1 - Before the Storm 
Tianji, L4 Federation
Asterian Union State
June 10, 0121 R.C.
Ceasefire with the Commonwealth brought no respite to 9th Battle Flotilla and its flagship, the Storozhevoy. Fresh from orbital combat in the Vasatian L-points, the aging Neustrashimy-class heavy cruiser had brought its crew of veterans back to Tianji's spaceport, in the Plateian sphere. All mere scheduled rotation for minor repairs and resupply… on paper.
Vitse-admiral Simeon Borodin, commanding officer of the 9th Battle Flotilla, a decorated leader of twenty three years of service, was accustomed to procedures around port entrance. Under normal circumstances, port authorities would ask questions around the absence of both the political officer and captain of the Storozhevoy. The lax security this time, while expediting their arrival, was unfamiliar; though Borodin knew well why.
Troop and personnel movements defined activity at the spaceport—all civilian travel, bar transportation of goods and high-ranking officials, had been halted. Everywhere, telescreens touted the glory of sacrifice, echoing the many slogans of the Prostasist Party. Their prominent display of General-mayor Vasily Vilgelmovich Krauzer, Oprichnik Guard hero and war martyr, was impossible to ignore.
Once they reached the tram station, the ship's 121 crewmen divided themselves into groups organized by rank. The admiral took the last train in, which soon began towards the cylinder of the colony proper. Opposite him sat the martyr’s spitting image, nary a hint of perturbation on his visage despite the oppressive weight of their situation.
“General Krauzer,” Borodin acknowledged.
“I take it everything is in order?”
“The commander of the Kolgvardiya garrison will wait on the other side,” the admiral assured. “The troops in the other colonies are in position… They merely await the signal.”
Krauzer crossed his arms, nodding. “Very well. Make your peace before we reach the other side, Admiral.”
“My fate is tied to the stars. Should their freedom demand my death… Amen.”
Union State heavy cruiser Admiral Khasanov (Pr.11753.13)
Approaching Polyphemus, L4 Development Administration
Coalition of Congressional Nations
From dreams of green pastures Michman Anastasia Igorevna Malenko stirred awake. Opening her eyes, she was met by the sight of her stateroom. The dreary grey of the metal walls was tinged with a subtle, sickly green, her daily reminder of the Admiral Khasanov’s enduring antiquity. The heavy cruiser was older than much of its crew, boasting just over four decades of venerable service to its name.
Fresh off a resupply stop at Sujeongseong, the trip had afforded her only a few precious hours of respite, though that was practically a luxury unto itself. Gradually, she regained her bearings, as her surroundings came into focus. In the dim illumination, the digital clock glowed 0411 hours, just barely ahead of schedule. Time for the Kosmoflot followed one standard—that of the Union State’s distant capital, Altunkent. Asya already longed for the familiar comfort of 1g, which the upcoming military operation in the Coalition space colony Polyphemus would certainly bring.
War had consumed the solar system, with the Union State and the Coalition of Congressional Nations the largest of the warring entities in this massive conflict. A year on, and things remained, for the most part, a stalemate. The Plateia-Luna L4 point had been one of the few theaters not stagnant in the broader conflict. Aided by the Union State, the Sovereign Colonies Compact’s independence war against the Coalition had seen them jointly seize much of the Coalition’s space colonies, driving their mutual adversary to the brink of total defeat in the theater. This came at great cost, both in lives and materials, yet for the superstate’s vast military there was a shortage of neither. For all the front’s successes, the flow of supplies had gradually dwindled as wartime pressures elsewhere occupied the Union State’s focus, to which the forces in L4 often had to make do with what they had—not at all something alien to Union State military doctrine.
These thoughts lingered at the back of her mind as she contemplated the operation ahead—and her role in it. Undoing her straps, Asya freed herself of her sleeping bag. Tethered to the wall behind her, it was the most convenient means of getting rest in microgravity. The vessels of the Kosmoflot were many things, and comfortable was not one of them. These material comforts mattered little to the novice pilot, however, as her patriotic duty took precedence over all else.
Weightlessly, she drifted to the narrow, claustrophobic confines of her bathroom, hastefully commencing her morning routine.
Hopefully, I’m up before Kallio—
“Miss Secretary!”
