Another page of history is being turned...

Chapter Twenty-Five

Fleeting Calm

To say the Free Planets Defence Forces were in bad shape would have been a severe understatement. Although Yan Wen-li's speech from Liore had given the general population, as well as some uncertain units, a boost of confidence, the situation wasn't nearly as good as some optimists in the news networks implied. The Eleventh Fleet was still in full control of Planet Shampool, as well as its extensive orbital facilities. The Third and Twelfth Fleets had been sundered by battle and deceit. And information about the Eight and Tenth Fleets had suddenly become scarce.

Moreover, the dissident units didn't belong only the Operations and Ground Division. Before forces under Dwight Greenhill's efficient directions had closed down all the spaceports and brought them under loyalist control, several ground units had already left, more than likely to join the rebellion. Several Spartanian units had also gone AWOL, and several Intelligence officers also left hurriedly, many of the men and women under the command of vice-admiral Bronze. Even some Medical and Logistics people had answered Lagrange's call, showing just how deep the resentment went, and that no hero of the Alliance, no matter how well-respected, would sway some away from their decision.

Only one Division saw no large defection: the Engineering Division. There were of course many individual reasons, but the general reason was sheer respect for their defunct commander. Admiral Laura Benitez Toldeo had not only been the architect behind such things as modernizing the Ajax-class command ship but was the driving force behind the Leda-class advanced cruiser. Unlike admiral Auclair, who was respected yet also dreaded, Toldeo was almost universally beloved, and the idea that dissidents might well have killed her had the effect of turning the division away from Lagrange almost as a block. Instead, they redoubled their efforts to fine-tune the Leda-class and make it ready for production.

Despite the boon of having the engineering expertise of the Star Fleet squarely on its side, fleet admiral Kubersly tread cautiously, resisting calls from some quarters to counter-attack immediately. Shampool was not a situation to approach lightly. A reckless assault would cause far too many casualties, material and otherwise. Although an attack would need to be launched, he wouldn't agree to it before a suitable force was prepare.

Because of this, Kubersly, backed by admiral Bucock, remained sure and steady in his command: The First, Fifth and Seventh Fleet, as well as what other ships could be spared, would gather at Heinessen to form a combined fleet, while other loyal troops would be marshaled. Supply lines would be established and strengthened, and a plan of attack would need to be agreed upon. It was to participate in these preparations that admiral Yang, although far from his own command, would travel with the Fifth Fleet to Heinessen.

In his case, however, he didn't travel on board the flagship Diomedes as most expected him to. Instead, Yang opted for an unusual, but nonetheless reasonable metod.

April 1st, UC 797, Mary Seacole Hospital Sship

March Yang himself had never been inside one of the Alliance hospital ships, owing more to luck than to anything else, especially after having taken part in many engagements, including the last three attempts to conquer Iserlohn. He had certainly heard about them, however, and part of him had always been a bit curious about it. So when his adjutant had been sent to the Mary Seacole, one of the Eight Fleet's hospital ships, he had decided he would make the trip to Heinessen aboard it. To see if the rumors were true, and also to prevent the woman who just had major reconstructive surgery of her liver from actually working.

He had to admit, the Alliance engineers who had built the Mary Seacole and other ships like her deserved every praise heaped upon them. Using the standard frame of their gargantuan transport ships, they built an interior every bit like an actual military hospital, with all of the amenities that could be found there. This included a convalescence ward, with rooms that had screens that perfectly replicated an outside view of places like Heinessenpolis, or the forested edge of a quaint colonial town.

The entire thing had been built with the intent to have the soldiers physically put back together as fast as possible, but also with the added intention to have them rest psychologically. That was an empathetic aspect that Yang could only applaud.

He had received a baffled look from Carlsen when he had requested a place onboard the hospital ship rather than senior officer quarters on the Diomedes, even more so when Blumhardt managed to make it clear without actually saying it that he was going to come along and fulfill his duty as a bodyguard. He had been ordered by Schenkopp to keep an eye on Yang until he returned to his command, and he intended to do so. To say that the medical staff had been surprised to see them arrive was saying it lightly.

Once the damaged ships that had survived the trip to Liore had been taken charge of by its orbital repair docks, and its crews in good hands with captain Rostov, MacNamara had taken the more normal and, admittedly, more reasonable route of berthing on the command ship. For his part, however, he found the hospital ship busy, but ultimately restful. And, in some ways, rather amusing.

"Sir, with respect, is that really what an admiral should be doing right now?" Said Greenhill from her bed. He looked up from his book - not an electronic equivalent here, books were the best way to read for him - with raised eyebrows.

"You're telling me that it's unseemly for an admiral to read a novel?" He asked, "Many flag officers in Alliance history alone would disagree with you."

"Sir, again with respect, that's not what I meant at all," she said, and there was this tiniest frustrated edge to her voice now.

He gave her a look, "It's a nice change of pace for me, not being involved with command at all," he pointed out, "And I know it'll be a short interlude anyway."

She didn't seem convinced, "Some might think you're hiding out here."

He nodded. "That's one way to see it. If that's how they want to play it, that's okay with me. I'll take some leisure time anyway."

"Sir..."

"Also," he interrupted, "I'm here to make sure you actually do remember you're supposed to take it easy." He grinned as her face became a bit indignant. He then looked at her lap, where there were at three separate datapads. "I swear, lieutenant, the Alliance isn't going to collapse because you decided to, you know, follow orders and actually rest."

She looked down at her lap, flushed a bit, looked back at him. He was certain that she was burning to tell him to mind his own business, but Frederica was simply too dutiful to do so. The fact of the matter was, she had started work almost immediately after her liver reconstruction. The medical officer had told him that it was perhaps a coping mechanism. After trauma, some people tended to throw themselves into what felt familiar and comforting.

So they had allowed it, and so had he, blast it. However, that she saw work as 'familiar and comforting' boggled his mind, and he couldn't resist teasing her about it from time to time.

"I just needed to review a few things," she defended, regaining her composure, "And I wanted to keep myself up on current events," At that, her face looked serious, "I read that there's still no word from the Perun."

Yang grimaced, closing the book mechanically as he thought about that. When Lagrange had declared himself to have broken away from the legitimate government, Yang knew that others would join him, for reasons probably as varied as there are stars, but all linked by a sense of resentment. He had expected there to be people who stayed loyal anyway. He had also thought that in some cases, the rebels and loyalists would clash.

Despite that, he couldn't imagine how admiral Borodin must be feeling, to have so many under his command betray him like that. To be captured by them so that loyal forces wouldn't pursue them until they were too close to rebel holdings. It was one thing to think things up, quite another to see the real results. Theory and practice were fundamentally different.

"That momentum allowed smaller forces to join up, too," he mused, "Two or three thousand more ships, perhaps. I don't actually have the numbers. It might be more."

She sighed, "It's like we're being split down the middle."

"I'm not sure I'd go that far. I think most of our forces will stay loyal. But I get what you're saying. It's not going to be a pleasant time at all." He was going to say more but was interrupted by a shipwide call.

"Attention. We will warp to Ba'alat Starzone in two minutes. Secure for transition."

He raised an eyebrow. "It's moot, anyway. We'll do what we can with what we have. If nothing else, we'll have the Thirteenth." It had never occurred to him that part of his fleet might join the rebellion, oddly enough. Well, actually he had considered it briefly but rejected it. It was nothing he did, really, simply that Murai had said that he had carefully reviewed the personnel, and was confident nothing of the sort would occur. It had been an intellectual exercise back then, with no proof that anything would happen, but his chief of staff had taken it with the seriousness with which he took nearly anything. When he had made his report, Yang had put the matter to rest in his mind.

"I'm certain that admiral Greenhill is busy working miracles right now," he added, "We'll have the forces we need, one way or the other." Frederica nodded immediately. On trusting her father's ability, she was simply as unshakeable as a mountain. From what he'd seen of the man after serving under him, he could understand where the confidence came from.

He wasn't going to tell her that, of course, but he had boarded the hospital ship she was on in fair part because it would mean the ship would follow the Fifth as a matter of course. He felt like he owed the elder Greenhill, who had always been there for him. He had unwittingly put his daughter in harm's way, had nearly gotten her killed. He felt the least he could do was to make sure he showed him that she was safe. If people felt that he was playing favorites, well, he would accept that without a problem. It was a better usage of his rank than some of the things he'd seen done over the years.

"Warp in 30 seconds." Came the voice again.

"Sir, if I may ask?" Frederica asked seriously, "Are we going to win this one?"

He shrugged, grinned, "History's full of revolts that succeeded and full of revolts that failed. It's all a question of circumstances."

"And ours are?"

He scratched his head, shrugged again. "We have fair chances." Was all he ended up saying.

The Fifth Fleet cruised into Ba'alat Starzone with over seven thousand ships, every unit that could be spared given the circumstances. They came to orbit Heinessen along thousands more, including the First and Seventh Fleets, which had arrived shortly before them. The Capitol World of the Alliance was secured, but as calm as it usually was.

Only three days before, the insurgent forces, finding themselves outnumbered and prevented from taking any major planetary positions by well-placed loyalist units, had made a coerced assault on the main launch facilities near the Strategic Centre. Led by colonel Christian, a decorated veteran of Corridor ground campaigns, it had taken control after a fierce firefight and had managed to launch most of its forces into space, meeting a small Insurgent fleet that had promptly fled the star zone before loyal forces could reach them.

With Christian gone, the rest of the insurgents had been largely surrounded and captured. However, it wouldn't be until the second of April that the planet was considered completely secure, stalling any shuttling between ground and space until the third. During that time, the admirals in orbit arrayed their forces as they gathered, forming an ad hoc council of war with admiral Bucock by communication.

These meetings came to clear conclusions: Lagrange couldn't be permitted to sway more forces to his side. He also couldn't be allowed to fortify Shampool. Feelings were mixed, but the end analysis was unavoidable: the Star Fleet would need to take to fight to its deserted elements as soon as possible.

It was during that time that those who could made what meetings and arrangements they could depending on their situations.

April 3rd, Mary Seacole Hospital Ship

Frederica tried her best not to show it, but she was getting royally, utterly tired of the testing. Yes, she was aware that she just had reconstructive surgery on one of her most important organs. Yes, she was aware that a reconstructed organ was delicate and needed careful attendance to ensure things had gone smoothly.

She knew that, while rejection was all but impossible since they had used her own DNA to do the reconstruction, chances are it would never quite work as well as her liver originally been. She knew that things like alcohol were all but banned from her life from now on. That there would be greater chances of infection, that she would need to check things like her diet, and see a doctor at least yearly even after she'd completely recovered.

She knew all that. None of it bothered her particularly much. Her memory would allow her to take the medication she'd need to perfectly, without bothering her days in the slightest. She kept up a pretty healthy diet already, exercised rather regularly - or she would once she got out of there. She also rarely drank anything alcoholic, so that wouldn't matter to her much. And as for the risks of infections and such down the line, well... between that and actually dying, she felt that she had come out on top, and would deal with those issues when and if they came.

But she was starting to be done with the testing. The poking and prodding. The repetitive questions. The myriad of bio scans, and so many blood tests that she sometimes felt she was drying up. She knew that the medical personnel was genuinely concerned about her health and that they were only doing their jobs, so she went along with everything, even though their constant hovering sometimes went against her own plans.

The worst so far, of course, had been when they had finally managed a Long Warp. It had been a touch-and-go operation, extremely frightening at times, and had been partially successful, as some ships hadn't made it. Since she had been the catalyst for the entire idea, she would have wanted to see the attempt true.

At least, she had thought, nothing else like that could happen again. She had been assigned her own room - admiral Yang denied having insisted on it, and she had been too tired to argue the issue. The food, while still somewhat bland, was more varied. And there was the undeniably increased feeling of safety involved in the presence of thousands of loyal Alliance warships around her. She had truly thought that the irritation she had felt about medical personnel wouldn't return.

It just showed how naive she was about life, as she had felt so unusually incensed that she had needed to clamp down on her emotions, or she might have made a scene of some sort. It was the last meeting with her doctor. While it had otherwise gone well enough, things had sired in her mind when he had pointed out the likelihood that she wouldn't be taking part in the military operations for quite a while.

"You simply can't allow you to put more strain on your system," the doctor had explained, utterly unaware or uncaring about the fact that her face had gotten still, and that her tone had brought a certain chill to the discussion, "Your system may look and even feel right at the moment, but it's suffered through a traumatic event. You need to take care of yourself now."

Intellectually, she knew that it was almost certainly the smart thing to do. The right thing to do. But she couldn't do it. She couldn't allow herself to think that way.

Part of her reasoned that it was because she was the adjutant to Yang Wen-li, and she supposed it was an important facet to her need to be there. Although the admiral was in many ways an admirable officer who could do most tasks well enough, he simply never managed to come up with the structure she provided for his time. Yes, she wanted to be there to see that everything went smoothly for the admiral. It was her job, she both liked it and knew she was useful to her commanding officer.

But the main reason, whenever she stopped to really think about it, was that she wanted to be standing near admiral Yang when he confronted the rebels and dealt them crushing defeat after crushing defeat, as she was certain he would. The rebels had shot her from behind, had nearly killed her. Although there were still large gaps in her memory, there was just enough to remind her how she had felt right then: terrified and helpless, more than she had ever felt, as her life bled out of her. Not even El-Facil had come close to that feeling.

She couldn't find it in herself to forgive the rebellion for creating that situation, for people she would have worked with to decide that she was someone to be put down because she decided to remain loyal to her oath as an officer of the Star Fleet. It wasn't a feeling that she felt particularly proud of, but it was the way it was.

So there was no way she was going to be staying behind when Yang, Blumehardt, and MacNamara left with whatever force would be assembled to deal with the insurgency. She'd be there, and that would be that.

So, she'd put up with it, but she'd also make sure that she'd get out of there in time. She was ruminating as the nurse came into her room. So caught up in her planning, the poor man had to repeat her name to gain her attention, allowing her to tell her she had a visitor.

A moment later, her father came into the room.

For a second, they stayed at their place her laying on her bed, him at the door, as if frozen in time. The tableau didn't last, however, as she all but jumped out, completely ignoring the lingering pain at her side, even as her father stepped forward so that they embraced almost squarely in the middle of the room.

"Hey dad," she said, her voice breaking a bit from a sudden surge of emotion. Suddenly, all the plans in the world, all the resentment over her situation, all of that didn't mean anything. Her father was there, holding her. For the moment, at least, everything was perfectly alright. "Sorry, I'm a bit of a mess."

"Yes, well," he answered, his tone serious to most people's ears, but to Frederica clearly faking it, "I supposed given the circumstances, some laxness in your military dress code can be waived." He then chuckled, and held her a little bit tighter, albeit careful not to put too much pressure.

They stayed there a moment, before letting go of each other. She felt tears welling up as she looked up at her father. And Dwight Greenhill, the implacable, highly competent admiral that was so respected within the military, looked at her with eyes that were both tired and reddened with emotion. It took both of them a moment to compose themselves, trying to regain some balance. Her mother would have found them both very silly, she supposed: she had always worn her feelings on her sleeve and felt no shame at expressing them openly.

By the time they talked again, she had gone back to her bed, although she preferred to simply sit on it now, while he pulled up the chair that admiral Yang used from time to time during the trip. After a moment of silence, it was the elder Greenhill who broke it.

"I heard you came up with the idea that saved your unit," he stated, " A long Warp? Risky business, that. And not always successful."

She nodded, feeling remorse for the ships that had been lost, the stress of the Warp having been too much for them. "I just pointed out the possibility, others did the actual math, and the maneuver," she answered. Although this was true, she felt like she was trying to push responsibility for it on others. That didn't sit all that well with her, so she continued, "I fell horrible about the losses, but the pursuing ships didn't want us to reach Ba'alat. Even if we'd managed, the losses would have been worse."

Her father waved that away, "You don't have to explain it to me, I'm well aware of the odds. Admiral Yang was vocal about the fact that your idea saved dozens of ships."

Her eyes widened a bit in surprise. "Admiral Yang is already on Heinessen?" she asked. She knew that Yang would be leaving shortly, but from what she understood, it would be the next day, and she told her father so.

"No, not yet. Soon enough, admiral Yang will board a shuttle that officially carries medical personnel. We decided that it would be better for him to come down to the planet more subtly, especially with how things are. If nothing else, we wanted to avoid a media craze."

She smiled, "I tend to forget he's so popular down there."

"True, there's his popularity. But in this case, it's more than that. His speech at Liore..."

There it was, of course. She had missed the actual moment of the speech, given that she was dealing with reconstructive surgery, but it had been easy to see it in its entirety. The speech had been broadcast to the Alliance at large, and such transmissions were not meant to be watched again in this way. However, the speech had been recorded by the Press, and it was played again and again on every major news channel. Enthusiastically, she found, reviewed by many experts, and commented upon extensively.

For herself, she found that the admiral had been unusually bold in his speech, and had talked a lot longer than he usually did in public. Certainly, Yang could talk a lot when he was going over a strategy for a battle, but that was work. And he could go on at length when he explained history to someone, as she could very well attest to. That, however, was a personal hobby of his, and one he was really passionate about.

Politics, however? She knew that Yang liked to comment upon it in private, but also didn't like to openly address his opinions to a crowd. He also hated speeches that could be seen as propaganda, having told her at one point that it was a form of emotional subversion that he particularly hated. He preferred other forming their own opinion, not to force his own upon them. There were flaws in that thinking, she felt, but he clearly believed in it. So, his speeches tended to be excessively short and rather blunt.

Yet there he had been, openly speaking about an issue that was deeply political, and giving his opinion for all to see. He certainly had known that his reputation as a war hero would shape the way people would think, the exact thing he hated, but he had done it anyway. She felt herself smiling as she remembered him, looking so awkward at first, then so strong and serious.

"It was a good speech," she found herself saying, "Maybe not the kind that they'll talk about in the history books, but good. And I think people needed to hear something like that. I think that's why he did it, to give them hope."

