5 - Alea Iacta Est 
Tianji, L4 Federation
Asterian Union State
June 11, 0121 R.C.
A discreet corner restaurant lay nestled in the heart of the Ninth District. A wholly unassuming establishment, it was distinguished only by a solitary stone lion sculpture guarding its entrance. Despite the passage of time, the venerable establishment was exactly as Krauzer recalled. A wistful sense of nostalgia hung over him as he entered, passing a number of portraits that lined the wall. All had gathered layers of dust, a testament to the establishment’s old age—save for the last.
There, in the dated photograph, Krauzer glimpsed the Cen family. Father, mother, and young daughter—alongside him and the man he was meeting with today. Despite the years and Oprichnik indoctrination, nothing could make him forget the memories of childhood friendship. The daughter, Cen Hêng Yug, had been cruelly claimed by the last war, and Krauzer hadn’t quite been the same since. Nevertheless, he did not linger too long on the photograph before him. The elder Cen Wei had surely put it up in Krauzer’s honor, having no doubt heard of his apparent heroic death.
Two of his men took point behind him, standing watch by the door while Krauzer studied the room. The restaurant was wholly devoid of patrons tonight, save for the silhouette of a lone figure occupying one of the booths. Jazz played from the sound system, a melancholic clarinet leading the song. The Oprichnik slipped into the seat opposite the man, meeting his bespectacled gaze under the dim, sickly yellow of the overhead light.
“We meet again.”
Though Kontr-admiral Wong Sem Ding and Vasily Vilgelmovich Krauzer had gone down different paths in their respective lives, their stalwart belief in the ideals of the Union State had not wavered. Wong had risen the ranks of the Space Forces, now holding a lofty command over a number of Kolgvardiya forces. Very few among his co-conspirators knew of his personal ties to Wong, as Krauzer sought to avoid painting a nepotistic image of his circle.
“I hoped it’d be under better circumstances,” Krauzer replied grimly. “Alas…”
Wong, on the other hand, got straight to the point. “I see no end in sight to this conflict, old friend. Thousands of loyal men and women are sacrificed every day, and for what? Another six-year armistice?” he scoffed. “The Union State’s L-point federations have always been closest to achieving Voronin’s vision of uniting the masses under a common identity and purpose. Now we must merely take the next step of discarding the tyrants and corrupt demagogues who send us to our deaths.”
“Making the people see eye-to-eye with our ideals will be a challenge,” said Krauzer. “They have been conditioned for so long to accept their conditions as facts of life.”
“The Stellar State of Tyanlun should not present itself as a secession from the Union State, but rather, a movement to elevate the sovereignty of the L-point federations and bring about political change in the mainland,” Wong advised. “Those sent to crush us will be forced to contend with our ideals, not to mention one of the most well-armed fleets, headed by a senior admiral…”
“Borodin will need to uproot the disloyal first, and I can foresee an immediate shortage in manpower resulting from that.” Krauzer maintained a more cynical attitude, wary of the risks inherent to their mutiny. “Hopefully the assets wielded by the 9th Battle Flotilla will suffice as a deterrent for long enough.”
“In any case, my forces can handle the defense of the colonies. A reorganization plan is already in order, to be implemented the moment you declare Tyanlun’s sovereignty.”
“I’ll deal with the control center. The rest is your responsibility.”
The sound of approaching footsteps drew both men away from their hushed scheming. “Sem Ding! How will I take you and your guest…” Cen Wei fell silent, a pallor overcoming his wrinkled features. “V-Vasily…? I-i-is that you?”
“Ah—” Wong raised a finger to interject, but Krauzer spoke over him.
“Worry not—you’ll understand in time.”
Wong had to deliberate the next words, before he settled for a simple “We’ll have the usual.”