Her wishful thinking was cut short by a knock at the door, leaving her to spit her toothpaste and scramble for the door. Opening it, she was confronted by the visage of her superior hovering above her, his arms crossed. Glavny michman Attila Kallio was commander of the 2nd platoon. Of the three pilots comprising it, he was alone among them in having experience dating back to the Colony War. Twelve years Asya’s senior, his youthful looks and nonchalant attitude betrayed his age.
Glavny michman Attila Kallio.
“Wake up Lvov for me… and then fetch me a coffee.”
“R-right away, sir!” Asya stammered meekly. The lazybones. At least he only ever had chores and paperwork for her.
Without wasting another moment, she propelled herself down the corridor, gliding through the zero-g. It didn’t take long to reach the stateroom of the third pilot in their unit, his room not all that far from hers.
Lightly tapping at the door, she did not need to wait long to be met by the sight of her younger counterpart peering out from within.
“Ah— good morning Miss Malenko! I-is it time?”
“No, we’re up early,” Asya replied with a scowl. “The commander wants his coffee done.”
Asya and Irakly, postcards from Sujeongseong.
“Oh… okay,” the realization warranted a light frown on his part, though he didn’t let his disappointment linger. “Please lead the way, then!”
Of the three pilots in the fencer platoon, Irakly Vladislavovich Lvov was the youngest, not a week into 20. One look at him was enough to give away his lack of experience. Between his soft, pale skin unblemished by manual labor, and the messy light-brown hair that fell to the nape of his neck, one wouldn’t expect a greenhorn like him to end up among fencer pilots. Still, when pressed, he’d always claim how much he aspired to one day be decorated Hero of the Union State.
He was about as far from that medal as Asya was, as both shared the same rank. In practice, however, she still fielded much more practical experience than he did. Thus a dynamic akin to siblings had formed between them, with Asya no doubt the elder in such an analogy. He trusted in her, almost to a fault, and Asya felt a responsibility to keep him away from harm.
The corridors of the vessel were a symphony of chaos and calculated movement, corridors meeting in six-way junctions allowing for horizontal and vertical movement alike. Weightlessness reigned supreme here, transforming the passageways into labyrinthine arteries rife with the movement of crew and personnel, even at such an early hour. The war never slept, and the diligent cosmonauts of the Kosmoflot operated with that in mind.
Through the microgravity tapestry, the duo navigated the angular kaleidoscope of the Admiral Khasanov’s cold, sterile innards. Asya led the way, her novice counterpart lagging behind. Asya could remember the many times he’d bumped into her merely from miscalculating his momentum.
The cafeteria was altogether empty, which bode well for their hasty fulfillment of Attila’s request. Food and drink in the void had taken some getting used to, even by the standards of the Union State’s most impoverished denizens. Everything trended towards simplicity, sparing crucial resources in a war that perpetually demanded it.
Requesting a black, sugarless coffee from the bulky machine before her, Asya observed as a plastic bag was filled with the fluid and promptly sealed before distribution. It took Asya some getting used to, in her first year with the Kosmoflot. Irakly, even more so.
“Say, Miss, shouldn’t we grab something to eat?” Irakly asked, halfway between question and suggestion.
“Something to eat?” Asya echoed, tilting her head slightly at the suggestion. “I don’t see why not… as long as we don’t leave the commander waiting for too long.”
“Would be better than heading out there on an empty stomach.”
Sujeongseong was almost a blessing for their taste buds; any port in a storm… or rather, any colony in outer space. Though perhaps the Sirimese cuisine of that colony was as alien to Asya as anything actual aliens could present—especially that funny-smelling chili cabbage. In the end, she procured some fried pancakes for herself, Irakly had his slices of seaweed-wrapped rice, and they saved for Attila some pillow-shaped dumplings; and back to their superior they went, downing their chows posthaste on the way.
“Miss Malenko, do you think our battalion would manage it through this mission?” Irakly started, his mouth still chewing.
“Huh? O-Oh… I am not too sure.”
“R-Right,” if Irakly’s voice was a ball, Asya could feel it deflating before her very eyes. “Since we’re… the mediocre foragers.”
His spirit had to have infected her, as for a brief moment, Asya stopped chewing her food, while her mind replayed all the horrible deathly noises and utterances she had heard as a comms officer.
“Miss…?”
Irakly’s call snapped her out. As a reflex, she smiled at him.