"A bit melodramatic there," her father answered calmly, "But I agree with what you're saying. Nevertheless, his speech at Liore made him an icon all over again. There were trusted figures in the Star Fleet before," at that point, he seemed to hesitate, but continued before Frederica could pinpoint the feeling that momentarily touched his face, "But none of had the reputation, the popularity. Yang is a young man who has done more for the Alliance war effort in a year than anyone has achieved since at least Bruce Ashbey. He's the people's hero now, the staunch protector."

"Everybody knew he'd be all but assaulted by the press and the civilian population, so we decided to have him come down quietly. I'll join him shortly."

"So soon?"

"There's no helping it. The fighting didn't spread, but it still dealt damage to some of our facilities."

She frowned, "I missed it by being cooped up in here. How is it going on Heinessen? Is everything alright?"

"Not entirely, but it's settling down. Again, at least partly because of the speech. It's partly because we ordered our forces to not engage the insurgents at all costs. Doing so would have spread the fighting to civilian population centers. General Rockwell was for a stronger response, but fleet admiral Kubersly overruled him. I agree with him. By allowing the core of the rebelling forces to get off-planet, what remained could be easily handled. Without a strong command structure, the rest fell apart."

"Well, it's good that Heinessen is a safe zone," Frederica noted, "Having the Alliance capital in rebel hands would've been a hard blow."

"True, but I doubt it would have happened as things stood," her father said, looking pensive. His tone was speculative, as if he was seeing possibilities, "They'd have needed more troops, and the element of surprise. Without either of these things, a planet of one billion inhabitants couldn't be held."

A chill went up Frederica's spine, and she knew that the dizziness that suddenly overtook her and forced her to lie back down on her hospital bed had nothing to do with the meds. There was a wistful note in her father's voice as if he was in some way... sympathetic... to the rebel forces. His eyes became concerned as he looked at her, though, and the moment mercifully passed.

"I'm sorry. You should be resting, not listening to me talking about conflicts."

She shook her head as the faint spell passed, "No, I'm okay. There's no pain right now, I'm just light-headed. They tell me I'll make a complete recovering." But not soon enough, she reflected with a bitterness that surprised her. Knowing admiral Yang would go off into battle without her was... it was hard to pin the emotions behind it, only that they were strong.

"I know. I talked to the doctors," her father said, "Now, your only duty is to rest and recover. I'm sure admiral Yang can manage by himself for a little bit." He smiled at that in a knowing way that made Frederica want to protest, although to what exactly, she couldn't be sure. She just smiled back.

She hoped her father was right. She hoped Yang was right. That everything would go alright. But she had seen enough during Operation Free Stars to know that hopes were one thing, and reality another. And that even the smartest person could make mistakes.

But for now, at least, she pushed those thoughts aside and cherished this short time she had with her father. Because people needed his skills, and Dwight Greenhill, as always, would answer that need.

"The Assembly unanimously passed a motion today, denouncing the forces holding planet Shampool as an insurgency without legitimacy. This follows the unprecedented move by the forty-eight representatives of the occupied planet present on Heinessen, who declared themselves the Provisional Government of Shampool, with the esteemed Lewis Dulac-Hills as its chairman. This move was received with a standing ovation from the rest of the Assembly, and Acting Chairman Trunicht was quick to comment on it.

"I think that with one's planet in the grip of treacherous men, I can only applaud these men and women standing in defiance of a military junta. I'd also like to…"

Yang switched off the pad with a grunt. He wanted to see the news happening on Heinessen, but he didn't feel like seeing the Acting Chairman's face if he could help it. He frankly couldn't wait for the transition, so that it would be Rebello's face he'd been seeing. The Chairman-elect was still a politician, true, but at least he never bothered him on sight. Trunicht made him positively hill just by looking at the ever-smug face. Was this how someone who had lost an election should look?

There was a hiss, and Yang looked back in surprise to see Dwight Greenhill entering the shuttle. That was quick, he thought, even as Blumehardt, his ever-present bodyguard and impromptu aide, the only one present in this particular shuttle flight, rose to salute as per protocol.

The Rosen Ritter had proven himself to be quite cool under fire. However, in this case, he looked actually at a loss when admiral Greenhill, instead of answering the Rosen Ritter's salute with his own, broke protocol and held out a hand with a genuine smile. Right before it would become an uncomfortable moment, he accepted the offered handshake. Yang was momentarily stunned as well, but the reason for this unexpected gesture quickly cleared up.

"I was told that I owe my daughter's life to your quick action," the admiral said, and rather than the usual calm that nearly equaled that of Murai himself, the older officer's voice was tinged with what could only be gratefulness, "Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you."

The man whom Yang had seen take men down without batting an eye gaped for a moment before finding his voice, "It was… I just applied combat first aid to a comrade. Just doing my job, sir."

The admiral nodded, "And because of that, my daughter's alive. Job or not, young man, I won't forget that."

Yang looked at the combat veteran fumble a bit before Greenhill left him after lightly clapping him on the shoulder, turning back to the front with a grin. Although he certainly shared in the other admiral's gratefulness, it was amusing to see his Schenkopp-appointed bodyguard look so out of his depth. He was still grinning when Greenhill came up to him, gesturing to the seat next to him.

"May I?" he inquired.

"Of course," he beamed, and the other officer took the seat. Yang gestured to the viewport, "Do you want to switch places?"

"No, thank you," Greenhill answered with a shake of his head, "I've got work to keep me busy here." With that, he produced and opened a datapad. By the time they left the gargantuan Antonio Benivieni's shuttle bay, he seemed completely immersed in whatever was on it.

The resemblance with his daughter was suddenly striking. Although she had taken her looks from her mother, the way she frowned and read intently was the same. His quick glance showed him that it was actually supply procurements for the Seventh Fleet.

I'd have brought a book, Yang mused to himself, most people would have brought a book. What is it with Greenhills and their bringing work everywhere they go? It is genetic workaholism?

He was expecting this to be a quiet trip, and he passed the time by looking through the busy lanes of Heinessen's orbit. He had barely settled into a personal game of guessing which ship belonged to which fleet when he felt Greenhill move beside him.

"They're going to be sending most of the warships in orbit against Lagrange and those who went to him," the older man mused, and Yang looked over to see that he had lowered the pad, and was looking straight ahead.

"Yes, that's the plan, I guess,"

"It's all but a given that you'll be leading it."

He blinked. Although part of him seemed to shrug in resignation, he still managed to largely feel surprised, "Really? But admiral Bucock has seniority. By all accounts, he should be taking command."

"He should," Greenhill nodded, 'But he's likely going to waive that right and appoint you. Fleet admiral Kubersly will agree. As for the Department of Defence given how things are, I doubt there'll be an issue.'

Yang nodded. With Trunicht making a huge show of support on the media, he doubted Negroponty would obstruct anything in the military. So I might find myself being saddled with the command of the operation, he grunted inwardly, feeling pangs of annoyance despite himself, great. Perfect. Oh, well, I guess the speech's to blame or something.

Greenhill continued, however. "No matter who commands, however, I volunteered to be the new task force's overall chief of staff. I don't see much of a problem with that, either.

Well, that part, he hadn't seen coming. "Really?" He asked, and his astonishment must have shown, as Greenhill looked at him with a slight, amused grin.

"I do have some experience in the field," the older man mused. He sounded every so slightly wounded.

'Oh, absolutely!' Yang replied at once, kicking himself for his lapse. And that was a gross understatement. Greenhill had, after all, been chief of staff under both Lobos and Sithole, and had participated in several major engagements. In fact, in the case of Lobos, Yang felt that things would have gone far better had Greenhill himself been left in command. There would have been fewer mistakes made, and a better ability to listen to alternative solutions.

"I'm just surprised that you volunteered. I mean, they certainly can use you to take care of any planetary insurgencies. Not that we wouldn't happily accept the help."

There was a momentary silence as Greenhill turned back to look ahead, his face pensive. "If things had been just a bit different, I'd be over there."

"On Heinessen? Well, yes, that's…"

"No. Not Heinessen." His voice was stone cold, clearly completing what he meant to say without saying it.

He didn't know what to do with the shock he felt when he heard that. He shivered to think what the rebellion would have been with Greenhill's organizational ability thrown into the mix. Good thing for us that you didn't. He opened his mouth to say so, then thought better of it, finally just saying a simple 'I see.' Why are you telling me this? What am I supposed to do with that?

"You don't. It's not what you expected," Greenhill said, nodding as if confirming something to himself.

I never was the best poker player, his mind told itself pointlessly.

"No," he admitted after a moment of pregnant silence, "But I can understand why the option be temping. After all the reverses lately, what's been going in the government…"

"Not to mention Operation Free Stars."

"Yeah. That was a fiasco, and it shouldn't have happened in the first place." But why tell me?

"They came to me. It was barely hidden in the conversation, almost a blatant recruitment speech, an enticement to sedition. I saw it, without believing it was anything serious back then. And I was tempted. In fact, if Job Trunicht's government had been reelected…" The thought went unfinished. The words, again, were unnecessary.

We didn't know it, Yang told himself wearily, but we really dodged a bullet back then. I can't imagine how much worse the new… Insurgency… would've been with him.

There was no doubt that Greenhill joining the Insurgency would have been a game-changer. Few officers knew as much, had as much trust and respect. Nobody could work from behind the scenes like he did. He could have done so much against them without anyone being the wiser. Just the possibilities made him feel cold.

But Greenhill continued, as if he was confessing, his voice low, quiet, so that only Yang could hear. I don't want to hear this, he wanted to tell him, but he kept quiet, as if he had no business interrupting.

"Even then, even when they started to rebel, I found myself feeling more than a modicum of sympathy for them. I thought they were rash, and perhaps too violent, but I understood where it all came from."

Yang smiled wanly, "Yeah, me too. I got it." The thing was, he did. The military fleets and units that made up the Alliance's defense against Imperial rule had been increasingly used as political tools over the decades rather than as proper defenders. Decades of that, and non-military making decisions that got men killed in order to win votes… yeah, he got it.

But having sympathy didn't mean he was just going to go ahead and defect from a legally and democratically elected government. Even led by a corrupt piece of work like Job Trunhit. And that made another question rear its head, immediate and burning.

"So, then…"

"What changed my mind." Greenhill mused, "Good question, and not all that simple. Not at first. I suppose, to begin with, the Truhnit government wasn't elected. Rebello's was. And while Rebello has his own flaws, his reputation and political positions were grounds to give the new government a fair chance. Still, there were sympathies still, even after my daughter told me to have faith."

His eyes narrowed then, and the calm voice took on a harsh tone, a cold, angry rasp that he had never heard from the calm, level-headed officer, even more so as he cursed for the first time he'd known him. "Then some damned Insurgent shot my daughter. Nearly killed her, if not for the efforts of your man. Now, I might have some philosophical sympathies with the Insurgency, but my daughter is my only family." He then gave Yang a level look. "So I decided to ignore any sympathy I might have from then on."

Clearly, the subject was done as far as Greenhill was concerned, and Yang had no intention to pry any further. In fact, he never wanted to have this conversation in the first place. He still wondered what had brought this on. But, as far as he knew, there was only one thing he could say.

"It'll be great to have you with me in this fight, admiral Greenhill," he said.

The older man merely nodded wordlessly, his face relaxing. Then, to both of their relief, he was sure of that, they both returned to their reading.

Family first, heh? He thought. There was a good point made there. And he intended to visit his family that very day.

Command Battleship Triglav

Attenborough looked at the milky, white-and-blue marble that was El Facil and couldn't help but have mixed feelings about the place. Not that it wasn't peaceful, or anything. The Facili weren't rabidly pro-war, or stupidly pro-peace. The planet itself wasn't a center for dangerous movements. They didn't disdain the military. On the surface, the people that inhabited that growing globe were okay people.

It wasn't so much the people that bothered him, but the concept of the place. It boiled down to one question that always nagged at him, always pestered him, and yet darkly amused him, whenever he came around the damn place: Why the Hell were they still there?

Who in their right mind would choose to settle so close to the Iserlohn Corridor? It was the extreme border of the Alliance, just next to systems that had more often than not been warzones, where raids and battles of different scales were an almost everyday danger. Yet, here they were, three million and some change of them, clinging to a terraformed rock.

Oh, yes, Yang had told him why El Facil had been settled. It was on a quiet evening, where they'd received news that almost all of the citizens that Yang had saved from Imperial capture had clamored to go back. Their planet had barely been liberated by the Eight Fleet, the Reichflotte had just packed up and returned to Iserlohn, and they were all ready to go.

Yang had told him, that evening. That El Facil had been terraformed and settled in the years that the Alliance actually seemed to have the upper hand over the Empire. It had war hero McGreer as Chairman and the ever-victorious Bruce Ashbey as its darling military commander. After Dragonia, Yang had said, it seemed to some that the threat of Imperial violence had receded.

"It's not a surprise that the settler that chose to go there were optimists, and that their descendants are kind of the same," Yang had said then, sipping tea. "And then there's the planet itself. El Facil took extremely well to the Terraforming process. Palmeland-rate, and there are, what, perhaps a dozen planets in the Alliance like that."

"Nine."

"Nine?" Yang had repeated, eyeing him. The cadet that Attenborough had been, had experienced a bit of a thrill in actually knowing something that his former Academy senior didn't.

"Nine. My mother reads up a lot on those things. And she likes to tell others about what she reads."

"Good enough for me, nine. I make my point even more. It was briefly considered by the Exodus Fleet as the new homeland."

"And it was rejected because it was too close to the corridor, so there'd be no time to prepare of the Empire came through," Attenborough had retorted, "You know, my old has another name for these 'optimists'. He calls them 'Stubborn Bastards', and I agree with him on that one. It fits them." He had been happy his father had no been there to hear him agree. Back then, he had wanted to disagree with him by default.

Yang had shrugged, smiling, and the subject had quickly been brushed aside, but there was no escaping that world, that stood on the path of any Star Fleet element going to or coming from the battlefield. Every time he saw the name of its Star Zone, he couldn't help but feel a faint desire to ask: Why are you still here, you idiots? That resentment he had felt had calmed down into a mix of irritation and amusement, but it was still there.

Fortunately, however, they weren't going to stay long. Just a day to gather the fleet, and then they'd make their way to Shampool and try to make things difficult for that so-called 'Insurgency'. Mixed feelings or not, it couldn't happen fast enough.

"You really look put off by that planet," A voice drawled, deep and guttural, with an ever-present amused edge. He didn't even turn around.

"You're taking an awful lot of liberties on my ship," he muttered, "Are you even supposed to be here?"

"I figured I'd go over and chat. Got to admit, though, I didn't think come in and see you glaring at a planet."

"I wasn't glaring."

"Looked like it."

"Well, you're wrong," he defended. He wasn't glaring, only staring really hard. The amusement behind him only increased.

"Alright, then. You were staring at it. Very fiercely. Very fixedly."

Attenborough turned and faced general Schenkopp, the tall soldier leaning against a bulkhead and smirking. "Is that the way it goes with Yang?"

The veteran soldier seemed to consider the question, then gave a noncommittal tilt with his head. "Depends on the day."

He opened his mouth to retort, but instead of what he wanted to say, the image of a bothered and baffled Yang came to his mind, clear as day, and a chuckle escaped. He leaned against the rail that gave a splendid overview of the bridge and grinned, "Okay, that image's gonna stick a bit. I might've been a bit… irritated."

"Nothing new. You've been on edge for days."

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And how did you manage to psychoanalyze me, my good general?"

"Well, that's easy," the general in question said, his smirk not wavering one bit, "You usually play poker much better than that. I've been cleaning you out every evening since I came on board."

A soft laugh escaped him. He didn't try to deny it, either. "Yeah, I guess I'm on edge. You know, this isn't a normal fight. We're going to face people who might just as well be manning these consoles down there."

"It's just another fight. They just wear Alliance uniforms instead of Imperial ones."

"If only I could make the switch that easily."

"Never said it was easy. But you're not going to be much use to these soldiers, those manning those consoles if you look like you're not sure about things."

He almost said that Schenkopp couldn't understand. How could the Rosen Ritters get it? They'd all been eager to leave the outpost they were wrestling from one of the moribund Imperial garrisons. He had been able to tell that they had been eager for a real fight, and it had bothered him all the more that he, himself, didn't want to fight this at all.

That was his first, impulsive reaction. The one that came right behind him, however, reminded him that Schenkopp had been fighting men he could well have been serving with right now, all of his adult life. He knew better than most how those mixed feelings went. And so he checked what he was about to say, only sighing and answering with, "Yeah, point. Can't wait until it's over and done with, though."

"I won't argue with that."

A moment passed, then he smiled, pointing at the general, "I'm getting back my money tonight," he declared.

"Promises, promises."

"How much do I owe you?"

"Almost six hundred dinars so far."

He barely had time to react to the amount and the realization that he had really been out of it, when a communications officer hailed him.

"Commodore, a message from the Airget Lamh."

He frowned slightly. "Go ahead," he ordered.

"Yes, sir. The message reads: hold to current commands. New formation orders have been delayed. Standby."

Delayed? Admiral Fischer? It almost seemed like a contradiction in terms! "That makes no sense. Patch me through to admiral Fischer." A minute later, as Schenkopp came to stand beside him, he received an answer: Admiral Fischer was unavailable.

What in the world is going on? "Then get me in contact with admiral Murai on the Hyperion." If no one else, the stiff-necked chief of staff would know what this was about.

He was right. The chief of staff did know. But he couldn't help himself but ask the stern man to repeat himself, just to make sure he'd heard right.

"Prime Minister Romsky is insisting that the Thirteenth Fleet leave a few forces to protect El Facil," he said, unflappable as always. Even then, however, there was a trace of genuine displeasure in there. Maybe it was just Attenborough projecting, but the chief of staff didn't seem all that thrilled with what was going on.

"What in all the stars for?" he asked as he looked at Murai's image.

"According to the prime minister, in case the Empire should choose to raid the planet."