Something lit up in the eyes of the elder Cen. He hurried to the kitchen, and in little time, food was served: a dish of white cut chicken, one of char siu pork, another of stir-fried choy sum, and two bowls of white rice—astonishing in how unremarkable they were when measured against their surroundings. Krauzer reached for the chopsticks; a great hassle, he remembered them being, and yet his command of these utensils was nary any worse than the Serican people accommodating him. One could only hope the future of Tyanlun would be as successful as the attempts by Wong and Cen Hêng Yug to teach him just that.
“I’ll go get you boys the baijiu,” Cen Wei told them, “man yung!”
Both men smiled and nodded at him. As he walked back out with all his enthusiasm, the first thing their chopsticks reached for was the chicken—juicy, tender and warm.
“If only Hêng Yug knew how well her father has perfected the art of her favorite chicken,” Wong pondered over his cut as he held it up.
“How’s the old man’s business?” asked Krauzer.
“It’s doing well. Flourishing. But he’s had mild trouble with Plateian new money from time to time.”
“How so?”
“Zalesians and northern Sericans go in, act snobbish and think they own the place.”
Krauzer sighed. “That’s unfortunate. Because this is the finest cuisine in all of Tyanlun.”
“There is much room in our future to elevate people of the L-points, old friend,” commented Wong, as he reached for the pork.
The two men ate at breakneck pace. Krauzer retained keen awareness of what was to follow right after that meal; the same feeling had to have been with Wong all that time. When the old host reemerged with a bottle of baijiu, their dishes were more than half-empty.
“You boys eat fast! Will this be enough for you?” Cen Wei fretted over the sight of their table. While Wong emitted a snicker, Krauzer reassured, “It’s fine, uncle Wei. That baijiu should effortlessly carry us through the rest of the day.”
The two men kept on powering through their meal as the elder Cen poured the alcohol into two glasses. When Krauzer’s was finished, he looked up. His eyes told the Oprichnik everything of that unquenched curiosity regarding why he was present, but the old man’s lips were sealed. Either he was very wise to the nature of the Oprichniki, or he was courteous in consideration of what he had already been told. Whichever it was, “uncle Wei” was understanding to a ridiculous amount. The best Krauzer could return were a nod and a smile; not the business gesture sort of mouth movement Oprichniki had been taught to show, but what he would have given to his own father Vilgelm. Polite as he was, Cen Wei retreated back inside.
The speed at which they got through everything on that table was frightening. Only the baijiu remained. They lifted their glasses, and Krauzer was first to speak.
“Would Hêng Yug think less of us, were she still here to witness our imminent treachery?”
“This was always for her,” Wong answered, a hint more tense than before. “We are doing this so future generations will not suffer as we did… Are we not?”
“Of course.”
“We’re dead men walking, Vasily,” Wong reminded him, bringing their mission into perspective, “and I’d rather clamor for change on the way out than be quietly snuffed out by the Oprichnik Corps.”
“Out of sight, out of mind,” Krauzer thought aloud. “We won’t go quietly into the night.”
Krauzer couldn’t help but admire the simplicity of the occasion—an eerie calm before the storm. For such a simple meal, it’d felt like his finest supper.
Finishing his food, Wong raised his glass of baijiu. “To victory?”
“To victory.”
With a resounding clink, both men downed their drinks. Krauzer was first to rise to his feet, gesturing to his security detail to leave ahead of him. With haste, both men departed, Wong leaving a stack of grivna bills on the table before leaving.
The moment they were outside, Wong gave the signal over the comm. Both boarded their respective vehicles and gestured final salutes to one another. The time for reminiscing had passed.
As Krauzer climbed aboard his truck once more, weapons and gear exchanged hands among the men. All were readying themselves for the imminent operation, expecting steep resistance at the control center. Suiting up with a proper plate carrier, Krauzer made certain his Avtomat Piirainen was loaded and ready as the truck got moving.
Everything took place with distinct purpose and intent—the comm was already abuzz with vague communiques between forces loyal to the operation at hand as, at the drop of a hat, Wong Sem Ding’s forces received their instructions.