“Even so,” she added to her earlier words, “command wouldn’t knowingly push certain death on our heads. We just need to relax and do our best!”
Her choice of words, even if nothing extraordinary, yielded a nod from him.
“At least,” Asya added, “we won’t have to worry about a long war. With the Coalition holding onto a lost cause, and the Commonwealth also out of the picture… we just need to coexist with those Compact people.”
“The… Compact? They’re our friends, aren’t they?”
“The same kind as the Commonwealth, I fear.”
“Oh well… That’s life.” Irakly shifted his eyes away from Asya. “In any case, we’ll get to step foot on land, be back in actual one-gee, and have fresh air for the first time in forever. I guess that’s a plus.”
Asya could envision the same greenery that must have been dreamed up by his mind, but its tranquility was soon disrupted by the hazy imagery of fighting. She might not have seen any of it, but she had heard more than enough to get chills just from thinking.
“You’re spacing out today…” Irakly, ever her blessing, asked, “Is it because of that lazy Kallio? You’ve been letting him push you around so much. Don’t you feel tired?”
“I… don’t mind.”
“You don’t? Miss Malenko, he’s only short of making you into his horse at this rate!”
“No really! I don’t have an issue with that, and I don’t think he’ll… escalate.” Asya’s face, she could feel, was betraying the words she spoke.
“Gosh, you really ought t—”
His passion was interrupted by a sudden cough, which sent Asya into a panic.
“Are you alright?! Should I find a medic?!”
When his cough subsided, Irakly shook his head.
“Rice…” he muttered, before the cough returned.
Maybe she should have given him those pancakes she had, she thought as her hand tapped on Irakly’s back.
“Thanks, Miss…” he said as soon as the cough stopped.
They continued at a deliberately slower pace, both finishing their breakfasts in an awkward silence. Once Irakly swallowed the last of his, he turned to Asya again.
“Miss Malenko, what do you want to do when everything’s over?”
Having only just swallowed the last of her mildly bland pancakes, Asya couldn’t look straight back at him yet. Still, she responded, “I haven’t thought that far ahead, sorry.”
“Oh…” When she turned to look, there was something else trying to escape those pinkish lips of him. Whatever it was, he reined it in. “Alright,” he dismissed himself, much to Asya’s perplexity.
Those were the last words between them before they arrived at their superior’s stateroom.
The sound of indiscernible speech from the television caught them on the way in. At the chair was Attila, seated in a lump with an unfocused gaze that half-avoided the screen. Their entrance caught his momentary attention, but he was just as quick to sigh and refocus on the broadcast. His shift redirected the two subordinates along.
“… Hostile action by the imperialist Coalition has once again been repulsed today by Hero of the Asterian Union State, Ivan Nikolaevich Ma. In Talmedzh, part of the VL front, he single-handedly destroyed an attempt by Coalition forces to retake control of the colony, further adding to his impressive record of feats.”
Asya was transfixed. There he was, the Hero of Vasati, having scored yet another victory in the Motherland’s name. And with footage! Though not always appropriate for the context. That was a delight, still. She didn’t need to strive for Ivan Ma’s lofty heroism, but it reminded well of her duty to the Union State, and why she switched from the comms to the fencer. Just off the corner of her eye, Irakly also stayed still—their shared icon truly had such gravitas.
“Ahem.”
Attila’s voice, and his turning off the TV, interrupted their brief trance. “My coffee, please,” or so he added.
“… Yes.” She took a few seconds to come to, before laying the items they had brought before him in a gingerly motion. “Your coffee and provisions, sir.” While he received those offerings with as smug an expression as she had seen, Irakly nudged and winked at her. She traded a sheepish look back, before the probable point dawned on her, and she poutily shook her head within a tiny arc.
“So,” Attila grabbed their attention again while he opened the packages, “I hope the two of you don’t try to become Heroes of Plateia, because I don’t want to have to deal with more Heroic Sacrifices of Plateia.” He looked at the two of them square in their faces as he drank his morning coffee, then bit off half a dumpling.
“Yes… sir,” Asya murmured.
“My parentheses, Miss Secretary: excellent taste,” he gave the offhand comment as he lifted the half-bitten Sirimese dumpling at her.
“But sir.”
Some pent-up emotions from Irakly slipped out at last.
“If we aren’t the ones to continue that work, then who will?”