It seemed that, even as Lagrange had been talking treason for all the Free Planets Alliance to see, his forces had commandeered everything in the immediate vicinity, up to and including the one thousand-strong fleet that acted as a garrison for El Facil. Not to mention all the soldiers planetside. El Facil was pretty much completely defenseless.

Although Attenborough could understand where the civilians were coming from, he still couldn't help but think that their reaction was overblown. Had that Romsky fellow missed the fact that Yang Wen-li had taken Iserlohn? That the chances of raiding were impossible unless the Empire retook the place? While he could be excused for not feeling all that safe, it wasn't like his people were in immediate danger. With words perhaps slightly harsher than was necessary, he told Murai exactly that.

It didn't seem to bother Murai, however. "Admiral Fischer is of the same position, but the El Facil government is proving intractable. We might have to leave a token force."

"So they're costing us ships and time," he grunted, "We've got a damn Insurrection to put down! It'll be hard enough without us having to garrison every spot we come across." He wasn't being very charitable, but he didn't care much. It was hard enough a task in front of him as it was without panicked civilians making it worse.

"Agreed. But it's an elected Alliance government. Admiral Fischer can't ignore it. We can only do our best to regain the time that we'll lose."

And there was nothing to do but wait, after that. And as Murai's face blinked out as the communication was cut, he gave the pretty, milky-blue orb another look. And this time, he wasn't going to pretend otherwise: he was glaring, although he felt more exasperation than anything else at this point.

What the Hell are you still doing here?!

And then another thought occurred: What am I still doing here?

That thought stuck. After all, he was leading about two thousand ships, and he hadn't yet returned to the fleet per se. It would be possible, with some convincing, to allow Fischer to allow independent movement. After all, unlike the rest of the Thirteenth, he was still ready to move out.

It bothered the military officer inside of him, but it thrilled the disgruntled journalist. It felt like stealing a scoop. And he was a man of simple tastes when it came to those things. He made up his mind.

But he had no time for that. He made a decision, again calling upon the communications officer. "Get me the Airget Lamh. Tell admiral Fischer that I'm about to move out. That'll get his attention." Piss him off, too. I'll need to talk quickly.

"Yes, sir!"

Beside him, Schenkopp stirred. "What are you planning?"

"Something really reckless and dangerous." He paused, "It might get us killed if it goes wrong, but that's the way it rolls."

A laugh. "I knew this was going to be anything but boring."

Heinessenpolis, Heinessen

Civilian clothing would do, for now, he decided as he walked down the streets of Heinessenpolis, using his training to be one with the flow of the crowd and, thus become invisible to prying eyes. It was intolerable that things had gone downhill so badly on the road between Kaffer and the capital world.

He could see it in the reduced crowds, the less-than-subtle soldiers on street corners, the darting looks and nervous conversations around him, and the news reports on many city screens, always rambling about the same thing. Under the somber, 'what a tragedy this is' faces, he had detected in the sharp eyes and energetic voices of the press a certain level of… eagerness. To some degree, although they might not admit it even to themselves, they were having a blast with this.

He couldn't blame them, either, knowing quite well the thrill of having something big and interesting to tackle. The war itself had been going for so long, people were so used to it happening, that it probably seemed to them like it was old news long before they were born. Which was the case, in all honesty.

But this? This was a civil war, something which seemed to happen every two weeks in the Empire, but in the Alliance? That was unheard of. Oh, there had been incidents here and there, sure enough. Disgruntlement. Strikes. Minor sparks. This? This was huge. This was news almost as big as the February Encounter, if not the Battle of Dagon. Of course they were eager.

The Free Planets Defense Forces, and all of its branches, had done what the cynical part of him had always known: the thing had fallen apart. Or, more to the point, split apart, into two sides that were now busy snarling at each other. Some networks had gone to talking about the side that had gone against the grain as 'The Insurgency'.

Some said the name came from the fact that the 'Civil War' wasn't truly one. He had heard an historian from some university say that one of the key factor in a civil war was a functioning civil organization that led or at least backed the military forces, which wasn't the case here. And he supposed nobody wanted to name the other side 'rebels'. Might have sounded too much like what the Empire kept calling the Alliance since the beginning. Insurgents. Insurgency. Those were terms they could go with, and they had taken hold already.

It had probably helped the subdued but not fearful mood that Heinessen itself had barely been touched by the fighting. While things had gotten rowdy in orbit of several planets, and major planets like Kaffer or Masjid (fortunately not the area he had passed through) had to contend with serious skirmishes, it hadn't happened here.

Here, central establishments had been secured almost as soon as Lagrange had issued his veritable call for revolt, to the point that the only skirmish on the planet had been about the Insurgents taking enough shuttles and transports to leave the system. Without that group, everything had been settled in less than a week according, again, to the press.

In those reports, however, had been the news that vice-admiral Bronze had been one of the men to fleet, along with several people from Intelligence. It seemed like he was going to have to make decisions about that even now.

He came to a stop near a small park, which appealed to him due to its quiet and remoteness, and reflected on his next course as he walked into it.

He had known that something like this might happen, of course. Many people in Intelligence did. It had simply reached a breaking point after Free Stars. That knowledge was why he had built a precise image of the Intelligence power structure in his mind, just in case he had to do what he was doing at the moment.

Any hope of a united front by Intelligence had pretty much died with Candace Auclair. That old lady had had the strength of character to keep all the subdivision leaders focused on the same goal, and able to control the ambitions coming from several quarters. That she had kept her own politics extremely close to her chest meant that she could be seen as impartial by all. That was over, now. And he had known, even while she was alive, that age and regulations would soon force her to leave the scene.

That had left three men in his mind. Three vice admirals who had a very good chance to lead the Intelligence Division. Bronze, of Domestic Intelligence. Montblanc, of Corporate Intelligence. And, finally, Jukna, of Foreign Intelligence. Of the three, Bronze had been the most well-regarded, or at least the most well-connected, and had seemed like a shoo-in for Head of Intelligence in the near future.

And so, he had chosen where he might find the most likely stability, and had worked extensively to gain the man's favor, something he knew he had achieved. It had seemed such a good idea at the time. It had worked at the time. And now Bronze had made a decidedly reckless decision, and made that choice so very, very wrong.

Montblanc was solid enough, he knew, but he was very corporate in his methods, preferring the long game, which wouldn't work here. The Alliance would want someone who promised results now, not later. And, of course, the fact that Montblanc's mother was Phezzani would work against him. That left Rihards Jukna, head of Foreign Intelligence, former number four almost certainly about to become number one.

He didn't like Jukna all that much, the man was too intense for his own good, and was far too abrasive to work under for his own taste. But that wasn't the real issue. The real problem was that Bronze and Jukna, as far as he knew, had always loathed each other. It was to the point that they could barely tolerate to be in the same room.

And he was well-known as a staunchly Bronze-aligned officer by now. And it was something he had done willingly, had worked at.

He had spoken lines against the government in front of witnesses, including such people as admirals Lagrange and Greenhill. The fact that the greatly esteemed latter had given the impression of not disagreeing with said statements made him believe that it was the right thing to do even more. In fact, he was considering, once his position was solid, to find some way to ingratiate himself to Greenhill. The thing was, even though he didn't really like the government, he couldn't really care about politics. What mattered was picking the right side.

Bronze had looked like the right one back then. And now Bronze had left, destroying his credibility, while Jukna would take over. And since Bronze is an Insurgent, Jukna would likely run the opposite and be as staunch a loyalist as you could find.

Yes, it was a mess he found himself in, no mistake about it. If he was found, he would probably be arrested for being a Bronze loyalist and possible Insurgents, and anything he'd say would be viewed as suspicion at best. Even if he did manage to prove his innocence, his reputation would never recover. And a damaged military reputation would follow him to the public sector, reducing his options. It was intolerable to think about.

As he thought about how lousy things had gotten, a woman walked up to him, carrying groceries in one arm, and some others – fruits, he guessed – at the end of the other arm. Clearly, she had filled the first too much, because some of the content spilled out. She let out an annoyed squawk of some kind, tried to prevent most from spilling out, and was only half-successful. Within a moment, about a dozen items, from dry pasta to bean can, had dropped to the ground, two of which rolled to his feet. Putting the saved groceries nearby with a huff of annoyance, the woman gave a grunt of annoyance and started picking up the mess.

Smiling, Bagdash picked up the cans and walked up to her. "Bad luck, eh," he said.

"Tell me about it. I swear they make these things too small," she answered, giving him a nod as he put the cans in the bag nearest her, "Thanks a lot."

Within moments, the unfortunate spill was put back in order, and the two separated with mutual wishes for a good day. It wasn't likely to be a good day for him, but he wasn't about to darken the mood. Why bother?

He had walked only a minute when he realized that there was something in the pocket of the coat he was wearing. He reached in, and to his surprise, pulled out a thin datapad, an easily hidden one that he knew well. It was the type of pad the Intelligence Division used.

He had a brief moment of confusion as to how it could have gotten there, but his training immediately overrode it. He knew the only moment he had been approached, the only person who physically could have given him something like this. He quickly retraced his steps out of the park and into the main street, and looked around.

The woman, who now that he thought about it had been perfectly nondescript, was nowhere to be seen.

Of course not.

"This is Cardinal. Package delivered to target."

"Acknowledged, Cardinal. Return to normal duties until further notice."

"Understood. Cardinal out."

He had chosen a secluded part of the park to look at the datapad, and quickly wondered if it had been such a good idea. What he had read changed everything. Not all of it in a good way.

He had thought at first that it might be an hoax, but had discarded it. He was trained well enough, he knew, to not have someone slipping something to him without his notice. Yet that was exactly what had happened. Whoever had done it had managed not only to do so, but also vanish without a trace extremely fast. That woman, whoever she was, was too well-trained to be anything else than one of the Alliance's elite infiltration agents, many of whom were women. And why not? After all, women tended to beneath notice in the heavily patriarchal Empire.

No. It wasn't an hoax, he was willing to bet on it. And that meant a mission that might end up being massive, dangerous at best. And he'd have to take a huge amount of risk for the first part alone. He wasn't the type to risk his skin without a good reason. Then again, what choice did he have? He was seen as a Bronze loyalist already. Best outcome, he'd be demoted to a dreary job. Worst outcome? Well, better not think about that.

Yeah, he preferred the risk if it meant getting to be part of the game a little longer. It was better than just waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak.

His mood shifted as he accepted this. He was going to do what he'd done before in his career: he was going to gamble on the best way to get himself something that would give him stability and opportunity.

Once he had walked to a calm and, most important, secluded part of the park, he took out a pad, opened its communications system, and typed in a certain number. It didn't take more than a few seconds for someone to answer with professionally-crafted cheerfulness.

"Good morning! This is Kush Flower shop, how may I help you?" Declare your identity.

Now the game began. He took his most casual tone in turn. "Yes, hello. Well, I'm here to put in an order of flowers. The thing is, they're rare. You have some rare flowers, right?" Intelligence operative. Is this line secure?

There was a pause for a few seconds, and then the voice returned, just as cheerful. "Yes, we do have some rare types. Anything in particular, sir?" The line is secure. Decline clearance and intent.

"I'd like some ghost orchids. Throw in a few campions in it." Field Operative. Orchid-level clearance. Urgent communication to command.

"Very good, sir. Any reason for the flowers?" Clearance acknowledged. Destination of information?

"Just a little surprise party. For my wife." he mused in a carefree tone. Foreign Intelligence Command. Utmost urgency.

"Alright, sir. It will be eighteen dinars. Will you be paying directly or electronically?" Expect response by eighteen hundred hours. Ready to transmit data?"

"Electronically, of course." He said, inserting a data slip containing his codes and olive branch into the pad. Transmitting.

It took only a moment.

"Thank you very much. Do you have an address for the flowers?" Information received. Stipulate place of the arranged meeting.

Bagdash loved being in Intelligence, and this cryptic double-talk only heightened his fun. As for the place, he had already chosen it. If he was going to wait around, he was going to do so somewhere pleasant.

Having declared the place of the meeting, he closed the communication, and continued walking down the park contentedly.

Goldfields, Shampool

They had finally agreed, after some discussion and some insistence on terminologies, to call themselves the Alliance Liberation Initiative, divided into the Liberation Army and Fleet. These components would then be lead by the Liberation Council, which would be headed by a Council Chairman. The latter, everyone had quickly grasped, was a move to create a parallel power to the Alliance High Council, one that attracted an absurd amount of optimism from the assembled officers who had participated in their creation.

They at least picked a nice place to hold the meetings, within Mesa Heights, the tall and airy building from which the now-imprisoned members of the Shampool civilian government held office and debated on the course the star zone, and sector, should take. Built on top of a flat hill - hence the name - in an admittedly elegant mix of Alliance pragmatism and Imperial Neo-Victorian style, it boasted windows that afforded an impressive vista of Gold Valley, with its sand baffles, wide streets (now deserted due to martial law) and set of wind baffles.

They held their debate in the round room where the main cabinet of the planetary government met, to give themselves an air of being the proper government of the planet. Given the self-important looks around the table, Lynch saw they believed it, too. It was all glaringly pompous, really.

The Council itself was formed to reflect Heinessen's High Council to a blatant degree. The Chairman of the Liberation Council was held by Admiral Lagrange, with the position of Deputy Chairman being Bronze of the Intelligence Division. Next came the Secretary of Defense, with Medina of the Twelfth Fleet, who seemed nonplussed by the proceedings, and then the Secretary of Justice, Verdone of the Third Fleet, who looked pleased. A merged secretariat, that of Secretary of Development, had been given to rear admiral Stokes, while that of Secretary of Resources, to a certain colonel Christian, a man that seemed to be ready to start a war by himself if none was forthcoming. Finally, they had given the position of Secretary of Health, Education and Transportation to Lynch, as both a slap and courtesy. They'd even got him to wear his uniform so that he'd fit, yet they looked at him as if he was a little ensign at best, not worthy of their time.

The days when he'd have taken umbrage at such a thing were passed, however, since he had always known what the 'Liberation Council' was: a sham. Although the men who sat around him with self-important airs seemed to have deluded themselves into thinking they were ushering in a new era to a moribund Alliance, Lynch felt the Council in Heinessen had called them exactly what it was: a military insurgency. One that controlled the Enyo Starzone and cowed half a dozen more into sullen submission.

The plan that Oberstein had given him had been to convince some gullible tools to think that the Alliance was ripe for a complete revolution, who thought that their fellow officers would follow them en masse in a grand uprising that would topple a corrupt regime and put something clean and honest in its place. For a short time, these men around him had genuinely believed that several other worlds would fall to the wave of patriotism that this must engender. That Palmeland, Santuario and Kaffer would join, along with their fleets and armed forces, becoming an irresistible force that would sweep the civilian populace along.

Lynch had thought it wouldn't happen this way, and it was clear that Oberstein hadn't. That illusion would have to last only long enough for the fools to start things up, to maintain it past the point of no return.

Lagrange of the Eleventh had made a call to action, to insurrection, and for a little bit things had been looking up. There had been a swell of implied sympathy from many quarters in the military at first, and some units had flocked to them, a stream that Lagrange was certain would soon be a flood.

Then 'Pirate Hunter' Kubersly and the 'Old Lion of the Fleet' Bucock had denounced Lagrange as the instigator of a military coup. Most of the other admirals who led significant forces in the Alliance had followed suit, of course. Only the Third and Twelfth had heeded the call and in an incomplete fashion. Borodin had clearly been about to announce support to Bucock, his old friend, forcing Medina to take half the fleet and abandon his officer rather than keep him prisoner - a stupid move. Verdone had been opposed, and had come away with only four thousand ships. Christian had managed to fleet ahead of organized military response teams on Heinessen.

Things hadn't been looking up anymore. But still, the others had clung to the belief that a lot of military units would join them, people on the fence who hadn't given support to one side or the other. And then even that had been dashed when Yang Wen-li, the very man who had betrayed him at El-Facil, had given his little speech. It was short, faltering in bits, and excessively preachy to Lynch's mind.

"It wouldn't have mattered how it sounded," Medina countered calmly, "It could have been as great or as bad a speech as you could dream, the impact would've been the same. Yang 'The Magician' said he was going to fight against us. And that means Iserlohn. It means the Thirteenth Fleet."

"Iserlohn is far from here," Verdone interjected immediately, "And the Thirteenth's under Fischer's command, not Yang's."

"It doesn't matter. The Thirteenth's all made up of units that Yang Wen-li led or saved before. You think they'll hesitate in following his call?"

There was no answer to be made for that. After all, if their men were willing to follow down their path, Yang's men would follow him down his. Lynch was once again amazed, almost jealous of the way the other officer had maneuvered himself from a position of obscurity to one of prominence while claiming all the while that he was just a humble soldier who didn't even want all that adulation. And managing to make people buy that, making him all the more admired. Yang, Lynch realized, was a genius of manipulation.

His little speech had emboldened the government as well. Within a day of it, the Alliance Assembly had passed several motions. It had accepted a motion by the politicians from Shampool that were on Heinessen to form a provisional government and had passed a resolution considering the planet as being occupied by an insurgent force. That idea had quickly made its way into the civilian psyche, and the media on many worlds were now calling the military forces at Enyo 'The Insurgency'.

Catchy name, he thought sardonically.

The end result was clear. Their Liberation Forces had 'liberated only one world so far. A major world, yes, but one of sand and sun cracked hills rather than fertile plains and forests. They called Shampool a 'Core World', but the fact of the matter what, it was by far the most fragile, certainly the least self-sufficient without links to the rest of the country.

Lagrange probably saw that the others probably did to an extent, but it wouldn't stop them, Lynch knew. He had gathered fools that were blinded by their own self-importance, as Oberstein wanted, but that same arrogance made them unable to even consider they were beaten. Not yet, at least. Well, Bronze might have, but the man had become almost mute of late, and even now was absorbed in a piece of datapad information.

"We can still reverse our position," Lagrange stated forcefully, "All we have to do is hand them a defeat that we can use against them."

"There are still many units who haven't gone to one side or the other," Bronze added, "If they went to our side, we'd be able to field fleets of more equal sizes."