Krauzer’s own detail was comparatively miniscule—comprising merely himself and two trucks’ worth of loyal Oprichnik Guards. The squad in the second truck was headed by Mayor Aidar Elgeldiev, who had reliably served under Krauzer for seven years. Such familiarity was essential—a single rat among them could jeopardize the entire operation.
Each of them were trained fencer pilots, himself included, though that would serve them no use in the close quarters of seizing the colony’s control center. Regardless, it meant they had access to the combat stims typically afforded only to ‘tin-can soldiers’, to which the chemical cocktail had been extracted and distributed among a number of injectors. Already, an assigned medic was going man to man and dosing them with the substance.
Self-reliant as he was, Krauzer had no need for assistance. The effect of the drug kicked in almost immediately, his senses sharpened to a laser-focus.
The Ninth District’s proximity to the fore end of the colony expedited their journey greatly, as soon the facility’s security kiosks came into view, idly manned by Space Infantry.
Unlike most other buildings, the control center’s entrance was integrated into the structure of the colony itself, as it served a vital role in the cylinders’ continued function. Effectively the nerve center of the colony, it granted administrators a broad overview of its systems, resources, and modes of economic distribution. Aside from the leverage it would grant him, Krauzer also sought the ability to issue emergency broadcasts, lest the Union State authorities assume control of the narrative.
The facility’s security was overseen by the Space Infantry, an element he could not rely on being loyal to his cause. Thus, they needed to be removed from the picture.
“Sniper teams are in position,” a voice affirmed over the comm. By design, a considerable distance separated the control center from the broader cityscape of Tianji, denying civilians a line of sight into such a vital facility. To counter this setback, two supporting teams of loyal Oprichniki had dispersed among the other two landmasses of the cylinder to provide long-range sniper fire, equipped with potent anti-materiel rifles.
The trucks slowed as they neared the gate, Krauzer instinctively tightening his grip on his rifle in anticipation. Then, with a sudden jolt of forward momentum, both vehicles violently hurtled through the entrance, crashing through the gates before screeching to an abrupt halt within the premises.
The men leapt forth from their trucks, guns blazing. Amidst the pandemonium, the Space Infantry found themselves scrambling for cover, only to be cut down by sniper fire. Every second mattered in Krauzer’s plan, an ordered chaos that proved itself utterly overwhelming for the stunned garrison.
One of the soldiers scrambled to bring down the blast doors in a desperate attempt to shield the entrance against Krauzer’s assault. A shot from afar reduced one of his legs to ruined viscera, yet the soldier dragged himself just far enough to slam a balled fist against the red emergency button. Alarms blared as the two large blast doors began to close, filling all with a desperate sense of urgency.
“Keep that bloody door open!”
Krauzer’s orders were heeded with a haste unlike any he’d seen before. With his men advancing, disposing of stragglers as they did, one boarded the truck once more and sent it speeding into the entrance, temporarily obstructing the closure of the gates. The brazen act was enough to slow the closing doors, buying them enough time to pass.
Under the glow of the red emergency lights, Krauzer could see two soldiers hurry down the hall to confront their intrusion—only to be dropped by a spray of 4.75mm caseless rounds. Glass from the truck’s impact crunched beneath their boots as they charged down the hall, intent on seizing the control center before any form of public address regarding the crisis could be made.
Ahead, the corridor diverged in two paths, each leading to stairwell access points. Between them were three elevators, digital signs above indicating they were in use. Elgeldiev’s team ascended the left stairwell. Krauzer’s, naturally, took the right. Two men lingered for a moment longer to lay directional anti-personnel mines, catching up with the rest of the group on the way up.
Rising the floors, the sound of footsteps from the floor above alerted the Oprichnik. Shooting out the overhead light, the brief flash of its bursting bulbs left his enemies disoriented, struggling to regain their bearings—while, in the same moment, the soldiers had gleaned their silhouettes in the split-second flash. The darkness of the stairwell was soon replaced by the muzzle-flashes of Piirainen rifles as the Oprichnik team opened fire, infantrymen dropping in quick succession. One of them lurched over the railing, screaming until his skull met the concrete.