“You misunderstood me, Michman. All I wanted was to serve you a reminder, about how you shouldn’t copy a superhuman in your favorite propaganda film.” Frowning, but with a calm, even tone, the Glavny michman finished the remaining half-dumpling, while he and Irakly maintained their eyes on one another.
“I do know it’s not my station to even try and be a fraction of the Hero of Vasati, but…”
While Irakly still struggled to find his word, an expressly disinterested Attila continued to consume his provisions, before a quick glance gave him a subject to change to.
“Lvov, isn’t your hair getting a little too long?”
The comment from his superior caught Irakly off-guard.
“Yes, sir?”
“That’s going to draw the eyes of the commissars. Better you trim it off before they complain.”
Irakly’s hands felt up his hair, a clear embarrassment baked onto the tomato red of his visage. Whereas Asya couldn’t find the right words to address his shame, the man who brought it to him was quick on the uptake.
“That wouldn’t be my responsibility, of course—you’re free to do whatever you like with your hair, as long as you can keep us out of trouble.”
The considerate addendum, at least, brought the red from the face of the Michman. He nodded to his superior, while Asya could only watch, and be glad that the dilemma had resolved itself rather quickly.
Once calmed, Asya could at last notice something else discreetly stacked away in the corner of the room: that canvas on an easel she had spied Attila painting upon for a time. On it, him, her and Irakly.
“The drawing’s excellent, sir,” she commented.
“Oh right, that.”
The artist let out a sigh. “Couldn’t get it done before we set out.”
The conversation redirected Irakly’s eyes. He perceived his likeness, his lips opening to speak only more audibly than a murmur, “It’s… terrific, sir. I’m flattered.”
“What was that?” asked Attila.
“N-nothing, sir. It’s great, thank you.”
His superior grinned, while the other Michman approached the painting ever so slightly, closing in on the young man it depicted. “Such an incredible attention to detail…” she muttered, then turned to the other two. “Irakly in your hand is very adorable, sir.” At her compliment, Attila’s grin widened, while Irakly turned beet red.
“All companies of the 874th Fencer Battalion, report to your respective flight briefing rooms…”
Outside, an automated, authoritative male voice emanated from the PA system, echoing through the halls of the ship. Regardless of ethnicity or nationality, all in the Union State spoke the lingua franca, Zalesian, to some capacity. Still, the announcement repeated itself in a number of major languages thereafter, emphasizing the task at hand to all.
All three froze mid-conversation, well aware of their duties.
“Well, that’s our call.”
It was as though a switch had flipped in Attila, his demeanor changing on a whim with the mission at hand. “I’ll finish this painting once we get back, and celebrate our first victory… consider it a promise.”
“I-I’ll hold you to that promise, sir!” With a nervous excitement about him, Irakly took his leave, bound for his room. Soon, Asya found herself in her own stateroom once more.
She delayed no further in slipping into her standard-issue orange hi-vis fencer pilot spacesuit stowed in her stateroom. For all intents and purposes, it served as a relatively lightweight suit capable of guaranteeing pilot survivability in the vacuum of space, if need be. Still, ‘lightweight’ was somewhat deceptive a moniker—it possessed ten protective layers, giving it a certain unwieldiness that took getting used to. Nonetheless, it was a vastly simplified process compared to the EVA hardsuits often fielded by ship crews or the Space Infantry, practically designed for the haste merited by sorties, planned or otherwise.
Slipping in, she took a moment to ensure that all was in order. The protective hard vest, and its attached backpack, came next in the process. The backpack, designed to field everything from survival supplies to emergency stocks of water and breathable oxygen, locked into its designated hardpoint at the back of the spacesuit. From there, breathable air could be fed in, were she ever to find herself at the mercy of the stellar void.
Her helmet, colored a plain, yellow-tinged white, was emblazoned with the golden letters А, С, and Г, identifying her as a pilot of the Union State. For the time being, she kept it at her side—those final elements of the procedure wouldn’t be necessary until the briefing was over with.
Gliding through the ship’s passageways, she quickly caught up with her fellow pilots. It didn’t take long for them to run into other faces from the broader company, the 1st and 3rd platoons already well on their way to the briefing room.
“Hopefully this won’t be much trouble,” Glavny michman Obadiah Mordechai muttered to himself, leading the way in with the rest of the 1st platoon.