Lynch smiled, "Look at all your faces lighting up. It's rather cute," he said. They looked at him as if his advice wasn't welcome, and he felt a sting of anger for a moment. These people were there because of him, not the other way around, something they all seemed to have forgotten. It was only one moment, however, and it was replaced with glee as he realized that they were just unwitting, self-important puppets.

"You have something to say, admiral Lynch?" Christian said, politely but unable to hide his disdain. He supposed he looked a bit slovenly - he hadn't gone to the trouble of closing his uniform, leaving it open and dangling. It didn't matter. None of it did. He smiled at the colonel's repressed anger.

"You're all talking about this like it's in the bag. Like you've already won. But you think the people back on Heinessen are just gonna let you have your way? They're probably building up a fleet of their own, and they'll probably put Bucock or that propaganda piece Yang in command. And what if they win the fight? We can repair ships here, but not produce more. They can repair and produce. They've got access to long-term supplies, we don't. I just don't see where that confidence comes from."

Ah, those disgruntled looks! How they disliked being shaken out of their little petty dreams of a glorious victory. It was an almost perfect picture. If he'd managed to sway Greenhill, it would truly have been perfect, but oh well. He'd take pleasure in seeing these self-important fools wound the nation that ungratefully turned on him.

"Admiral Lynch has a point," Medina said calmly after a moment, "We have a strong position at this time, but if we can't sway others, things will turn against us. They'll keep getting stronger, while we get weaker..."

"That's defeatism," Verdone mused.

"No, it's true," Lagrange admitted with all the signs that he was reluctant to say those words, "Shampool is meant to repair fleets if the Empire invaded en masse. It's well-defended, but it's yards are for repairs, and its agriculture can barely feed its people. But we do have a stronger force than people on Heinessen think." At this, Stokes gave a grim smile, nodding, "We can use that to surprise them."

Oh? He didn't know anything about that. But he supposed, given his ceremonial status, there was no need.

"I'll strengthen our forces planetside while you engage them in space," Christian promised.

"We should leave a token force here just in case," Stokes proposed, stroking the feeble whiskers that the fool probably thought was a mustache.

Lagrange nodded pensively. "Good suggestions all around, our course is clear. Now we'll have to choose a star zone nearby and prepare it. It's a shame that the enemy's knowledge of the star zones between Ba'alat and Enyo won't allow for an ambush, though. We could use our edge to maximum effect."

"It's not the same as fighting the Empire," Medina agreed. They know the terrain as well as we do. Surprising them is almost impossible." At this, Verdone grudgingly gave his assent.

At this, Bronze - who had been pensively reading that datapad, stopped and looked up at the assembled officers. There was an enthusiastic light in his eyes that had been absent from his face ever since he and the others of this make-believe revolution had made their escape from Heinessen. Lynch hadn't expected to ever see him be anything but gloomy from then on in.

"What if we could?" he asked. They all looked at him, surprised that the sullen and withdrawn man had spoken.

"I'm sorry?" Lagrange asked.

"What if we could know the path they'll take? What if we could ambush them?"

"It would increase our chances by a lot," Verdone said, "But I don't see how that's going to happen. Unless you have a way to know the route that Kubersly, Bucock, and Yang agreed on."

At that, Bronze grinned, another first. "I think I just might have received something here that can give us that extra edge, then."

And he told them some startling information that opened up new possibilities.

24 Silverbridge, Heinessenpolis

"Well, I'm sure glad that lieutenant Greenhill is gonna be okay," Julian said, as he and Yang went to the living room. He meant it, too. Of course, he meant it. He liked Frederica. She wasn't only beautiful – he'd have had to be blind to see that – but she was a strong person he truly respected. More than that, she was someone he could talk to easily. It was the sort of person that were on short supply, especially these days. "Is she going to stay in orbit?"

Yang shook his head as he sat on the sofa. "No, as soon as the doctors up there are sure her condition if fully stable, she'll be sent planetside. To a military hospital near the Strategic Center."

"Military hospital, eh," he mused, his heart sinking a bit. As a civilian, and since he wasn't a direct family member, he wouldn't be allowed in for a visit. He was surprised how disappointing he found it. The angry noise at the back of his head rose a bit higher. He looked at the clock. It was eleven forty-three.

The admiral seemed to read everything he needed to know in those three words, half-turning to grin at Julian, "Yeah, I guess that would normally be a pain for you to drop in. Don't worry, I've already talked to her father about it. Admiral Greenhill's already agreed to send special permission for you to visit the lieutenant as long as she's in convalescence."

"Really?!" He didn't mean to sound that happy about it, flushing slightly and toning it down, even as he put away the last plates, "I mean that's… that's generous of admiral Greenhill."

"It's no trouble. He'll probably be too busy to visit her much, give what's going on. So he's glad she'll have someone visiting her. And I know you're good friends with her."

Julian smiled at that. That was a fact that he couldn't deny. Over discussions and communications, the two had bonded rather easily, mostly over the fact that they both had to deal with the admiral's inability to tidy up and leave flotsam where order existed if left unchecked. Julian had long ago noticed that Yang could be incredibly thorough and exact with things that immediately interested him, but would border on chaotic when it didn't. He honestly still had shivers when he thought about the sheer state of disarray the house had been in when he'd first moved in.

Yes, it would be good to see lieutenant Greenhill from time to time. It would distract him from the mounting feeling of uselessness he was experiencing more and more lately. All around him, the people he cared most about – Yang, Dusty Attenborough, the Casernes, lieutenant Greenhill – were being drawn into a conflict with the Alliance's own forces, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Yeah," was all he said, however. There was no point in trying to talk about it to the admiral. He had come home for a visit to relax and be free of his worries. Julian knew that his guardian would have little such luxury in the coming weeks, maybe months if the media-named Insurgency was a really tough nut to crack.

And he was really glad to see Yang, he was! It had been horrifying to learn that Yang might have thrown his lot with Lagrange, since he knew that the admiral would never have gone down that road. The scenarios had piled up in his mind about what had happened, his imagination running wild for days, robbing him of sleep, presenting him with increasingly worse possibilities. Seeing the admiral alive and well, transmitting a message of loyalty to the Alliance in his unmistakable, if always awkward determination had been such a relief that he had nearly sobbed the first time he saw it.

It had only worsened a thought that had been with him for a long time, however: I want to help.

"So, everything alright here? I heard that things were a bit crazy around Heinessen for a while," Yang said as he served himself a watered-down whiskey. Or at least Julian hoped it was. The admiral tended to be lax with alcohol. Usually when about to go to the battlefield in the near future. His mentor had called it his way of coping with the command, and perhaps it was. But it never pleased him to see it.

Anyway, there was no way to answer that without making it a gigantic understatement. For six days after Lagrange's speech, many cities and institutions had been put under martial law by order of the government as it awaited a conflagration with units that had openly thrown in with Shampool. Fortunately, aside from skirmishes, the only true battle had been at several starports, as the rebel forces fought to leave the planet, many succeeding and commandeering transports. What remained had been swiftly dealt with, and the military rule was lifted.

The media had called it a failure on the part of the military, but Julian saw it differently. As he'd had precious little to do during that time other than piece together what information he could glean, he'd found that the battles could only be called defeats if someone wanted to prevent someone from leaving.

If someone had the intention of boxing in the enemy and forcing him to flee, then these had been well-planned, effective battles. That transports – but few warships – had been on hand for the Insurgents to take – made Julian believe that the outcome was what was desired. If it had been him, he might have preferred to let some rebels go if it meant pacifying the planet more quickly.

"Yeah, it was crazy for a time," And interesting, an unfortunate voice within him said, "But it's calm now," he added, refusing to let the voice inside say what it thought of that. He didn't like what those feelings said about him. Did he want to fight that much?

"Must be boring now," Yang piped up, "Especially with the enlistment offices throughout Heinessen closed until further notice." Julian started, his face flushing again. Had he been that obvious? "Come on, Julian, you keep telling me that you know me really well. Don't you think that works the other way around too? It's written all over your face."

Julian opened his mouth to protest that the admiral was wrong, that he was perfectly okay with how things were, but he checked that impulse when he saw Yang's knowing look. In the end, he sighed.

"I just feel horrible knowing that I could help," he said at last.

"Julian, even if you did enlist – which isn't the deal we've made, by the way – there's not much an enlisted man could do at this point."

"It's better than what I'm doing here."

Yang took a sip of his whiskey, looking out the window into the street outside, as Julian stole another look at the clock. Eleven fifty. "The war with the Empire is ultimately useless and stupid. That's my belief. But I think this conflict is even worse. Not content with fighting an outside enemy, we're going to tear at each other from the inside."

"The Empire has had several civil wars," Julian pointed out.

"True, and it's not one of their best points," Yang said, closing his eyes a moment in thought, before opening them again with a determined look, "But I think this is even worse."

"Worse, sir?"

"I don't think this even qualifies as a civil war," Yang explained, his eyes glazing just a tiny bit as he reasoned, "A civil war means that at least a fraction of the population supports you. Not just a few fringe groups, but a significant base. From the Imperial perspective, they probably see the conflict with the Alliance as a civil war."

"What we have here is a completely military movement with no civilian support or component," Yang continued, "This is why I tend to favor the name 'Insurgency' to the whole mess: It's an illegitimate military action against the established government. As I said, Julian, this is the worst kind of fight."

Julian privately hated when that happened. Once his guardian started explaining historical facts, he tended to become immovable in his beliefs. Oh, he'd allow discussion, but he generally wouldn't budge from his position. He wasn't going to be able to get his points across by discussing the rights and wrongs of the Insurgency from a political or military aspect. He knew that. So he didn't even bother doing it.

"It doesn't matter if it's a good fight or a wrong one, admiral," He countered, "What matters to me is that I want to be in the fight. I want to be useful."

"Why?"

"I'm sorry?"

Yang leaned forward, putting the half-finished brandy on the table. "You've always wanted to be useful. To me, to the Casernes, to Dusty, anybody we know. I always feel like you want to be able to prove something. To us, maybe. To yourself? I don't know. But you don't have to."

"I know that!" he said, this time with heat. He quickly got his temper under control. Heated confrontations led nowhere. He'd learned that from living with his grandmother. "I know that admiral," he repeated more levelly, "And maybe you have a point. But that's how I feel. I want to give something back, and I think the military's the best way for me. It may be lame, but that's how it is."

Yang leaned back for a moment, his eyes widening, "I never said it was la…" he stopped, sighed, leaning back completely and scratching his head. There was silence for a minute as Julian let his guardian sift through his thoughts. When he did stop scratching and shook his head, his voice was wry, "Really, you're a stubborn piece of work sometimes, Julian."

Julian nodded, accepting both the criticism and the implied compliment, "I learned from the best," he retorted. Yang gave a scoff and a half-smile at that, and the building tension ebbed away.

"I'm not so bad," Yang defended himself, then his face became more serious, "Look, Julian, if it's that important to you, there's a way to get into the Academy a year early. You need stupidly good grades, pass a battery of tests…"

Julian nodded, not seeing where this was going, "Yes, I know about that. But I checked: I'm too late for the dispensation." And I sure tried, he thought to himself bitterly. It had seemed a good loophole once he found out that he couldn't enlist.

"Yes, well, you have the grades, I know that much," the admiral noted, "And as for being late, you can waive that away if you're recommended by an officer. Now, those recommendations can be rejected by the Academy faculty…"

He didn't let him finish, unable to keep the hope he suddenly felt, "You'd recommend me to the Academy?!"

"Well, since the way I see it, you're going to run to the nearest recruitment center the moment it opens despite our deal…"

He leaned forward, taking Yang's hand, grinning broadly, "Thank you, admiral! Really, thank you!"

"Now, what a minute," the admiral cried, clearly taken aback, "Because I send a recommendation, doesn't mean they're going to take it. Don't get your hopes up."

His grin didn't falter for a moment. Although he didn't retort to it, he found it amusing how much admiral Yang seemed at least partially oblivious to his own importance. Was any academy, even the most prestigious one at Ternusen, going to ignore a recommendation from Miracle Yang himself? Right. Julian found it pretty unlikely on the worst of days. Julian knew that his guardian's standing in the Alliance was at an all-time high and that his counter-speech to Lagrange had made him even more of a hero. Why in the world would the military refuse him, at this point?

His guardian seemed to at least partly recognizing this himself, however, as he didn't pursue that line of thought at all, "Even if they accept, people are going to think you got in there through pure nepotism. Might be resentment over there. Not easy."

Julian waved that away. Resentment like that, he could handle. His grandmother had resented him for being the son of a 'low-born woman'. "I'm the ward of Yang Wen-li," he mused, "They're going to think nepotism's the reason just with that. I'll just prove them wrong. Or not. I don't really care." He did, but not enough to make a big deal out of it. He looked at the clock. Seven past midnight. It was time.

Yang opened his mouth, closed it, and simply hefted his brandy like a shield, holding it up in a half-defeated manner. "Alright then. Now, if at all possible, I'd like to talk about something not military-related. Like, for example, why you keep looking at the clock all the time."

He started, then shrugged and smiled. "I'm that obvious, eh?"

"Well, yes, and it's…" he looked at the clock, "Past midnight! That late? Sorry, I think tomorrow is Friday, no? A school day?"

"Yes, sir, it's a school day. But I can manage it."

"Still…" Yang said, clearly looking uncomfortable about the idea of his ward having a short night.

"I'm going to call it a night soon, sir. But I wanted to wait past midnight. It was important."

"Important?" Yang looked confused by that statement, "What for?"

Julian stood up. "Just a moment." Leaving the admiral looking even more bemused, he went to his room and retrieved a wrapped package. There'd be no cards and no cake, but at least he'd be able to give him this himself. He returned to the living room. Yang's eyes immediately looked at the package, then at him, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I don't know if we'll be able to do anything like this for the rest of the day, with all the meetings you're going to have, and I'm not taking chances. So…" he handed the admiral the package, "…happy birthday, sir!"

Yang's eyes widened as he took the rectangular package, "Happy…? Wait, so we're the fourth?"

"Yes, sir. April fourth, seven ninety-seven," his smile became teasing, "You turned thirty. Fourteen minutes ago."

For a moment, Yang looked as if he's smelled something slightly unpleasant. "Thirty," he groused, "It's just one more than twenty-nine, and still it bothers me for some reason," he showed the package, "Thank you, though."

A moment passed.

"Aren't you going to unwrap it?" He asked when it seemed that nothing was going to happen.

"Oh, right, right," He did so, and out of the pale blue paper pulled out a book. It was a book with a deep blue hardcover, with golden letters on the spine and cover. On the back, he knew, was the summary in the same gold, with the photo of a confident-looking, middle-aged man on top of it.

Yang read the cover, and his eyes lit up, to Julian's pleasure, "The Battle of Dagon: Fact or Fiction, from admiral Jeffrey Ward." His guardian looked up, "Always wanted to read that one, but I never got around to it. This is great, Julian! Thanks!"

Julian was smiled happily, "It's nothing, sir. Happy birthday again!" And to many, many more.

While the Free Planets Alliance reeled from the first wide-scale rebellion in its history, the Galactic Empire was poised to enter yet another Civil War. Unlike for its Republican counterpart, there the reaction was remarkably subdued. Certainly, both the Braunsweigh - Littenheim and Lohehgramm - Lichtenlade factions were ready to spring into action - far more swiftly than the Alliance's halting undertakings - there wasn't much in the way of a popular upset.

This was certainly due to the heavy control over media that the Empire had, denying its population much knowledge of the inner workings of the Imperial Court. However, this calm was also due to the fact that the Empire's history had been rife with coups and rebellions of all kinds, with the planet-wide Castrop Rebellion having been put down less than a year before. To the masses of the Empire, this was one more noble dispute that they would weather as they had all others.

There were, however, a few who did not see it that way. There were a few who knew that this conflict would be different, with ramifications that may well change the Empire as a whole. And that it would be ugly in a way that the people were not aware it would be.

These few warned those they could, leaving those with the knowledge with only two realistic choices: to choose a side. Or to flee.

April 4th, Fezzan Orbit

No matter how many times she visited, Magdalena von Westfalen had always been surprised at how hectic life was on a planet like Fezzan. Her father had once said that it was a world dedicated to money and little else and that since wasting time was the same as wasting money for them, the Fezzani had to keep on the move almost constantly.

Of course, her father had exaggerated when he had said such a thing, but there was a certain truth to it. No matter how one saw it, Fezzan orbit was bustling. Not only was there the enormous space elevator that constantly ferried goods and people back and forth from the massive starbase that held it in place from its orbital side, but there were also a myriad of stations and habitats. Some were run by large corporations, others were run by a small group of wealthy individuals, yet others were private places for some of the noble families.

The one her private ship was going for had been a retreat of House von Westfalen for two generations, ever since her grandfather, Lord Hubert, had decided that there was something to this mercantile life that the Fezzani had built for themselves. It had earned him japes and derisive smirks from other families at the Imperial Court, of course, but Hubert had never wavered in his conviction.

After all, other nobles could sneer all they wanted, but the fact remained that Hubert was one of the few lifelong friends of Emperor Ottfried the Fifth's third son, the festive and oft-broke Prince Friedrich. Although limited at first, things had changed thirty-five years before, when the Imperial son that few expected much from on the political stage became crown prince after the deaths of his elder brothers.

Hubert was wise enough to keep up his friendship with the Crown Prince and then Emperor, often hosting extravagant parties and grand hawking competitions. When he had died seven years before, the Emperor had made a rare appearance to pay his respect to what he had called a 'dear old friend'.

Of course, while her grandfather had dabbled in Fezzani affairs and had made a good amount of money from it, his son - her father, Frederick - had greatly increased their dealings, until their mercantile capital had equaled, and then surpassed, their holdings in the Empire proper. Now, or so she heard, nearly two-thirds of their revenue came from their shipping fleets. It had made many in Court call her father half-Fezzani, and they would have been shocked to know that her father wouldn't have cared.