Silence fell upon the space once more—only briefly interrupted by the distant boom of the mines on the first floor detonating. Now veiled in darkness, Krauzer’s team swapped to flashlights, rising the steps with renewed urgency. The bodies of the fallen section littered the floor above.
One of the bodies flinched, and Krauzer reacted a second too late. A shot rang out in the stairwell—and just as quickly the lone straggler was riddled with bullets by the rest of the team. The sound of a thud occupied Krauzer’s attention, and his eyes widened at the sight of one of his own now struggling on the floor.
“Shit! Khanzada’s down!” exclaimed one of the Oprichniki.
The shot had missed its mark, striking the man in the neck. Arterial spray painted the walls, soaking into his uniform and kit. As he writhed in agony, his attempts at vocalizing his pain only yielded incoherent gurgles.
“Ivanov, Piruzgar—administer coagulant foam. Every minute counts!” Krauzer could delay no further. He pushed on, shedding off half his section in the process.
At last, the door to the control center lay before them. The three men took position, flanking the metal double-doors. Sokolov did not need to be told his orders—already he was setting the breaching charge.
“My unit is in position, sir,” Elgeldiev said over the comm.
“Start countdown,” Krauzer ordered, bracing for the imminent blast.
The charges sent the pair of doors flying off their hinges, a flashbang preceding the entry of the Oprichniki into the administrative nexus. Despite all they’d faced before, only a meager sentry of Space Infantry had remained to guard against them. One raised his weapon, only to be swiftly executed—which was incentive enough for the other to drop his weapon. Civilian personnel cowered in terror and shock, none having the courage to look their assailants in the eye.
“Mayor, I want everyone in this room restrained,” Krauzer instructed. “I’ll be in the broadcast room.”
Ostoukalyvia
Polyphemus, L4 Development Administration
Coalition of Congressional Nations
Asya awoke in a disoriented daze. Orange light poured through the windows, bathing the room in radiant shades of amber. She wasn’t sure how long she’d slept—judging by the throbbing headache and the heaviness in her eyes, it likely hadn’t been long.
Irakly was still fast asleep, leaning against Asya as he breathed softly. She decided against moving—lest she rouse the unblemished prince. Though Asya had only known him for a few months, his fierce loyalty and unwavering trust for her was undeniably endearing. The least she could do was take comfort in this fleeting moment away from their ongoing ordeal. Surely Attila would come to wake them when it came time to board their fencers, she supposed.
Beyond the confines of their impromptu bedroom, Asya could hear the distant stirring of the troops. Orders were barked, and the sound of boots echoed through the halls as soldiers moved through the building with purpose. Somewhere, a whistle sounded—and she felt Irakly jolt beside her. Disoriented, he stretched awake, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light.
“A-ah… Miss… how long have we been out?” Irakly yawned, stretching his arms.
“It’s already daytime,” Asya pronounced, “and yet I feel like I haven’t even slept for an hour!”
Curiosity got the better of the two pilots, the pair rising to their feet to inspect the goings-on. Before either of them could take another step, the door flew open, Attila barging in with palpable urgency.
Realizing both were awake, the platoon commander relaxed slightly. “Well, you’ve saved me the trouble of waking you up. The 125th captured the control center and opened the solar panels up. In short, daytime’s come early, and we’ll be on the move in due time.”
“How early?” Asya questioned.
“Just short of three hours,” Attila shrugged. “You ought to thank God for enjoying any respite at all.”
At this, Irakly grimaced. “I hope this won’t affect my combat performance…”
“Once you’re back on the stims, you’ll be as good as new,” Attila reassured him.
“Hopefully things will be easier this time…” Asya quietly told herself.