“I hear this colony’s a commune full of tree-huggers,” said Glavny michman Rustam Atamanov, of the 3rd platoon. “Let's hope it won’t be more trouble than it’s worth.”
“What business does the Coalition have with such a remote colony anyways?” questioned Michman Tamaz Iosebidze, of the 1st platoon.
Of the company’s three fencer platoons, the 1st was the most experienced, with two of its three pilots being veterans of the tribulations of the prior Colony War. Still, the 3rd was formidable in its own right, seasoned by the last year of conflict. The 2nd, by contrast, had yet to prove itself beyond the stories of Attila’s past wartime exploits. Asya and Irakly were, by the standards of most, two rookies far too inexperienced for their own good. Still, the doubts she heard whispered about her served as motivation to prove herself, even if it left her with lingering insecurities.
Past the door, the briefing room was nothing extraordinary. Twelve metal chairs were arranged facing a computerized display board, bolted to the ground in the absence of gravity. The company commander, Leytenant Jin Jiancheng, was already waiting for them, shadowed by the presence of the commissar, Leytenant Oralbeg Altynsarin.
Once all had seated themselves, Jiancheng started without further delay.
“I’ll get straight to the point: Our coordinated military operation in Polyphemus will be our largest engagement as a unit to date. Polyphemus itself is a Type 03 space colony, otherwise known as an Anaheim Cylinder. Its two counter-rotating cylinders should possess the capacity to support just over ten million souls—though Polyphemus only boasts a meager fraction of that, sitting just under two million. Its inhabitants are of no interest to us—what is of interest are the Coalition military facilities hosted within. Per some kind of social contract with the locals, these military bases are permitted to exist in exchange for minimal Coalition interference in the locals’ way of life.”
The explanation did well to recontextualize the rumors Asya had heard previously. The company commander gestured to the display board behind him, whilst the commissar clicked through a remote. The cathode ray tube monitor went live, filling the room in a yellowish light as a rough approximation of a battle map was presented. At first, it remained in 2D, before the perspective shifted to present a three-dimensional visual of the battle-space and the plans to be.
“With the advent of war, the spaceport of Polyphemus has largely come under the control of the military. Located at the stern of the first cylinder, it has been wholly repurposed towards servicing Coalition military vessels. A sizable detachment of ships belonging to the Coalition Forces have been moored there since our temporary setback in the Battle of Tanaro, likely for the purpose of refit and repair. Among their number are two Kamiyama-class space battleships. They will no doubt see us coming—these vessels will likely already have been hastily launched from port once we’re in the ideal engagement range.”
The presentation on the screen focused on the stern of Polyphemus-1.
“All fencer units are to deploy once we are in range, assisting our fleet in overwhelming the Coalition force. The 874th Fencer Battalion will enter the colony once the Coalition flotilla is no longer deemed to be a threat to the boarding operation. The 364th Fencer Battalion, of the heavy cruiser Admiral Motruk, will work to subdue remaining combatants in space alongside the 228th Fencer Battalion, of the fencer carrier Rozhestvensky. Once all enemy forces are guaranteed to be a no-factor, they will work to secure all auxiliary exit points of the colony.”
The visual shifted to a perspective within Polyphemus-1. The interior of the cylindrical space was divided in six—three sections of land, and three sections of reinforced glass panels offering a view of the outside.
“The 874th’s three companies will each be responsible for one of the three sections. Our responsibility is the first section. Perhaps the most important, given it hosts the largest of the Coalition military bases in the colony. Fencer forces are to secure a beachhead and assist the 205th Space Infantry Regiment once they have boarded the colony, as they will comprise the bulk of our invasion force. Collateral damage is to be kept at a minimum—the locals are not to be interfered with, lest they actively interfere with the efforts of the Kosmoflot. The 125th Space Infantry Regiment will board once all access points are secure, aiming to capture the colony’s main control facilities. Ideally, with the leverage of the colony’s water purification and weather control systems in our hands, we can drive remaining Coalition forces into a quick surrender. Any questions?”
One hand raised—Michman Ye Nyunt Oo of the 1st platoon. Asya knew little about him, save for the fact he was the only one of those three pilots not to have been a veteran of the Colony War. He was often a man of few words, his Zalesian spoken in a heavy, nasal Biaman accent.
“How long will we be in there?”
“One to two days,” Jiancheng answered, “more if the Coalition defenders fail to be dislodged.”