If they had the chance to say it to his face, which was a rare occurrence. Friedrich rarely went to the Court, and spent most of his time on Fezzan, either ground side or in his personal habitat in orbit. It wasn't a life she really liked all that much, and there were reasons why she didn't really want to go to Fezzan. She much preferred Odin and its glamour.

But Annerose had told her something terrible was about to happen, something about her brother Reinhard, who had risen so high, so fast. Her friend had begged her to go, and she had decided to make the trip, in case the worry was warranted. Magdalena hoped nothing would happen to her.

As she refused an offer of tea from the maid and dismissed her, she spotted a vessel from the oval screen which worked as her window to the outside, flying in the opposite direction. It was an elongated ship that seemed utterly utilitarian, and she managed to see that it carried the pentacle of the 'Free Planets Alliance', and she frowned almost on reflex at the sight. This was something about Fezzan that she simply couldn't get used to. It sent a shiver of fear and disgust down her spine.

She understood why the Fezzani did what they did, intellectually at least. Her father had explained that the Dominion's de facto independence from Imperial rule despite being an Imperial world on paper, was due to it being a trading center for both the Empire and the Rebels. The desire for goods from either side had made the planet neutral grounds. In effect, Fezzan was looking out for its own interest. She didn't like it, but she could swallow it. After a fashion.

The Rebels that called themselves the Alliance, however, she simply couldn't understand them. What possible reason could they have to resist the Empire so stubbornly? Why were they rejecting their status as Imperial citizens? If they had simply let the Empire absorb them when their expedition had first met the descendants of the Altair prisoners, thing certainly would have been fine. They weren't to blame for their ancestors' fear and recklessness. They would have been treated with magnanimity, and restored to their proper station.

Instead, what had they done? They rejected Imperial rule, and had started a war that had now lasted for, what, six generations? Instead of peace, planets had been ravaged, resources had been drained on both sides, and - most unforgivably - hundreds of millions, perhaps even billions, of lives had been needlessly lost to the hubris and misplaces pride of these... Republicans. With their so-called democracy that so often fell to corruption and darkness.

Well, she reminded herself, they don't know any better. They've been raised to believe that the Empire was evil, and that their destructive war was just. Once we win, they'll come around to reason.

She privately wondered if she'd see it happen, however. With the Rebels still at Iserlohn Fortress, holding its Corridor, the War seemed to still be in earnest. She hoped that once Annerose's brother Reinhard took care of the problems with the disgruntled members of the nobility, that he'd put a stop to it all.

Well, one could dream. But for now, at least, she'd have to live with the fact that, in the name of profit, and because they were still too strong to be subjugated, Rebel merchants and businessmen plied the Fezzan trade routes, and a military-backed 'commissioner' was on the planet itself, speaking for his 'national' interests. Men and women who should have been arrested, treated as equals. Unthinkable.

She refused to let that sort of thinking cloud her mind, however. After all, she wasn't one of those who could change things on that front. For now, she intended to go to the Westfalen Habitat and make further plans from there. So she relaxed and took one of the cakes on her plate, absent-mindedly looking at the bustling space around her.

The idea of laying low for a while held some appeal, although she missed the companionship of Annerose and Dorothea. The former could hardly leave without arousing suspicion, however, and the latter had gone on a 'long vacation' with her husband when things started to go sour at Court. She would have to do by herself for a while, although she hated the loneliness.

It was when they docked, and she exited the craft with her retinue, that she suddenly found that being alone wasn't so bad. Instead of the few servants that she thought would meet her at one of the two docking bays, she found herself being met by a full party of maids, complete with a small personal guard, all former Imperial soldiers that had been hired by the family at the end of their service.

That bode ill enough, but it was when she saw the woman they all deferred to that she realized things were about the get worse.

Dressed in a complex dress of blues and greens, with her hair - proudly worn grey, hiding one's age was foolish to her - done in the very latest Court fashion, wearing an emerald necklace worth more than some estates, Delmira Rosamund von Westfalen stood straight, with the ease of a woman used to having her every command obeyed. She was giving a look that was clear to Magdalena even before she neared: she wasn't happy at all.

I thought she'd be on the surface with Father, she sighed inwardly as she made her way to her parent, She usually hates coming here, this is more his place than hers. She had sent word ahead, of course, but didn't think she'd have to confront her parents quite yet. Especially her.

She walked to the prescribed distance, and curtsied as well as she ever did, "Good day, Mother."

A nod, "Magdalena," she said, her voice at odds with her demeanor. Although she had always been pretty, and age hadn't yet started its work on her beauty, the Westfalen matriarch had always been known for her clear, melodious voice that never seemed harsh no matter how displeased she became. There were elements, however, a terseness that only her father, her brother, and Magdalena could recognize, that oh-so-subtle conveyed displeasure. "You have traveled far from Odin. You must have news of the Court."

Which meant, 'What are you doing here, don't think you're getting away without an explanation!' to Magdalena's ear. With her father, she would have sighed. But such a thing would only invite further ire from her mother, so she kept her peace.

"I do." Was all she said. Her mother would never want them to discuss it in public, only wanted an understanding that they'd talk. That, and establish who, exactly, gave commands in the household yet.

Her tone had been firm, but it had little effect on her mother. She simply turned to her staff, and ordered for refreshments to be brought to her sitting room. There was immediately a subdued activity as they traveled out of the docking bay, and into the habitat proper.

Once inside, one could easily forget she was in orbit of a planet, but rather in an great mansion on some Imperial planet. The walls were set in real wood, and decorated with expensive carpets and portraits, just as screens, set into well-crafted openings, gave the impression of brightly lit, sun-kissed forests on one side, and green plains on the other side.

The sitting room was no different. Another screen that looked like a great, bright window ready to open on a flowering tree, surrounded by drawn back beige and yellow curtains, occupied most of a wall, while the others, tastefully paneled, saw alabaster tables decorated by brass, yellow-topped lamps, wall-high paintings depicting either magnificent landscapes or prominent members of House von Westfalen.

Two great chandeliers, of shining brass and crystal, were on each side of the window, a deep beige couch with red cushions with motifs on them adorning it. Around it were wooden chairs adorned with silk furnishings that matched the cushions. In the middle, a deep-brown, wood table with elegantly-crafted, slender legs held soft white cakes and a tea assortment of the spotless porcelain. Her father's business partners and friends from the nobility were often entertained here, and the place, while tasteful, also was meant to show off the wealth of the family.

Most of the elements had been chosen by her mother, of course, although the tables was her father's find. He had told her, with a wry smile, that said table had been hand-crafted on the planet of Santuario, with real wood from its own maple trees. It had surprised her that the Rebels could craft something so beautiful, as everything she had ever glimpsed about them seemed simplistic and utilitarian, from their ships to how they dressed.

She was certain that her mother had been told the table came from an Imperial world, or else she might have had it burned. While her father was willing to entertain Rebel people, her mother found the idea treacherous, and would never have wanted such a reminder of her husband's dealings nearby at all times. Knowing her father, it was probably enough that he knew the table came from one of the Rebel worlds. He likely found it hilarious.

They sat, her mother choosing the chair that had a view of the fake forest as usual, even as she took the couch that was under the window-shaped screen. She noticed, vaguely, that the screen actually gave soft forest sounds, as if to make the image as real as possible. It was really well done, and almost made one forget that on the other side of the paneled wall was a bulkhead, and outside was the void of space.

Her mother waited until tea was served, sampled it, and then dismissed the servants with a short sentence and gesture. It was only after they were alone - well, except for the maid at the door, but it was almost the same thing - that they could get down to business, so to speak.

Of course, she waited for her mother to speak first. Anything else would be unconscionable. The few times she had spoken out her turns in her youth had been severely punished. Even though she was now full-grown and was rather independent, she knew better than to tempt that sort of storm. At any rate, she didn't have to wait for long.

"So, Magdalena," she mused, "Is there a reason why you're here at Fezzan, instead of on Odin, maintaining our family's position at the Emperor's Court?"

What Emperor? A sarcastic side of her mind said, remembering the only time she'd actually seen His Majesty Erwin Joseph Goldenbaum, Second of His Name, Lord of Odin and Ruler of the Galactic Empire, among many other titles. To say that she hadn't been impressed was a sore understatement. True, Friedrich the Fourth had been old, and she had never reconciled herself in what Annerose had had to endure because of him, but at least there was... something. The six-year-old was as vapid as he was temperamental.

Of course, she didn't say that, especially to her mother, so she simply answered, "The Imperial Court is not a safe place to be at all, Mother. There's war on the horizon."

She didn't think that her mother would be all that impressed by that declaration, and she was right. Delmira continued to sip her tea as if the information she had given was trivial.

"There's always war on the horizon when it comes to the Court," she said with icy certainty, giving Magdalena a slightly disappointed look. "There's been feuds between families, between members of the same family, and between the nobility and the throne, almost since there's been an empire. I heard that Litchenlade overreached by deciding who would be the next Emperor. He's not the first, nor the last."

Magdalena understood where her mother was coming from, but she shook her head. Her mother had been absent from court a long enough time that she probably knew some facts only through secondhand discussion. What she didn't know would make a lot of difference in making the right judgment.

"The prime minister isn't the most dangerous person in that conflict," she retorted, "The one who's dangerous is Marquis Reinhard von Lohengramm."

A dismissive flick of the older Westphalen's hand. "A child, nothing more."

"No, Mother. He's young, but he's been victorious many times already against the republican forces," she warned, "He soundly defeated their attempt at invading us."

There was no acknowledgment from that, only faint disdain, unshakeable confidence, a faint shrug as Delmira too yet another sip. "Winning against the ragtag rabble that's called the Alliance Fleet isn't proof of brilliance. I heard they behaved so badly that they gave the young man his victories."

It would have been so easy to agree with her mother on this. Oh, how the ingrained Imperial woman in her wanted to. In fact, she was certain that a side of her believed what had always been said: the rebels were just unruly peasants, fighting a doomed battle against the inevitable march of the Empire. When she had first come to the Imperial Court, that was how she had genuinely thought. Then she had befriended the lonely, frightened Annerose, and when they had talked about the subject, when she had told her exactly that, the young woman had gently asked a simple question.

"If they're just a rabble, why haven't we won after one and half centuries?"

She had dismissed it with a smile then, but the thought afterward refused to leave. If the so-called Alliance military was so inferior, why hadn't they won a long time ago? There was always talk at court, of the rebels being close to collapse, the Imperial forces making great strides towards ultimate victory. The people at court loved it, believed it. They celebrated even the smallest victory as the greatest achievement, and any defeat was shrugged off as the last gasp of a wounded prey.

She had clung to her beliefs, even though her doubts, despite what Annerose said, despite what she heard Reinhard say that seemed to agree with his sister's assessment. It had been so much easier to believe in what was being vehiculated.

And then the Alliance had taken Iserlohn Fortress, something thought impossible. And had followed suit with what was, even to her untrained eyes, nothing less than an invasion. Not an attack, not even a large-scale raid. A proper invasion. The Imperial Court had played both incidents down, of course, but in those cases, it had done little good.

Far removed from Iserlohn and in the one place that was too important to invade by either side - at least so far - it was no wonder her mother clung to the old concept of Rebel inferiority. As far as Magdalena was concerned, however much she knew that refusing the Imperial way was madness, she couldn't see things the way the elder Westfalen did.

But it wouldn't do any good to try and sway her mother with arguments. As far as Delmira was concerned, Reinhard von Lohengramm was a child who had been raised to his post purely because of his sister's position as Imperial Concubine, the rest due to luck or the Rebel's natural stupidity where it came to war. That Magdalena had better knowledge on such things than she did mattered little to Delmira's set viewpoint.

Still, she wasn't going to back down without a fight, and chose the one argument she knew would make her mother pause. "House Littenheim has entered into a formal alliance with House Braunschweig over this."

It was almost unseen. There was a pause as her mother leaned to take one of the small, white cakes. Her lips pursed a bit, curling down, and her eyes widened for no more than a second. All of this told her that this particular detail hadn't reached Fezzan. Or, more likely, hadn't reached the nobility located on Fezzan. The Fezzani themselves thrived on trade, as her father once said, and trade was all about knowing as much as possible, so that you could make the best deals.

"Indeed?" Was what she said after a moment, her voice just so subtly inquiring, just that little hint of interest slipping through.

"Word was, before I left, that they wanted to create an alliance between all of the noble houses to oppose Lichtenlade's hold over the new Emperor. They'd both be bringing in their allies."

A pensive nod. There was no dismissal of the idea there, only a quiet, stern gravity to her mother's face as she pondered this event. There was an air of reluctance, of restrained disbelief when she uttered, "So they saw fit to put aside their great feud. That is... interesting."

Which likely meant 'frightening', and there was good cause behind that fear, restrained as it was. The Braunschweig and Littenheims families had always been among the most powerful in the Imperial Court, its founders having been trusted subordinates of Rudolph von Goldenbaum himself in the defunct Federation Armada, or so the stories went. They had used that trust and camaraderie to build up a great powerbase and had built it up since, culminating in the current house leaders on each side marrying one of the late Emperor Friedrich's daughters and getting daughters who thus had a roughly equal claim to the throne - after the current Emperor's own, of course.

And there was the element that made even Delmira pause: the two great Houses hated one another, had for so long that they even denied the stories that their founders had been the best of friends. Although the Braunschweig's had come to wield slightly more power, the power of the Littenheims was still such that they were the only family that the former couldn't coerce on some level, barring the Goldenbaums themselves. They had effectively formed power blocks of friends, allies, and owed favors, always leveled at each other.

And now, for the first time in centuries, they had decided to pool those resources together against the Lichtenlade - Lohengramm alliance. Even if one wanted to dismiss the young man as a fluke of nepotism and blind luck, the fact that they felt the need to stand together and call in their allies was enough to make even the most virulent of skeptic pause.

"All I am saying, Mother," she continued cautiously, "Is that I think we should stay neutral for the time being. I'm quite certain Father would agree."

A soft snort, a strange mix of contempt and affection that she often used when thinking about her husband. "I'm sure he would. Your father never bothers himself with the Court most of the time. He's much more interested in his trading than in politics."

"He'd say..."

"I know. 'Trade is politics.' I suppose it runs in the family." A tense moment of thought, then a sharp nod, "Very well. I do not think that young man will be able to deal with the full might of those two houses arrayed against him... but I'll err on the side of caution for now. We will wait, and see what develops."

She felt relief at that, not only because of Annerose's warnings about her brother, but because of the few times she had met the young man. As handsome as his sister was beautiful, it was a fierce sort of beauty. A charisma that demanded and that wouldn't be denied. Blue eyes that could charm when necessary also showed cool calculation, as if everything needed to be cataloged as either an ally or an enemy. Her friendship with his sister ensured that the Marquis had always been nothing but cordial with her, of course. But she had, at times, seen something else.

The fear that her family would have to contend with a civil war everyone seemed to think one side would win handily having subsided, she asked the question that came naturally when she returned to her family. "Where's Pietr?" she asked.

If the change of subject bothered her mother, she showed no sign. However, her mien became instantly irritated, as she did anytime her younger brother was mentioned. "He's helping your father finalize a trade deal with some of the Rebel merchants. As usual, he takes far too much interest in them."

She smiled. "Well, that's Pietr for you."

"It wasn't always that way," her mother retorted, and the truth of that was so strong that there was nothing to say. Her brother had changed recently, and they all felt they knew why. Speaking of it openly, of course, was unthinkable.

But that subject was a good one to bring her mother to distraction, and she used that opportunity to steer the conversation away from the war that was brewing at Odin. Delmira would eventually return to it, of course, but for now she had pledged neutrality. It would have to be enough, at least until she could see if Annerose's certitudes, and her own apprehensions, were right or not.

Then, if the necessity came, they could act. She could only hope that Annerose had been wrong, and that, as the Old Earth saying went, cooler heads prevailed.

In hindsight, the war between the nobility and Reinhard von Lohengramm was inevitable, as both sides wished to dominate the Galactic Empire politically and militarily. Cooler heads, what few there actually were, simply restrained tempers as best they could, but never offered any way to stop the confrontation. Both sides wished it too ardently for that.

Most of the nobility, including the upper crust amongst them called the High Nobility, sided with Duke Braunschweig and Marquis Littenheim out of principle, as both men represented the centuries-old privileges and status quo that had been in place before Friedrich the Fourth died. That lesser nobles such as Lichtenlade and Lohengramm dared to dictate Imperial policy was unconscionable, an affront to everything they believed. And so, they levied the fleets that were loyal to them, numbering one hundred and forty-eight thousand ships.

It was pointed out by a few wits that, had Lohengramm not backed the coronation of Erwin Joseph the Second, odds were that the fleet that unified in solidarity would actually have been pointing their cannons at each other as their two leaders put their own child forward for the throne.

The next largest fraction were nobles that took for neither side but preferred to stay out of the conflict entirely. Many of them had strong interests in the Dominion, felt antipathy towards the two noble leaders but feared going against them, or simply did not wish to get their assets involved. Many of them either relocated to the Fezzani borders or went to planets well outside areas of military interest. Houses Westfalen and Schaffhausen, who had befriended Imperial Consort von Grünewald, Lohengramm's sister, were among those who chose neutrality.

Most interestingly, however a third group of nobles, most mid-to-low nobility, chose to side with Reinhard von Lohengramm against the promise that their wealth and titles would remain intact should he prevail. This movement had been led by one Hildegarde von Mariendorf, who had personally convinced Lohengramm of this leniency. At a stroke, the young woman became one of his most powerful political backers.

As the fourth of April made way into the fifth, as the night reigned on Kaiserstadt, the stage was set, and both sides waited for the tiniest of sparks.

April 5th, Kaiserstadt

Merkatz had regretted taking Duke von Braunschweig's offer very quickly, and only a thinly-veiled threat against his family had kept him from backing out of the deal entirely. He had known from the beginning that fighting someone like Reinhard von Lohengramm was going to be difficult at the best of times. He had feared that the men who had flocked to the Duke, and to Marquis Littenheim, would underestimate him. But he had clung to the hope that, at the very least, experienced Imperial officers would not make that mistake.