“Don’t underestimate a cornered dog, Malenko. We’ve got plenty ahead of us—let’s not keep the company commander waiting.”
Exiting the room, they were fully enveloped in the chaos of the Space Infantry mobilizing in the halls, loading their rifles and assessing gear between profanity-laden jests and jeers. The trio did their best to keep their distance, the incident of the previous night—weak excuse for a night it was—still fresh in Asya’s mind.
“Lots of heavy equipment was brought in while you two were getting your beauty sleep,” Attila remarked while they weaved through the busy hall. “We’ll have a lot more support at our disposal this time around.”
“How strong is the Coalition leftover, exactly?” Irakly wondered.
“I’m beginning to think intel underestimated their presence… and now we ‘mediocre foragers’ finally have our proper taste of the action,” the platoon commander scoffed. “They aren’t going down without a fight, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“R-right.”
“Three hours is hardly enough for the Coalition to get over the last few strings of devastating skirmishes, though. They’ll still be reeling, so don’t beat yourselves up too hard for getting a bit of rest,” Attila reassured before they exited the building, the company commander and commissar standing in wait. The other platoons had gathered with similar urgency, forming up beside the trio in anticipation of their orders.
“All vital facilities pertaining to the colony’s operation have been seized,” Jiancheng said, “and yet the Coalition refuses to surrender. Remaining enemy forces on our landmass have fallen back to Polyphemus Base and its surroundings, presumably to make their last stand. Artillery strikes targeting the facility will mark the commencement of a general advance of the Space Infantry—and we’ll be right behind them.”
Oralbeg followed the company commander’s words with a speech of his own. “Comrades! The imperialists are cornered, and the liberation of this colony draws near. The Union State expects nothing short of triumph from each of you today! May our success be an exemplar among our peers, that we may be a step closer to exorcising the Coalition from space… For the motherland, for victory!”
Falling back on her training, Asya joined the pilots in their ritualistic chant: “For the motherland, for victory!” Soon thereafter, all hastily scrambled to their fencers, joining the Space Infantry in the broader chaotic rush among the Union State servicemen in Ostoukalyvia.
Reaching her Bogatyr, Asya ascended with vigor and haste. The hatch flew open, and she climbed inside. The cool air of the spherical cockpit welcomed her on the way in, a refreshing and invigorating release from the outdoors. The routine at this point was like second nature—helmet on, injectors attached. There was a light jolt as neural feedback flooded her mind, her perception expanding to encompass the fencer’s optical systems.
One by one, the mobile fencers got moving, dispersing into their separate platoons as the advance resumed with minimal fanfare. Already, motorized vehicles were lined up in anticipation of the offensive’s continuation, as soldiers hurriedly boarded under the curious gaze of the locals. Off they embarked again, accompanying the same company of infantry they’d escorted the day before.
“Tin-men!” exclaimed Morozov over the comm. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Make sure we don’t get obliterated and we’ll do you the same favor… yes?”
A number of armored platoons, organized in groups of three, had also been ferried into the colony overnight, as a number of T-22B main battle tanks now stood ready at the town’s periphery. The venerable T-22 platform had served the Union State for just short of a century, adapting to the superstate’s myriad of offworld theaters.
Attila casually took notice of the tanks. “Guess Command’s brought in the big guns.”
“They didn’t expect the imperialists to put up much of a fight,” remarked the motor rifle company’s commander in turn. “Here’s to crushing the cornered dogs.”
Leading its number was a tank that’d haphazardly been adorned with protective anti-rocket cages, with streaks of red paint identifying its veterancy. The word КАШЛЫК boldly adorned its glacis plate.
“The Gareev sends its fiercest tigers. Lead us to the fight, tin-can soldiers!” the armored platoon’s commander hailed them, proudly showcasing her self-assurance. Comms data identified her as Leytenant Anna Tkachuk.
