboard spaceships that were cramped and increasingly worn, and those who were still alive remembered that they had left slavery or servitude back in an intolerant Galactic Empire, a nation that held every aspect of life in an iron grip.

The years following the Battle of Dagon were also harder on the population, what with the Second Exodus, and the increasing demands made by the ever-present War that raged to prevent the aforementioned Empire from conquering the smaller nation. Certainly, compared to this, the eleven decades between the Founding and the February Encounter were certainly far better times. But they were in no way uniform.

It was George Sherrard, a famed Alliance historian from Heinessen Memorial University, who first divided the era into two distinct phases: The Settlement Era, roughly fifty years, and the later Expansion Era, about sixty years. First proposed in Sherrard's Early Alliance History: Dichotomy of the Golden Age in UC 702, the details of each have since been debated, and the year when one ended and the other started even moreso, but the Alliance society of both times were found to be sufficiently different that the concepts have stuck and been accepted since.

The Settlement Era (527-574)

When the Imperial people of the First Exodus found the yet-to-be-named Heinessen, it was certainly seen as a Godsend: a world that was already liveable and second only to the birthplace of the Galactic Federation, Theoria, in how near it was to a natural Earth state. To the ragged, scared colonists, it was a welcome reprieve from their generational flight.

Despite Heinessen itself, however, the population was small, only reaching one hundred and sixty-two thousand souls, spread out over ships that were slowly breaking down. A lot of work was to be done, and the Empire yet loomed large as a threat.

The Population Act and Space Act were put in place by the first elected Alliance government to greatly increase both manpower and defense readiness. And in a general sense, both of these measures succeeded, as the Alliance survived the initial clash with its parent nation as was intended. But these two acts still had a tremendous impact on the people who lived during those times.

To maintain both the gargantuan population boom that resulted from the social act, and the material demands of the defense act, about half of the resources available were devoted to them. Time, money, manpower, were channelled to these goals to such an extent that a lot of other aspects of life suffered.

Food, despite being increasingly bountiful, was tightly rationed, as there would be a need to feed a multitude every years. Clothing was spartan and utilitarian, with little in the way of fashion. In fact, most clothes resembled the suits people worn on the Exodus Fleet, with little variability. Education existed for all who would seek it, but the demands made on society was such that literature, art and other forms of expressions were, if not discouraged, not allocated much time or attention. Several fields of study stagnated.

It is not to say that life in the these early days was joyless, however. People may not have been encouraged into it, but writers and artists were all the more praised because there were so few of them. Journalism was a powerful force that made the government as transparent as possible, and the rights of the individual were fiercely protected. The fact that it was such a focused time also created an intense sense of social camaraderie that had been unheard of in centuries.

During those years, Heinessen was fully transformed into an Earth-like world and a small Star Fleet had emerged. Some outposts had even been founded throughout the Ba'alat Starzone, while many more systems had been mapped, creating the Alliance Systems Database in late UC 567. Certainly, strides were being made for Alliance society to grow from Imperial refugees to a proper society.

Still, the years of the Settlement Era were unwittingly stern and rather stifling, something that was made increasingly apparent as new generations were born from the Population Act. These generations respected the danger of the Empire, but didn't feel the sheer fear and hatred that the Exiles themselves did. A movement started, louder and louder. Small at first, it became large and ever-present.

And it demanded change.

The Shift (574-579)

There is no set year on when the first Alliance era became the second. Some have stated that the Demonstrations of 574 and Ternuzen Riots of 575 were the catalysts of true change. Others that the main change was the repeal of the Population Act in 577, resulting in widespread celebrations that lasted over a week. Some point out that things truly began to change when Raphael Delphino and his administration, the first to form an entirely Alliance-born High Council, were elected in 579.

Because of these and other debates, the years between UC 574 and 579 are considered to be 'The Shift' a fluid time that had aspects of both eras of the Alliance Golden Age. When Delphino took over, however, over sixty-one million citizens looked to him for change, ready for the next step in becoming a proper nation.

The Expansion Era (579-640)

With the Population Fortification Act repealed, Chairman Delphino relocated the money and resources from it towards benefitting the population. Billions of Dinars were rechanneled towards art and education, as well as infrastructure and expansion. Delphino also drafted a gradual decrease in defense spending, eventually lowering it to fifteen percent by the end of his second term.

A need for cultural distinction, which had always been present but stifled by the needs of the time, was given free reign. From 1,162 in 579, restaurants jumped to 2,558 in 589, and exploded to 24,836 in 599. Art galleries and museums, so few in previous years, became increasingly common, as painters, sculptors and other artists plied their trade. Books and publications multiplied on many different media, and education was greatly diversified as more freedom was given to the citizen to choose how he wished to enrich society. Fields of study almost universally expanded This relatively free-spirited sense of enterprise also allowed trade to flourish on Heinessen, greatly increasing the wealth that the population possessed and, in turn, increasing the investments made on many channels. Healthcare also became global during that time.

The Star Fleet also fully came into its own, with a streamlining of ships and production methods allowing to finally build a sizeable fleet of ships, one able to fight the dreaded Reichflotte evenly as Alliance military technology finally reached the Imperial Standard in UC 593. Gabrielle Thorne, the main architect of the Fleet's technical improvement, proposed a production plan that would allow the building of a 30,000-ships Fleet while keeping the general Alliance budget at twelve percent.

The Fleet wasn't the only amelioration of Alliance space technology. Planet Heinessen had been such a boon because it allowed it to be terraformed with the minimal means that the Exodus Fleet had brought with it. With Heinessen's resources and rapidly increasing manpower, work was made on a complete terraforming procedure, based on both Imperial and Federation standards. This was finally achieved in UC 595, allowing earmarked planets to be made habitable and colonized.

Liore, the nearest such planet at a mere one Warp of distance, was the first such world, beginning its Terraforming process in UC 598 and receiving its one thousand colonists the following year, finally transforming the Alliance into a budding interstellar nation. Other worlds, such as Palmeland, Santuario and Kaffer, followed suit over the following years.

The national population also greatly increased in the sixty years following the Election of 579. Despite the repeal of the Population Act, the government encouraged large families and gave aid and bonuses to those who committed to having many children. Because of this, the Alliance reached one hundred million citizens in UC 612, and one hundred fifty in UC 637.

The 'Golden Sixty', as they later came to be called, were not without their own flaws. Lesser restrictions and a variation of goods increased criminality and crafted a strong underground market, and the more complete rights to free speech, slightly curtailed during the Settlement Era, encouraged people to speak out against the government in a more brazen, sometimes antagonistic manner. These remained minor problems, however, as Alliance prosperity seemed limitless.

To those celebrating the New Year of 640, it would have been hard not to feel optimistic. In a century, the nation had gone from a desperate but determined group of refugees to a small but fast-growing interstellar republic. Troubles were surprisingly few, and prospects were good no matter where one turned towards. The Free Planets Alliance seemed even to the jaded eye to have a bright future ahead of it.

Mere weeks later, the Galactic Empire made contact, and the skies darkened over the Alliance's destiny.