Listening to a simulation that Staden was showing the main commanders of the newly-named Wahre Reichflotte, he realized that they were truly in trouble.

"As you can see," the grey-haired, thin-faced admiral mused with the assurance of a long-time Imperial Academy teacher, "Since we outnumber the enemy so severely, we will have many options open to us. But the best, in my opinion, would be to break each fleet one by one, using overwhelming force with each while using the rest of our forces to keep the others back."

He understood what Staden was talking about. During the war, the strategy of taking out enemy forces one-by-one had been used many times, often effectively. Duke Lohengramm himself had done it at Astarte, after all. Putting aside the irony that Staden was now advocating something that he had scoffed against when the youthful fleet admiral had proposed it…

"How can we hope to use a tactic that Duke von Lohengramm knows so well?" A voice interjected from the commanders. Merkatz was unsurprised to see admiral von Fahrenheit was the one who had voiced the very thoughts that had occurred to him. That young fleet commander, in his eyes, was by far the most competent and trustworthy present.

Staden sniffed slightly but presented the patient façade of a teacher being faced with a difficult student. Merkatz wondered if he knew how smug that made him look. Or if he knew, and just didn't care.

"What would you suggest, then, Admiral?"

"Exactly what the Alliance didn't do at Astarte, admiral," the young man retorted, "They divided their forces into three smaller groups, and were defeated each in turn."

Well, that isn't quite true, he admitted. While two forces had been routed, the third had fought well enough to force a draw. This Yang Wen-li had been quite the surprise, and he had kept that up until now.

"If the Alliance had acted as one fleet instead of three, they probably wouldn't have suffered as many casualties," Fahrenheit finished, "We should keep our forces together. Smaller groups only heighten the danger."

"Danger?!" came the scoffing voice of vice-admiral Flegel, who leaned over and gave Fahrenheit a pitying look, "Are you saying that the best of the Empire would lose to Lohengramm's rabble?"

"I am saying that we shouldn't underestimate those that we will face. The Alliance did. Look where it got them."

"We're not the Alliance, admiral Fahrenheit," Flegel said, all but rolling his eyes, "We're of superior quality than those miserable peasants."

It would have been better if there was irony in what the nobleman had said. At least, there would have been hope for the lad that way. But Merkatz knew it wasn't so. The problem, the deep-seated flaw in many of the current nobility was the completely genuine belief that birth somehow made them better than the rest of the Empire. The fact that many of the men now controlling their fleet were inexperienced compared to Lohengramm's battle-hardened soldiers escaped them completely. They were of the Imperial High Nobility. And so, by default, victory would be theirs.

Merkatz would have let it go far before that. If he had bothered to start at all. But Fahrenheit was a young man, with a temper underneath that polite manner of his. He didn't quite have the wisdom to back down when faced with bred-in delusions.

"These peasants have been resisting us for a century and a half," he noted, his tone taking more heat, "We shouldn't assume that Duke von Lohengramm's forces will be inferior to ours just because there are more common-born people in command. Sigfried Kircheis and Wolfgang Mittermyer are both commoners, yet they're both fearsomely competent."

It was a good point, but Flegel was never going to allow himself to admit to it. Instead, after a pause, the sneer returned, "Fearsome, are they? Seems to me that you're scared, admiral von Fahrenheit."

Fahrenheit's face darkened, clearly furious at being called a coward, especially as a few of the other noble-born commanders in attendance chuckled. Staden, for his part, seemed to have no intention of intervening, so Merkatz made himself heard, his voice cutting through the tension.

"It only makes sense to assume that the enemy is strong and shrewd," he mused mildly, "Whether he is or isn't is irrelevant. We must assume that he is so that we're never surprised. If that means we over-prepare, then that only makes the victory easier. I feel we also shouldn't divide our forces, but concentrate it, so that we can study the enemy from a position of strength."

Flegel looked at him, nodding, "The hunter should always be patient, lest the prey does something unexpected. I like that. I agree with admiral Merkatz." There were nods around the lavish, ornate table, of course. They were never going to disagree with the highest-blooded in the room. Even Staden nodded, if more grudgingly.

The rest of the meeting passed without further incident, but achieved little of importance. The nobles drank expensive wines and talked of the glory that would be theirs soon, toasting each other for victories they hadn't yet achieved. Staden had the grace to look reproachful at this, and even Flegel was slightly abashed by some of the boasts. Blue-blooded men who had commanded ships, yes. But none of them had ever fought more than small forces. They had never faced a battleship barrage, or a swarm of fighters. Their battles were often fought in the comfort of these war rooms, in upholstered chairs. A game to many of them. It didn't bode well when the real thing came around.

He took Fahrenheit aside as the meeting came to an end, and they silently took a passage that the others didn't. It was a long corridor, with marble columns holding a slightly vaulted ceiling. On one side were extravagant portraits, while on the other were a series of windows, which allowed a view of a beautiful garden, illuminated by many lights in the gloom of the night.

"I apologize for my outburst," the younger man said as they walked.

"There's no need for it," Merkatz answered, "You said sensible things."

"Perhaps, but there are ways to say such things. I was rash."

"Better to be rash than blind," he answered, "I also feel as you do, remember? These men simply aren't veteran soldiers. Their ranks were granted due to their high noble blood."

"There was one… the blonde man next to Count Flegel…"

"Ah, Count Hildesheim, yes. What of him?"

"Yes. Well, earlier today, I heard him say that if he was in command, Yang Wen-li wouldn't have been able to give the Empire such a hard time. Note that I'm paraphrasing, his words were less… dispassionate."

"Oh, Hildesheim against Yang in a grand battle. That is a picture. It would be…" Utterly one-sided. An Imperial debacle. Absurdly short. "…unusual." They exchanged a smile at that. In fact, any of them, including Staden, wouldn't be able to make much headway against someone like Yang Wen-li.

"That means that they see Reinhard von Lohengramm in the same way," Fahrenheit continued, "And he's not."

"No, that he isn't." There had been a time when he thought like them, but he had seen the man at Astarte. He no longer had any illusion on that score. "But I doubt that our words will sway them by this point. They are convinced of the righteousness of their cause, as well as the inherent superiority of their blood. Centuries dominating this nation has seen to that."

"Sometimes I feel like the entire High Nobility is less than useless," he mused, before realizing what he'd just said. "I apologize. I didn't mean…"

"Your apologies are accepted, if unnecessary," Merkatz said, slowing next to a window to look at a fountain, sparkling due three small lights artfully shining at it. "They're men from a different age, one before the Alliance existed, when rebels were small, underfunded and uncoordinated. And they're still clinging to that age."

"It's not that they don't see Duke von Lohengramm as capable," he continued, "It's rather that they won't allow themselves to see him as such. Ignorance can be amended. Willful ignorance? That's another beast entirely."

"I heard that many officers and soldiers retired recently," the young admiral noted, "Most of them immediately in the wake of fleet admiral Mückenberger's own departure from the military."

Mückenberger, you old bastard, Merkatz mused as he nodded, always so intractable, so bound to the will of the Kaiser. And yet, you saw the coming storm before any of us, and you wisely chose to bow out. And when you left, you opened the door for all those who didn't want to serve Lohengramm, yet knew that to oppose him was dangerous at best. "It was probably more of a flood than he intended, but what happened, happened. It leaves us with the commanders we now have."

They had barely started to walk down the corridor again, when the door on the other side opened showing his aide Schneider, his young face taut with both fear and excitement. When he spotted Merkatz, he quickly made his way to them, saluting.

"Admiral, sir, you need to see this. This happened just minutes ago," he handed him a datapad as he said this. Frowning and feeling internally alarmed at what could cause Schneider this much excitement, Merkatz accepted it and scanned the information quickly, while Fahrenheit kept silent.

As he read the document, however, Merkatz's eyes widened, and he stifled a curse. Now wasn't the time to lose his temper. He looked up at his young aide. "Is this information reliable?"

A slightly nervous nod. "Yes, sir! The source comes from informants within Premier Lichtenlade's office. Reliable sources, I personally checked them. That's why I wished to get this information to you immediately."

"Good judgment. This changes everything," He stated, fuming inwardly. The damn fools. What were they thinking? Were they that desperate?

"What is it?" Fahrenheit asked, polite but clearly having no intention of keeping up the suspense any longer.

Merkatz sighed, handing the information to the younger flag officer. "There was an attempt to assassinate Reinhard von Lohengramm. An officer named Fellner led a small force and tried to break into von Lohengramm's estate. He was caught, and here we are."

Fahrenheit scanned the information grimly, his jaw clenching. "Anton Fellner… I heard that name before. He's under Duke von Braunschweig, one of ours."

"Yes, and you see how that will go over the Lohengramm camp."

"But we didn't order an assassination attempt," Fahrenheit protested, "Fellner must have been acting on his own.

Merkatz wasn't so sure. He'd been around the Imperial Court most of his life, and he knew that assassination was a good method to eliminate rivals in that circle. "It doesn't matter if he acted alone or not, you know that quite well. He's officially under Duke von Braunschweig, and that will be enough. They can now act and claim that it's only self-defense."

If there was even a grain of truth about Lohengramm's advisors – a man said to be as cold and calculating as his cybernetic eyes – it was likely that the entire faction would be moving shortly, if not immediately.

He looked at Fahrenheit. "We're not ready for any sort of a military engagement. I'll order all commanders to get to their ship and ready their forces at Command Point. Schneider, have this message spread to all members of this faction on Odin: Retreat from the capital at once."

Schneider had already recovered from the news, brave lad. He nodded, saluted, and was on his way. For a moment, they just watched him in silence.

"So, it's beginning." The white-haired youth mused. He seemed almost relieved at having a tangible conflict to deal with. "There's no choice to it now. Something will be started by this.

Merkatz agreed with the sentiment: he felt focused."Yes. But how it will be ending? That's anyone's guess, I'm afraid. Come now, we have a long day ahead of us."

The attempt on Reinhard von Lohengramm's life had been bold but ultimately foolhardy, as his intelligence network had made him quite aware of it, allowing his forces to quickly intercept and capture the assassination unit before it had a chance to strike. The leader of the uni, Fellner, was moreover embittered by the fact that he had received no backing by Braunschweig for his operation, and upon being captured openly admitted to belonging to the faction.

Lohengramm had all the proof he needed, but decided against using it immediately, rather counting on the men who had leagued against him to openly defy the government in place, thus giving him the ability to arrest them all legally for fomenting a coup against the Emperor.

He didn't have to wait long for this final insurrection to happen.

April 6th, Ministry of War Building

Oberstein had seen enough serving men in the Imperial hierarchy that he could say with certainty that a failed assassination attempt would have been met in two ways: imprisonment or immediate execution of the ringleader. Fellner, he was sure, had also thought as much when he had said that, as far as he was concerned, an assassination was the best way to avoid needless bloodshed. It was something that Oberstein himself might have done, but failure still carried the same expectations. His Excellency, however, had been impressed rather than angered, and had swiftly brought Fellner to his side. In fact, all the attempt had done was to convince him that the nobles would make a move based on it, and for his forces to stand ready.

As usual, Reinhard von Lohengramm, Marquis and Imperial Fleet Admiral, read the data that had been handed down to him with calm, nothing breaking through the serene yet intent look on his face. Learning what he was learning, even a strong man might have shown some emotion, some outburst to signify his state of mind. Not His Excellency, of course. Seated at his ornate desk, he simply perused the information he was offered in complete silence. It was the sort of thing that Oberstein expected of the man he firmly believed would reform the Empire and lead it into a better tomorrow.

Also usual, and less pleasant in Oberstein's cybernetic eyes, was the presence of Siegfried Kircheis. As ordered, his forces were stationed at Odin, as were several others of the Marquis' admiralty, ready to move the moment they were needed. Unlike the others, however, he was mostly found at His Excellency's side, often speaking his mind. Openly speaking his mind, sometimes without the honorifics that His Excellency was due. The admiralty seemed to pay that no mind: admiral Kircheis was rather popular among them, and was their commander's childhood friend. To them, it made sense that they would be more familiar with each other.

And in a normal setting, in a place where the stakes were not so high, he would have agreed that it mattered little who His Excellency listened to. Oberstein had never been the type with the temper or inclination for friends, but he had no issue with those who valued friendship. It was the normal course of things for most humans.

Only this wasn't a normal setting, and the stakes could not possibly be higher. Marquis Reinhard von Lohengramm intended to seize control of the Galactic Empire, reaffirm its ownership of the Fezzan Dominion, and do what generations of admirals under the Goldenbaum Dynasty had consistently failed to do: defeat the rebellious Free Planets Alliance and absorb it at last. In effect, bringing the reach of Imperial rule throughout the entirety of Humanity. How could the goal, and so the danger, be any higher?

And this was why the high admiral who patiently waited on the right side of the Marquis, sometimes glancing at his superior, sometimes giving him an even look, tended to bother him more than was usual. He had quickly pegged Siegfried Kircheis as an idealist, and unifying humanity did not need ideals, but pragmatic action.

At last, His Excellency finished reading, glancing up from the square datapad. "So, they call this union of theirs the Lippstadt League." he mused wryly, handing Kircheis the data without a word, letting him peruse it, "How grandiose a name, for such a collection of inbred ineptitude."

"Yes, Your Excellency," he answered, "Though we yet have no details of their forces, we expect them to be significant. They have ownership of many Imperial units."

"More than we have," Kircheis stated, still looking at the pad. Oberstein nodded, still looking at His Excellency.

"Most likely."

The Marquis leaned back, for the first time since he entered the room, a sardonic smiled broke his serenity. "So, the nobles are finally going to try and play at war." His tone was filled with calm contempt. Oberstein felt the same way. "Braunschweig leads them, of course,"

"With Marquis von Littenheim as his second," Oberstein pointed out, "Since they have the largest forces and the strongest claims to the throne through their daughters, it was the only natural option for them to take."

Kircheis looked doubtful, "They might have a lot of wealth and reach, but neither of them has any real command ability. Their military service is doubtful, to say the least."

His Excellency's voice grew in contempt, "Likely through nepotism, and they never went anywhere close to the front lines. I agree, however," he said, thoughtfully, "it also seems impossible to me that they'd be so foolish as to take command of their forces themselves."

"Your Excellency is right," Oberstein said evenly, "They have approached several officers of noble birth. My first thought it would be fleet admiral von Muckenberger. He has enough popularity and experience to undertake the task in a credible fashion. But everything seems to point out at him having retired from active life altogether. As a matter of fact, he seems to have sold most of his lands and retired to a mansion on Fezzan."

There was a beat, and Kircheis smiled slightly, "A clever move." His Excellency nodded, also looking somewhat amused. They both seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion he had: Muckenberger had known the current political players well enough to know that staying within the Imperial power structure was potentially dangerous. And so, he had decided to enjoy his wealth on the only Imperial planet either faction couldn't reach. Not as long as the Alliance remained a credible threat, at least.

"There are several others. I will have the answer shortly," he promised.

"And the situation within the Alliance?" the young fleet admiral inquired, his eyes showing interest. "Is our plan having the effect we wanted?"

Oberstein took out his own pad to review the data about the Alliance, aware that the subject would come up. It had a certain importance in their overall plans, after all.

"It would appear so, although I had to take my information through Fezzan contacts alone, as using Imperial Intelligence might tip the nobility off." That chance was slim, but to him that 'slim' was already far too dangerous, "That was the second part of my report, as it were."

A nod and a gesture. He could continue. He did so.

"Several units within the Alliance have broken from their government. They're seemingly gathering around their Eleventh Fleet, which rebelled almost to a man."

"The Eleventh Fleet..." His Excellency mused idly, as if he was on the verge of remembering something. Kircheis leaned towards him slightly.

"I seem to recall them at the Third Battle of Tiamat, where you routed them."

"Ah, yes. That fleet, I remember. Their commander was a reckless fool. But I seem to remember that he died during the fighting?" This was ever so slightly asked as a question, merely as a curiosity.

"Yes, Your Excellency," Oberstein agreed dispassionately, "The commander, one admiral Holland, was killed in your bombardment. The Eleventh Fleet has passed to his then-second in command, admiral Lagrange. An able commander, from what we can understand of his battles against us, but known more for his stubbornness than for anything else of note. However, he is the central figure the rebel units are gravitating around."

"And how large a rebellion are we talking about?" His Excellency asked.

Oberstein looked at the numbers. "Looking at the available data, we initially estimated that the Alliance Fleet would be divided thus: fifty percent would remain loyal, forty percent would become part of the insurgency, and the last ten percent would remain neutral for at least some time." He allowed himself a brief hesitation that neither man was likely to have noticed, so short was it "I have, however, internally reviewed these numbers."

"Oh? That's hardly your style. How so?"

"Nine days ago, Admiral Yang Wen-li addressed the Alliance," he answered simply. As he expected, the two men in front of him showed immediate interest in that information. His Excellency himself leaned forward on his chair.

"Yang Wen-li made a speech?" His Excellency exclaimed, leaning forward, seeming to catch himself, then leaning back a bit. "That's very interesting."

"How come we just learned of it if it's been nine...ah" Kircheis started, then he stopped pensively. His Excellency nodded.

"They kept the speech for themselves, probably cut off the Dominion from receiving it. Clever, but expensive. They really didn't want us to know about their troubles."

"Yes, Your Excellency. Which is why it is difficult to paint an accurate picture. However, what is well-known is that the Alliance considers Yang Wen-li a hero. That includes its military forces, especially since the Battle of Dionysus."

There was a twitch, and His Excellency's eyes momentarily darkened. Yang Wen-li had been instrumental in preventing the Alliance from being utterly crushed at that battle, and due to a trick by his allies, had managed to escape. It had triggered the Marquis' ire, but also his grudging admiration. It was no secret that, to the Marquis von Lohengramm, Yang Wen-li had become a sort of respected nemesis.

"Because of this adulation, I surmise that the ratios will change. With his endorsement of the government, the loyal forces will increase, and those who follow the insurgency will decrease. To what ratios, is too early to tell, only that the probability that this will happen is extremely high."