The tanks took the lead of the formation on the road, guarding the lightly-armored APCs in doing so. The three fencers moved parallel, optics scanning through the treeline for thermal signals in the brush. While the Coalition’s retreat the previous night was reassuring, none were particularly keen on letting their guard down.
The fencers trudged through the forest as Ostoukalyvia grew distant, accompanying the motorized and armored components of the Space Infantry. The roads of laid stone soon gave way to uneven dirt trails once more, the sleek frames of the Bogatyrs starkly contrasting the largely untouched natural sprawl around them.
“I’m reminded of the forests of home…” Irakly thought aloud while he scanned the treeline.
“Didn’t take you for the outdoorsy kind, Lvov,” Attila remarked.
“I-I’m not that sheltered, sir. I received four commendations as a Pavlik.”
The platoon commander held back a snicker. “Alright, boy scout. Whatever you say.”
“I only got two commendations,” Asya briefly reminisced on her own time in the compulsory youth organization. “How many did you get, sir?”
“It’s been what, twenty years? I barely remember…”
Asya could tell by her superior’s tone that he was spinning a lie. Months of serving under him had made it fairly easy to perceive the unique tells that came with his dishonesty. Her silence spoke for itself.
“Okay, okay… look, I wasn’t exactly the most well-behaved kid—”
“None then, sir?” she questioned, reaching the natural conclusion of Attila’s prefacing.
The platoon commander sighed. “Yeah, yeah. No need to rub it in my face. But you kids had it easy—the standards in my time were different…”
“We’re only ten years apart, sir,” Irakly chimed in. “Was it really that different?”
Attila was out of excuses. “Maybe I played hooky a bit too much,” he admitted.
The three shared a laugh.
Then, suddenly, the sight of a flowing river interrupted their idle conversation. The three pilots scanned their surroundings, slowing their pace accordingly. Where a stone bridge had once spanned the divide, now little more than rubble remained in its wake. A victim of the Coalition’s retreat, surely.
“Crossing the river will slow us down…” The infantry commander made his displeasure known with an annoyed grunt. “Take the lead, tin-men.”
“With pleasure,” Attila responded, “Malenko, Lvov, on me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“On it, sir.”
The three Bogatyrs descended to the river’s edge, each step from their lumbering fighting machines leaving deep impressions in the mud and gravel. One by one, the trio trudged through the flowing waters, weapons at the ready.
Thunderclaps of high-caliber artillery shook the fore distance, heralding the battle’s imminent continuation. This primordial stir of war’s symphony brought an immediate end to lingering small talk over the channels, pilot and infantryman alike alert and prepared for the coming fight.
Reaching the opposite riverbank, Asya briefly looked back, seeing the first of the BTRs braving the currents.
“Let’s get a move-on,” Attila ordered.
The Bogatyrs quickened their pace, toppling foliage in the midst of their forward march. Alerts went off as Irakly’s fencer visually confirmed Chimeras entrenched atop one of the hills ahead.
“Tank platoon ahead, engage!”
Attila’s instruction was met almost immediately by a volley from Asya, APFSDS rounds streaking towards the main battle tank. A split-second flash followed, leaving the tank to idly burn. All three engaged in brief thruster maneuvers, avoiding the ensuing fusillade of retaliatory shots.
“A-aah!” Irakly’s machine lurched backwards as a round dented its frontal armor.
The brief scare earned the defiant armored column Attila’s ire, as his own ensuing barrage decommissioned two of the Chimeras. As the last tank hastily reversed to withdraw from the trench, Irakly dealt the finishing blow, leaving the tank little more than a smoldering pyre. Though the skirmish was over in seconds, all were left alert, combat stims kicking in.
“Thank you sir!” Irakly profusely showed his gratitude to his platoon commander, who warily studied their surroundings.
“You should be more careful, Lvov,” was all Attila had to say.
“S-sorry, sir. I’ll do my best.”
The trio held their ground until the Space Infantry and their attached armored platoon caught up. It didn’t take long for the convoy of T-22s and BTRs to begin their crawl up the road, guns carefully aiming about.
“Don’t steal all the glory, tin-men,” jested Morozov.
This time, it was Asya’s watchful eye that gleaned a thermal flicker among the trees.
“Enemy infantry!”
Her autocannons cut through the treeline, eviscerating a small bunker concealed by earth and foliage. As she did, warning klaxons erupted aboard her fencer—something was locking on.
“T-they’re in the trees!” Irakly exclaimed.
“Take ‘em out!” Attila let loose his Bogatyr’s autocannons, 25mm rounds shredding through another concealed fortification.
Still, the entrenched infantry had managed to fire off an ATGM before their demise, the missile weaving through the air as it sought its target—Asya. With a sharp maneuver, she veered her fencer away from the missile, cutting it down with a spray from her mech’s shoulder-mounted CIWS. The ensuing puff of shrapnel whizzed past. The convoy on the ground got to engaging the earthen fortifications, cutting down more of the stragglers.
A lull in the fighting left the fencer pilots to reevaluate the surrounding brush—little more than piles of rubble remained of the defensive fortifications.
“Keep your eyes open,” Attila said, far too cautious to declare an all-clear, “you’ll be the butt of every Michman’s joke if you get done in by some cowering grunts.”
“Got it, sir!”
“Understood, sir!”
The Coalition’s infantry tactics had grown to adapt to the threat posed by mobile fencers. It wasn’t uncommon for Coalition engineer units to establish concealed fortifications amidst the brush, offering just enough thermal concealment to afford infantrymen the chance at a lucky, toppling hit. If underestimated, they could pose just as much a threat as mobile fencers and armored fighting vehicles, as a lone ATGM could immobilize a fencer, or worse. It was the first mistake of many an ill-fated pilot to think themselves above the ‘meatbags’ and ‘steel coffins’ on the ground.
Yet further scans revealed no further dangers nestled in the surrounding woods. With hesitation, Attila led the way forward, Asya and Irakly trailing behind. The convoy, running parallel to the formation of Bogatyrs, continued up the dirt road leading forward.
Rising the hill, the wrecks of the entrenched tanks were crushed beneath their steps, the trio observing the distance ahead. Nestled at the edge of the landmass, Polyphemus Base held firm, even as its venerable walls weathered the full force of the Union State’s artillery. Each detonation left an additional imprint upon the facility, each explosion a brushstroke that helped paint a grim mosaic of dents and gashes upon the reinforced battlements. Cluster munitions and white phosphorus occasionally chimed into this morbid orchestra, ephemeral plumes of smoke and dust rising from the embattled fortification.
Scattered across the hilly landscape between them and the base were modest towns and villages, which had thus far been spared the brunt of the fighting. To their port and starboard, the trio could already see the widespread exchanges of tracer-fire in the distance—the Union State’s forces drew closer to victory.
“Can’t they see the odds are against them?” Irakly questioned.
“It’s Coalition doctrine,” answered Attila, “Even in a losing fight, they’ll make sure to maximize our casualties before surrender. I doubt they’ll give up before we breach Polyphemus Base.”
They didn’t have much time to linger on the thought. Emerging from cover behind one of the hills, a platoon of four MF-02 Titan Mk. IIs. IDing them was enough to give Asya a split-second worth of pause—it was strange for a backwater colony to be guarded by such brand-new fencer variants.
Attila had the same brief pause. “Titan IIs, ahead!”
With a single thought, he distributed the instruction for an abrupt evasive maneuver—Asya and Irakly complied without hesitation. Rounds whizzed past almost immediately as the two sides exchanged shots, the Coalition fencers quickly scrambling for cover. A well-placed shot from their platoon commander put a sabot through one of the fencers, leaving its optical unit little more than flaming scrap.
The damage only gave their adversaries a temporary pause. Hill to hill, they faced one another down, the Titans matching the Bogatyrs’ maneuvering.