"I think it's a certainty," Kircheis mused, the tall, red-haired admiral giving His Excellency a look.

"I quite agree with you, Kircheis," The one Oberstein wished to one day make Emperor said immediately, as per usual where the red-haired officer was concerned, "Oberstein, does that change anything to the plan?"

His response was immediate. "No, Your Excellency. The goal of sending the former admiral Lynch as a mole was to sow enough dissent to prevent the Alliance from interfering in our dealings with the high nobility. Even if the rebellion becomes smaller, it will remain significant enough that the Republican nation's gaze will be focused inwards."

"Excellent," the Marquis noted with a self-confident smile, "Most excellent."

"It will mean that the Alliance under Yang Wen-li is likely to win and retain a good portion of its strength," Kircheis noted.

His Excellency chuckled at that, "Of course. I don't doubt that a trickster like Yang will win. I wouldn't want it any other way. I intend to conquer the Alliance one day, and it wouldn't do if he wasn't there to make it interesting."

That was an aspect that Oberstein liked less, His Excellency's desire for battle and for a worthy opponent to fight. As far as he was concerned, it would be far less trouble if Yang fell to the rebelling forces. But that was a concern for another day, and it was swept away as the Marquis's face became solemn and decisive.

"Very good. Obserstein, send a message to all of my admirals: the time has come. Arrest all members of the Lippstadt League immediately."

"Sir." he said and bowed.

With this, the forces under Fleet Admiral Lohengramm struck, even as nobles attempted to flee the capital. In a few hours, thousands were captured on the ground and in space. Even such success, however, wasn't complete, and many more - including most of the leaders of the new Lippstadt League. The war that both sides had so fiercely wished for had begun.

On the Alliance side, however, things weren't quite so earnest, as the unusual situation of considering Republican military forces as enemies was new and unpleasant to many. Yet the gauntlet had been thrown down, sides had been chosen. And although many loathed it, plans were being drawn to bring the fight what was now the enemy.

April 6th, Heinessenpolis

A favorite uncle of his had been known to say 'Never tackle something nasty on an empty stomach, it only makes things worse.' While said uncle was pretty much a glutton, and his father had wryly noted at some point that he tackled neither nasty nor nice tasks without eating too much, Bagdash found it to be the kind of advice that titillated his own sensibilities.

Whereas his uncle had been a man who liked simple food, however, his own tastes were a bit more extravagant, and he was more acute in displaying it depending on how bad he saw the situation. Il Gusto Divino, a seventy or so years old or refined cuisine that prided itself on having recipes dating back from Old Italy on Earth, was one of the most exquisite places in Heinessenpolis for the palate. And even then, he felt it didn't quite do justice to the feeling of dread that was welling up in the pit of his stomach.

There weren't many patrons there, given the time of the day and the situation on the planet, so he had secured his favorite table, next to a window overlooking a calm little spot with a pond, and he had ordered his dishes, an arugula salad followed by a well-spiced sugo all'arrabiatta, and a nice little Palmelander rosé, which he continued sipping after finishing his main meal, wondering whether he should have dessert or not. It was a good way to wait for his contact to show up.

He showed up just as he was beginning another glass. Not in uniform, of course, that would have drawn too much attention, and Bagdash himself would never take the risk here. Normally an easy-going, polite man, his friend sat directly in front of him without exchanging any pleasantry, which was enough to show how bothered he was.

His friend was blunt, too, another sign, "This is just like you, taking a restaurant just five blocks from Intelligence headquarters. You'd have been trying to get the admiralty riled up that you couldn't have done better."

This could all go South, he knew. Yet he simply smiled, hiding his own tension behind a carefree attitude, "Hello to you too, captain Klein. Do you want some of the wine? It's surprisingly fruity but subtle." Without waiting for an answer, he poured some in a glass he had asked for along with his own

Klein, a friend who had gone through the Academy with him and had gone into the Intelligence Division with him, barely looked at it, rather glancing around in discomfort, whispering "Don't start calling me by my rank like that, you're attracting attention." However, none of the few other people at the other tables paid them any mind. Since his little run-in with that Intelligence woman, he'd kept himself aware of his surroundings as keenly as he could, but nothing so far.

"Relax," he said, wondering for whose benefit he was saying this, "I made sure there's no threat. Unlike you guys in Analysis, I can spot trouble easily enough." Most of the time. Since his little run-in with that Intelligence woman, he'd kept himself aware of his surroundings as keenly as he could.

He meant that as a joke, but Klein was in no mood for it, his eyes narrowing at him, "Yeah? If you were that smart, you wouldn't have come to Heinessen. You transited through Masjid, right? You should've stayed there. Safer for you."

"It's not like I had a choice. I was told to report back here under vice-admiral Bronze's orders," he reminding his Academy friend. That didn't seem to make things better. If anything, it made Klein all the more aggravated. "I only learned of the man's flight to the Insurgency as I got here."

"You've got no idea, do you?" he muttered, "It's not just him. it's him, his staff, and almost a fifth of the Counter-Intelligence subdivision. Almost all of them, part of Bronze's unit."

"And I was part of them," he noted, the rising the chill he felt. It was actually worse than he had thought, and he immediately understood just how suspect he appeared to anybody in Intelligence right now.

"To many in Intelligence, you still are," Klein continued, "There's talk that many of them helped hush things up so that the Insurgents on Heinessen could flee as swiftly as they did."

He thought so, too. The taking over the launch facilities had been too quick, too thorough, to not have been done with a lot of Intelligence help. Hacked security systems, perfect knowledge of the garrison's schedules, the timing of the strikes... too well-coordinated. "So the people in the Division who stayed loyal are falling over themselves to prove they're genuinely on the government's side.

"You would too if you had someone like Jukna breathing down your neck. And that's not counting FleetCom Bucock or JointCom Kubersly. I was in the meeting once we received your message: a lot of people want you arrested on principle."

"On the surface, sure, we're putting up a brave front," Klein said sarcastically, "I mean, that's what we're supposed to do, aren't we. But internally, things are pretty hectic. Counter-Intelligence's in a bad spot, we're talking investigations, interrogations, and incarcerations. Especially those who happened to be close to Bronze. Like you. So, yeah, some want your head."

"But not Jukna," he said, still sipping his wine. Mechanically, Klein took his, "Come on, Steffon, he 's always hated Bronze. They've always opposed each other, it's probably why he leads the Division right now. If he thought I was faking the information, I'd already be locked up."

His friend looked at his evenly, keen green-blue eyes on a lean face. After a moment, he sighed, taking the offered glass of wine, and drinking half of it in one go. He pursed his lips, "A bit too sweet for me."

"So I guess you won't be joining me for dessert. But I'm right about Jukna."

"One day you're gonna be wrong about one of those things, and it'll backfire right in your face. But you're right, he won't. The codes are legitimate, everything matches. But he's not going to take unnecessary risks."

"He shouldn't."

Klein continued as if Bagdash hadn't spoken, "So you're going to go in solo. We'll provide you with a way to get on board, and codes to help you do what needs to be done. But if things don't go well for you, don't expect him to go to the Admiralty and fight. He'll deny any involvement and leave you in whatever fate you'll get." To his credit, he looked rather bothered by that last part. Despite feeling another chill of fear, however, Bagdash understood.

"It makes sense. It's a big risk. But this is part of her orders."

"I still have trouble believing it's her. And what about you? Once the dust clears, you'll have to contend with Yang Wen-li."

"So he'll lead the forces against Lagrange."

"Who else would it be, after Dionysus, or that speech? Anyway, watch out. He looks and sounds like a nice guy, right? But this guy took Iserlohn, got right in the face of an Imperial armada, and held his ground. If he gets pissed off and decides to have you thrown out an airlock, nobody's gonna help you."

Bagdash forced himself to shrug, although he inwardly admitted to feeling well aware of just how much danger he was putting himself in. It was both thrilling and maddening. "That'll be out of my hands."

A moment of silence passed, the subdued tremors of conversations from other tables and the faint sounds from the restaurant kitchen the only things breaking it. Finally, Klein stirred. "Well, you're wrong about one thing: I don't mind taking some dessert, something not too sweet."

Bagdash grinned, handing over the dessert card, "They've got a pretty good lemon pie..."

Strategic Planning Centre

He'd been right about the headaches. He was in the process of feeling a big one as he watched the holographic representation of Alliance space. Even as it lit up in the middle of the table at admiral Greenhill's command, he also wondered if he should have taken some brandy before coming.

All in the past, now, he told himself, at least now I know just how bad this thing is.

Overall, it was genuinely bad.

"If we look at all military-related disturbances, it can be confirmed that such troubles happened in over one hundred Alliance worlds and fifteen bases."

If anyone doubted that Dwight Greenhill was back in top form, Yang was certain that was laid to rest when he started alighting several points on the map. The calm tone that was both firm and unhurried, the clear, determined eyes betrayed not one whisper of doubt. The admiral was all business.

Yang gave a small nod at seeing this, before turning his attention to the holo. He then frowned a little as he saw the physical representation of the military's disgruntlement with how things were in the Alliance. Around the table, silence reigned, but the grim expressions, headshakes, and pursed lips showed that the full weight of what was being shown was lost on nobody.

"That's a lot," Hogwood understated, "I'm surprised we're not busy putting out fires in three dozen places instead of meeting here." Carlsen, gave a grunt of agreement, and Yang was hard put not to follow suit.

"Why aren't the media going wild about this?" Paeta mused in disbelief from his place beside Yang.

"We've worked hard to downplay and clamp down on the information," A man who wore the insignia of the Intelligence Division replied at once, "We've been filtering things so that it doesn't spread to the Alliance as a whole.

"Information blackout?" Yang said, his voice unable to keep slight disapproval from his voice. If the other man took offense, however, he didn't show it at all, merely nodding.

"More like a filter. Maybe not the most socially acceptable idea, I agree, but it's necessary in this case. If this was left in the hands of the press, the stories would spread and become distorted. People are on edge enough as is. If they think it was all localized, there won't be riots in the streets."

"So we'll spoon-feed the Alliance population with sanitized information?"

The other man frowned this time. "Until the crisis is resolved? You bet we will. Believe it or not, admiral Yang, my people aren't thrilled with this. But it's better than, as you put it, a news blackout. At least this way we can control the information flow instead of stopping it."

Yang realized he might have pushed a bit too far. It bothered him that free speech was being curtailed in any way, but he understood the point the other officer was making. "I meant no offense, admiral…?" he queried.

"Vice-admiral Jukna, sir. And no offense taken. I simply didn't want to give a false impression. God knows Bronze bruised my division's credibility enough."

A moment of silence, and then Kubersly spoke from the head of the table. "Now that we've settled that we will control, not block, what information goes out to the public," he mused, "Maybe we can focus on how bad things really are. How bad is it, Greenhill?"

The Chief of Investigations continued as if nothing had interrupted his presentation. "Fortunately, most of the incidents were small and had no consequence of note. About seventy percent of the rebellions never exceeded battalion strength, and its members were swiftly disbanded and arrested."

Admiral Rockwell nodded at that, looking satisfied. Yang knew that he was claiming the credit for those swift victories, but that the troops that had been the most useful had been transferred by Greenhill himself. He said nothing, however, not wanting to get into a petty argument over it. The Chief of Investigations pointed out to several systems in particular.

"Aside from Shampool, the most significant uprisings on the ground were on Heinessen, Palmeland, Neptise, Kaffer and Jhamseed. Santuario and Liore only had very minor incidents, quickly stopped."

Carlsen grunted, "And a good thing they didn't start anything." It elicited a few chuckles from the people around him.

"I can vouch that Neptise is handled," Hogwood noted, "And we all know that the people on Heinessen decided to flee under colonel Christian…"

"Ex-colonel Christian," Rockwell chided. Hogwood continued after a brief nod.

"We now Heinessen, Liore, and Neptise are under control, and Shampool is in Insurgent hands. But what about the other three?"

"From the reports we've received," Jukna answered even though the question was directed at Greenhill, "The situation on the ground is good. Best estimate, all three will be fully under lawful control in three weeks, a month at most. That's not the problem right now. The problem is the Fleet."

"The Fleet? You mean Verdone and Medina."

"No," mused Bucock, speaking for the first time, "That's the Third and Twelfth. He's talking about the Eighth and Tenth."

There was a tense movement among the assembled officers, and Yang himself felt lancing lightning through his being for a moment. Even the fleeting idea that the Eight and the Tenth would also rebel was catastrophic. It would transform a difficult situation into a possibly untenable one. Fortunately, Bucock must have realized it, and quickly moved to curtail the dismay before it took root.

"Hold on. Before you youngsters get all bent out of shape, let me tell you admirals Ulanf and Appleton haven't joined the Insurgency. Those two are as loyal as they come."

"Right. The situation isn't desperate, but there is a situation that we must look into," Kubersly added, "Let admiral Greenhill finish exposing the situation."

The voice of the Joint Forces Commander was firm, the voice of a man who had once faced two Imperial battleships with a cruiser and managed to defeat the both of them. It took the tension out of the room, and Yang understood why Kubersly had been promoted to the highest position in the military after Sithole's retirement. When he wanted to, he could put his foot down without exaggerating his authority. A good talent to have.

Admiral Greenhill waited until he was sure everyone was settled down, before continuing. "The Eight and Tenth Fleets are largely intact and under the admirals' control. However, a fraction of them have splintered off."

"We never received any word of that!" Paeta said, "That makes the entire region between Jhamseed and Santuario a potential warzone!"

"That's right," Jukna said, "We managed to filter that information early enough."

Yang fought the urge to make another comment, and it was a hard fight. Although he understood the use that there was in hiding information from the public, something in him never quite managed to reconcile himself with him. Still, he held his tongue this time, even keeping his expression as neutral as he could. Instead, he asked a more practical question that came to mind.

"Threat assessment?"

"Given the block and the other logistical hoops we have to jump to get the information," Greenhill mused, "What we have isn't perfect. But admiral Ulanf has passed on data that says that about fifteen percent of the Eight and Tenth fleets have turned Insurgent on them. What's good is that the rebel forces are overwhelmingly made up of cruisers and destroyers. This depicts that the enemy's outnumbered and lacks firepower."

"Anyone leading them?" Paeta asked.

"Truthfully?" Jukna answered, "We don't know about that. It's confirmed that all of admirals Ulanf and Appleton's flag officers are still with them are loyal. So, no one higher than a captain."

This meant that the entirety of the experienced command talent had stayed loyal, Yang reasoned as Greenhill ended his presentation and sat. That was good. He saw no reason the two fleet commanders couldn't handle the problem with time, care, and good strategy. Although perhaps not geniuses of the battlefield, they were undeniably talented and competent.

Clearly, Kubersly agreed with all the spoken and unspoken points that had been made, "Admiral Bucock and I have decided to call the situation that the Eighth and Tenth are facing the Rio Verde-Badouin Theatre, and we've decided not to allocate resources to it for now. Instead, we'll be targeting Lagrange and the Yadao Theatre. Shampool's our main problem for now."

"How is the Department of Defence on that decision?" Hogwood queried, "In fact, why don't we have someone from Defence right here?" Assents followed that question. It was Bucock who spoke up at that point.

"They've decided to let us do things our own way. In fact, Secretary Negroponty was outright helpful in letting us have full command latitude for these operations."

"In effect," Carlsen drawled in a rough voice full of sarcasm, "They're washing their hands off any responsibility if we screw it up."

"I wouldn't know," the elder admiral shrugged, "But I'm not about to question it. It leaves us space to move, and I'll take it. That brings us to what we're going to do about Lagrange and his Shampool faction."

"Intelligence reports suggest that Insurgency around Shampool may have as many as twenty-five thousand warships at their disposal," Kubersly followed, "with the Eleventh Fleet at its core element. There's also the rebelling elements of the Third and Twelfth Fleets thrown in, and some other units that joined in the region."

"That's a significant force, and so it has been decided to combine the bulk of the First, Fifth, Seventh and Thirteenth Fleets to counter them. We have agreed to designate this new fleet as Task Force Tempest. Admiral Yang?"

It's never a good sign when they name you first, "Sir?"

"You'll be on the operational command of the task force."

My impression was right. "Sir, if those are the orders I'm given, I guess I'll do my best," he started with a nod, "But shouldn't this task force be under your command?"

The old admiral nodded, "Officially, yeah, I'll be in charge. On paper. I'll be building up a new force here, and leading it on a little tour around Alliance space," his eyes flashed despite his easy grin, "I'd like to have a talk with all those 'neutral' units and see if I can't get them to get their heads out of the sand. And, well, gently convince them to help out. That's one task I'm better at than you, admiral Yang."

There was no question of that. Even before he was officially raised to Star Fleet Commander, Bucock had commanded respect, to the extent that most were willing to follow the then-commander of the Fifth Fleet over that of then-commander Lobos during Free Stars. Bucock, although nearing the age of seventy, was anything but slowed by age, and could be ferocious when he needed to. He admitted feeling a little bad for the commanders of the neutral units when they'd be facing the 'Old Lion of the Fleet' on a screen, demanding they start moving their ships.

He conceded wordlessly, but pressed on a glaring point, "Sir, at this point, however, I don't have a fleet of my own to command."

"I'd assume you'd take command from the Hyperion once the Thirteenth gets to you," Bucock said, "But don't worry, we've assembled a small force of three thousand ships, and we've pulled Lobos' old girl, the Ajax, to command it. Once you've linked up with the Thirteenth, your command unit will become part of it for the duration of the campaign."

It was better than nothing. "Yes, sir."

"The chain of command will thus be admiral Yang, followed by vice admirals Hogwood, Paeta, Fisher, and Carlsen, as we will follow seniority in light of rank parity. Understood?"

Everyone did. If someone had something contrary to say to those orders, he wisely kept it to himself. After a moment scanning the officers, Bucock indicated Frederica's father. "Admiral Greenhill is hereby designated as chief of staff of the task force, effective immediately."

No protest or surprise from Greenhill, only a dutiful assent as he accepted his duties. Yang was, for his part, glad, but also saddened that the man wouldn't be able to go see his daughter. It was possible that he knew this would happen, of course, which would explain why Greenhill had been so keen on allowing Julian to visit his daughter despite the fact that the young man was a civilian.

Kubersly poked his finger hard on the table as he spoke, gaining everyone's attention. "Let's be clear. These are no longer Star Fleet members that we'll be fighting. They're military insurgents that have destabilized our nation, illegally taken over one of our most populous planets, and have removed its elected government. We don't have to like the idea, but right now they're the same as an Imperial invasion force. Your orders are to remove their space capabilities, take planet Shampool, and restore its governing body to office. Any questions?"

There were none, and the commander in chief rose, "Then I order Task Force Tempest to depart in twenty-four hours. Dismissed. And gentlemen? Good luck."

Task Force Tempest, called by many within it the Tempest Fleet, was underway by by noon on the next day as ordered, leaving behind a two thousand-ship garrison to prevent danger to Heinessen proper. The fleet was to make its way through six Starzones that stood between Ba'alat and Enyo. Although this was standard as far as military waypoints went, the actual Warp points were randomly chosen, so that the enemy wouldn't be able to trace their path easily.

Although the possibility of an ambush existed, many in the fleet were certain that the Insurgents would not take the risk to strike to close to Heinessen, as a loss would make them vulnerable to a counter-attack far from their home base. At the same time, it was acknowledged that the deserters would need to attack before the Thirteenth Fleet joined Tempest.

Admiral Yang, now in charge of the field effort against the Lagrange faction of the Insurgency, acknowledged these points, and ordered the fleet to be prepared for battle at any moment, keeping a standard defense posture much like it would going through systems within the Corridor. Although he also thought that the possibility of an early attack was less likely near Ba'alat Starzone, he refused to discount it and rallied the other commanders to his opinion with little effort.

Technically ready for a fight, with many psychologically still hesitant, the Tempest Fleet started to make its way to Shampool, intent on stopping the largest fraction of the current Insurgency.

April 9, Adab Starzone

Normally, he didn't really mind what ship he was in, but he had to make an exception when it came to the Ajax. It wasn't anything against the ship itself, he found. At nearly twenty years old, the basis for an entire generation of Alliance command battleship was still a force to be reckoned with, with armaments and systems having been constantly updated to fit the times.

Still, Yang admitted that he felt a faint dislike for being on the ship's bridge, and he had to further admit to himself that he still resented its last flag-bearer, Lasalle Lobos, for what happened at Operation Free Stars. It was an unfair way to look at what was completely innocent, not to mention inert - piece of military hardware, but there it was.

He sat at the top tier of the pagoda-shaped bridge, behind the fleet commander's console. Unlike on the bridge of the Hyperion, there was no space before it to sit and survey the bridge the way he had gotten used to. Here, if he tried, he was sure that he'd fall, hopefully backward, as a forward motion would be a nasty surprise for those on the tier below, not mention land him in medical.

"Admiral," came the ship captain's voice, "The warp engine is optimized. Ready to coordinate the warp to Matemba Starzone."

He nodded at the captain, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a short beard. He missed McNamara's familiar face, but it was unavoidable in this case, the tall woman having been put in command of Yang's personal unit until it could be merged with the Thirteenth Fleet's. "Alright. All wings report readiness and prepare to warp on my command."

"Understood."

As the captain began to give orders and readiness reports began arriving in response, Yang wondered about the battle he was sure would occur. In his mind, there was no way the enemy would simply allow the task force to rendezvous with the Thirteenth. Tactically, it would allow the Loyalists - another name from the media that was sticking - a large numerical advantage. Strategically, Lagrange would be ceding the initiative to Yang.

That wouldn't be a good move on his part, him with not having the resources to sustain a long-term war. No, the wayward admiral needed to have a win to bolster confidence and sway allies from elsewhere in the Alliance. The only way to do this was to ambush the task force within one of the Star Zones between Ba'alat and Enyo. That's what he would do, at least, and he had ordered the fleet to be on high alert at all times while crossing each system they passed.

Some of the commanders had demurred at this, telling him that while the ambush made sense, it would be too risky to try it so close to Ba'alat, and that it would occur closer to Enyo. While he agreed that there was a greater chance of that, he wasn't going to be caught flat-footed because the system was supposed to be safe. Lagrange knew their detection systems and protocols. He could dodge them as well as any of them. Every system, as far as Yang was concerned, was to be considered enemy territory until proven otherwise.

Fortunately, so far things had been quiet. But he refused to allow this to become routine. Routine, he had found, tended to lead to mistakes, even from competent officers.

"Sir," The captain said, "Fleet status report, all engines green. Ready to warp on your command."

"Alright. Begin warp, then."

"Understood. Navigation, commence warp."

"Sir. Warp engine ignition. Tunneling commences in ten seconds... nine..."

The countdown continued,. Although it was more structured in some places then it had been on his father's ship, it was something that he had been used to since he had been just a child. Ignoring the ever-present queasiness of the Warp, he glanced at the Starzone they were warping to.

Matamba was a blue giant star with a strong Warp anchoring factor and was very good at moving large number of ships, making it part of the main military warplane. However, that was all it had going for it. No planet, no outposts, only a few automated refueling stations and beacons for emergencies. It was part of a series of waypoints between the populated systems around Ba'alat, and the less populated ones that stretched towards Iserlohn Corridor.

Maybe I'll go get the book Julian gave me, he mused. He had already read the first few chapters, and he rather enjoyed it. The Battle of Dagon had been scrutinized by experts, dramatized in series, novels, and movies. But there was always something to reading the account of a person who had actually been there. Who was biased, certainly, but also had insights that could only come from hands-on experience.

"Emerging from warp tunnel..." he heard, and the queasy feeling left him even as the stars reappeared. "Tunnel is cleared."

"Sir, enemy fleet emerging from Warp."

"Excellent! All ships engage immediately, don't miss this advantage!"

"Acknowledged. Track coordinates," the captain said.

"Tracking..." The main sensor operator said, following protocol. to the letter. Only to break it the next instant, his voice rising in incredulous warning. "Sir, high energy reading from port! Neutron beams incoming!"

Yang's eyes went to the sensor information, all ideas of reading a book forgotten. From the corner of his eye, he saw lances of light on the far left, and balls of light that showed hits on shields. The port unit. The Fifth, under Carlsen.

"All shields at maximum output. Ready all weapons!" The captain snapped.

"Communicate to all ships to take defensive position," Yang ordered, standing from his chair,"Prepare to reinforce the Fifth Fleet on the port."

"Admiral! Units at the edge of the Yellow Zeon on starboard and bow sectors, closing fast," came an urgent report. Numbers coming in... sir, sensors report about thirty thousand ships, Alliance warship types."

Yang's eyes narrowed. He didn't need to hear any further reports to understand what was happening: the Insurgency was ambushing them right at the Warp entry point from three directions. Almost impossible to do without...

Say it, Yang. Say it. Inside knowledge. Someone leaked this. That's the only way they'd be lying in wait. And thirty thousand instead of twenty-five? Our own intelligence failed. We're forced into a fight completely on the back foot!

All of this flashed through his mind in a moment of panic, and then focus replaced it. Matamba was supposed to be a simple, uneventful stop on the way to the fight, but the fight had begun already. He was dancing to the enemy's tune at the moment, and he had no intention of letting Lagrange - no one else could have put together that many ships - keep setting it.

"To all ships, prepare to engage the enemy," he ordered grimly, bitterly remembering his own thoughts about complacency. He had always thought he could read how things would go in a war, but not this time. This time, he was caught.

All around Yang, on every screen, exchanges of fire erupted. For the first time since humans had settled the stars of the Alliance, death had come to Matamba Starzone.

This, he thought grimly, is going to be an ugly fight.

On April Ninth, year seven ninety-seven of the Universal Calendar, two new forces, the Tempest Task Force and the Liberation Fleet exchanged fire in the Matamba Starzone. Soldiers that had not long ago stood shoulder-to-shoulder would now start shooting each other in earnest.

The time for turning back from the violence was officially over.

THE SECOND EXODUS

The Battle of Dagon's immediate effects were quite different, depending on the perspective of which belligerent viewed it. For the Free Planets Alliance, it was seen as an absolute victory, with less than three thousand warships lost out of 25,000, and losses of 160,000, from two and a half million soldiers. While there was certainly grief from the families that lost a loved one, and these dead were deeply honored, the general mood was one of celebration. What many had thought would be, at the very best, a horrendously costly victory, was instead hailed as a triumph. The Galactic Empire had been defeated, flung back through the Corridor. Over eleven decades of hard work, of sacrifices, and tight economy of resources to build up the Star Fleet had paid off.

The reaction in the Empire was the complete opposite. Of 52,600 ships, the largest armada ever mustered by the Reichflotte up to that time, less than five thousand returned home, many of them showing damage when the Alliance forces had fired on the fleeing remnants. Only 369,000 soldiers returned, out of nearly four and a half million. Never had the Empire been challenged so, not since the Great Rebellions following the death of Rudolph von Goldenbaum, by then nearly three centuries past. And never had it been so utterly defeated. Blame was assigned, many were executed, or exiled, for the great failure, and the Empire reeled in shock.

But not only in shock. For the Imperial Information Bureau, usually so scarce in the information it deigned to give to the population, had decided to let the Imperial Population have a long-range live feed - as much as their Warp communications would allow - from the battlefield at Dagon.

Due to pride and dismissal of the possibility that the Reichflotte could ever lose the fight, the feed wasn't actually cut until Grand Duke Herbert's armada was in its death throes, surrounded on all sides. Ironically, it had been Herbert, eager to cement his reputation, who had had the costly system installed. For the first time in centuries, the people of the Empire were given proof that the vaunted Imperial military was by no means invincible.

To the nobility and the patriots within the Empire, this was completely unacceptable, and steps were immediately taken to rebuild the Fleet, larger and better equipped than before, and crush what would be permanently known to the Imperial people as the 'Rebel Territories' or, at times, as the 'Rebel Provinces'. Eliminating those that dared to stand against the will of the Emperor had to be crushed under the heel of their war machine.

The Empire, however, had a sizeable fraction of its population that, for one reason or another, chafed under Imperial rule. Secret republicans, victims of Imperial harshness, families of those executed without cause, exiled nobles that lost everything, and even disillusioned Reichflotte officers and servicemen, made up this apparently cowed but actually seething part of the population. When they realized that there existed a nation that was strong enough to defeat the Empire, it ignited a fire that had been dormant, yet always present.

So widespread was the cruelty shown by many Imperial nobles and their attendant military, and so complacent had they become, that when the first rebellion exploded on Vanathar II, a mid-sized agricultural colony with a large population of impoverished serfs, nothing happened for a long time. Then another planet rose in rebellion. Then another. By the time the Emperor's men started to muster a response, dozens of worlds had become battlefields.

The Reichflotte moved to pacify the peasants and discontents, as it had many times before. In this case, however, their response proved sluggish and insufficient. This was largely due to two things caused by the Battle of Dagon. First, it had broken the idea that the Fleet was invincible, emboldening people. Secondly, with the losses at Dagon taken into account, only 16,312 warships remained to keep the peace, stretching their lines, making it difficult to concentrate their power and stop the insurgents.

Imperial factories and orbital shipyards were hard at work, however, and the majority of the Emperor's subjects remained loyal. Even as the fires of rebellion spread, it became clear to many that the Imperial forces would eventually win the conflict. Like before, these Imperial-based rebels lacked the industry to hope of standing up to the Reichflotte forever.

This widespread assurance learned through the defeats of the past, moved many of the rebel groups into another direction entirely. Many ships were seized, but not to be refitted into the lightly-armed ships that would stand no chance in a firefight, but rather as refugee ships, filling it with people and whatever goods they could get their hands on. On some worlds, that meant a handful of ships, while on others, it was hundreds. Thousands, then millions, then tens of millions made a mad dash towards the only place that had made a successful stand: the Free Planets Alliance.

The Alliance, elated and flush from victory as it was, was still a very small nation, with only Heinessen itself boasting a significant population, and only two other worlds completely terraformed, and a scant few more partially so. Suddenly, civilian ships arrived through the Corridor, begging for asylum, a seemingly endless flood of refugees coming to its shores.

The High Council and the Assembly debated on what to do. On one hand, these were people crying out for fairness and freedom, and by the nation's core beliefs, they couldn't simply ignore this fact. On the other, some representatives pointed out that the Alliance still had limited infrastructure. Even if it wanted to help, could it really feed, clothe, and house such a multitude? As the discussions raged, sometimes particularly strongly, more and more refugees arrived.

It was ultimately decided that turning back the refugees would be difficult, if not impossible. Not only were there too many in orbit of Heinsessen, Liore, and their lesser colonies for it to be feasible, but the population also would never agree to let them return to what the Empire would doubtlessly do to them. Somewhat at a loss, the High Council finally made the only compromise it could under these extraordinary circumstances.

It was decided that the refugees would be allowed to settle on Heinessen and the other planets that were completely terraformed or at least sufficiently so to support a human population, to be resettled as more worlds became habitable. The Alliance would provide basic necessities, but anything else would have to be grown and crafted by the refugees themselves.

It was proof of the new people's determination - or, as several historians later noted, the fact that they literally had no other palatable choice - that they didn't turn back, instead settling on the worlds to begin new lives. The ships they came on were mostly gutted for parts, and whatever goods that survived the trip were husbanded as carefully as possible. Sites were discovered for agriculture, wood, and other raw material. Quickly, larger and larger makeshift settlements appeared.

The Alliance exploded demographically. When admiral Lin Pao defeated grand duke Herbert at the Battle of Dagon, Heinessen was inhabited by 147 million people, while the five other worlds that could support a population was less than eight million. By 660 UC, the capital world of the Alliance had swollen to over nine hundred million, a high that it would reach in a more natural way only in the late 730s. As for the five worlds, they had reached one point six billion people. Over fifty planets that were within standards for such a transformation were in the midst of intense terraforming.

Later generations would tend to whitewash what would become known as the Second Exodus, minimizing the problems and issues that happened during the two decades when the Empire found itself largely overwhelmed and unable to stop the human flood. Later myths would talk of the Alliance welcoming all equally, and forging the enlargement of the nation with the full support of its population. The truth, as in most things, was far more complicated.

Although the Alliance truly accepted everyone, not everyone was accepted equally. The peasants with agricultural knowledge were in great demand and generally treated well, as the refugee crisis needed a multiplication of the food output. Artisans and exiled nobles who managed to bring a part of their wealth also found doors opening quickly enough, and those military officers who defected, while not able to go onto Star Fleet warships for security reasons, became coveted military trainers and advisors.

Others were less lucky. Those who had no wealth, and no immediately useful skill, found life in the Alliance quite hard, especially during the first decade, when the first wave was just starting to produce its own goods. The Alliance needed people who had resources of their own, or the ability to build up basic services. Those who had neither tended to be at the bottom of the list of priorities, if not outright ignored at times, creating unrest at several points, especially in the 'Lean Years', lasting from 647 to either November 655 or February 656 (to this day, historians hotly disagree on the end date).

The original Alliance settlers, those who came from the now-First Exodus, were also not all welcoming. To many, Heinessen and its colonies were the dream of their ancestors, and the new Imperial expatriates were seen as interlopers. That the original settlers were also Imperials fleeing persecution was largely ignored by such people, and an undercurrent of elitism sprung from many corners, with those who boasted a family line that started from among Arle Heinessen's followers having an easier time getting to higher postings. Although such a thing became less important as the First and Second exodus descendants mingled, there today remains a certain pride in such families, and slight favoritism towards them existed even more than a hundred years after Dagon.

Most importantly, however, the increase in population led to the neglect of the Star Fleet. While some efforts were made in the 640s to rebuild the fleet, building it up from 22,000 warships to about 30,000, the resources allocated to the military arms were increasingly truncated, until the enlarging of the Alliance's military might slowed, then stopped. Budgets were drastically cut, and military designs stagnated.

While many officers, including many commanders from Dagon itself, argued that the military had to be maintained to prevent further attacks, the government became unresponsive. Not only had the Empire not attacked again, but Imperial officers that defected said that its forces had been greatly depleted. The euphoria from Dagon created confidence that was in sharp contrast with the vigilance of pre-contact years. The Alliance was safe, many argued back, and it had bigger problems to take care of. The Star Fleet would continue to stagnate.

In the Empire, the reign of Friedrich the Third was followed by that of Maximillian Joseph the First and the short reign of Emperor Gustav. It was only when Maximillian Joseph the Second came to the throne that things began to change. Although he wasn't a warrior at heart, he aggressively began to change things within his realm, regaining the trust of his subjects and finally bringing a measure of stability, stamping out most of the major rebellions. He also worked to rebuild the Reichflotte, although he ignored the fact that many Imperial citizens were fleeing until 352 IC (661 UC), only then bringing the flood down to a mere trickle.

When Maximilian Joseph the Second passed away four years later, however, the tone in the Empire changed drastically, as his cousin Kornelias took the throne. Emperor Kornelias had grown in a nation that was still smarting and shamed from a defeat handed to them by the descendants of prisoners and had allowed many traitors to flee.

No more. Access to the corridor became impossible, with any ship that tried to cross being mercilessly sunk. Kornelia's also ruthlessly eradicated the last remnants of rebellion within the Empire, before turning his attention back to the hated Rebel Territories. With the Reichflotte rebuilt and stronger than it had ever been, Kornelias demanded surrender from the Alliance High Council and received a flat refusal at each attempt. After the third, he ordered his armies forward.

For the first time since the Battle of Dagon, the Reichflotte entered Alliance territory, intent on conquest. The Kornelias Invasion had begun.

Author's Note: Well, guys, I have no excuse, except to say that I was blocked. I didn't know how to link all the threads I wanted the way I wanted. It was only recently that I managed to get a stable idea of how to get the ball rolling for the civil war. As for the rest, I have a very good idea where to go, so there shouldn't be a block like this... hopefully ever! Hope you enjoyed this!

-Jeremy