“F-focus on the headless one!” Irakly advised, and Asya listened. The Titan in question engaged in a sharp, thruster-boosted dodge to avoid the spray of rounds from Irakly’s Bogatyr, firing a retaliatory volley in his direction—only for Asya to put her own through the fencer’s side. The Mk. II ceased fire as its ammo reserves detonated, pilot and mech alike claimed by the catastrophic inferno.
At the loss of one of their own, the enemy retaliated with concentrated and swift fury. Asya found herself forced to retreat behind one of the hills, seeking cover as sabots streaked past overhead.
“I-I’m taking suppressive fire!” Asya said, her voice quivering. Even under the influence of the combat stims, she could feel her pulse quicken and her nerves rattle with unfurling anxieties.
Her radar displayed a blip beginning to round the hill. Surely, it was one of the enemy Titans, coming to flank her. Loading in a fresh magazine, she anticipated the worst.
“Hold your ground, Malenko!” Attila closed the distance between them with a thruster jump, landing just short of her position—just as the fencer peeked. It fired first, sabots denting and ricocheting off the front armor of the platoon commander’s Bogatyr in a series of bright, orange flashes. Attila’s retaliation was immediate—his measured volley severed the Mk. II’s arms. The enemy pilot’s momentary disorientation was all Attila needed to topple the machine with a powerful kick, an act which he followed by a shot through its underside.
Asya was left slack-jawed at the scene.
“How are you handling yourself, Lvov?” Attila questioned.
“I-I’m fine, thanks,” Irakly replied between agitated breaths, “It looks like the enemy’s falling back, though…”
Attila and Asya moved to rendezvous with Irakly, whose Bogatyr remained safely nestled behind one of the forested mounds. Together, they ascended the hill in question, intending to better glimpse the retreating pair of fencers. As they did, though, three rocket-trails weaved above the brush, targeting the pair of Coalition fencers. CIWS fire lit the air, cutting down two of the ATGMs—only for the third to detonate upon one of the fighting machines’ topsides.
The last of the Titans recoiled at the sight of its compatriot’s collapse, defiantly raising its assault cannon to retaliate—only for three well-placed shots to sever the mech by its joint. Thoroughly dismembered, the armored juggernaut collapsed uselessly near one of the villages.
The fencer pilots looked back, being greeted by the sight of BTRs and tanks standing victoriously at one of the hilltops. Ephemeral trails of smoke rose from the barrels of the T-22s, the culprits of the final kill.
“A few fencers won’t be enough to scare us!” exclaimed Tkachuk.
“Good kill,” Attila couldn’t help but admit his admiration for the armored platoon’s coordination, “Keep that spirit up when we enter Polyphemus Base.”
“You can count on that!”
Advancing, little remained to meaningfully oppose their advance, bar the occasional group of straggler infantry, who often either fled or were cut down in short order by the moving fencers. The mangled remains of an entrenched Chimera main battle tank welcomed them at the base’s entrance, surrounded at all sides by the craters of prior artillery strikes. There had been a lull in the barrages as Union State forces drew near, allowing them to breach Polyphemus Base without the worry of friendly fire.
Approaching the facility’s gates, the fencer pilots took point at both ends. Further aft, the convoy was catching up with them—they’d be helping them on the way in.
“Remember, the Coalition hasn’t surrendered yet,” Attila cautioned. “Until they do, they’re going to fight us tooth and nail.”
“We won’t underestimate them, sir,” Asya assured her superior, swapping magazines in anticipation of the coming battle.
A hail over the comm gave them pause as they readied themselves—the 3rd platoon’s commander, Rustam Atamanov, sounded more agitated than usual. “Need some help on the starboard flank! Michman Kalontarov’s Bogatyr has been disabled, we’re one fencer short!”
Attila swore under his breath. “Where are your attached ground forces?”
“Destroyed, dammit! There’s a trio of entrenched fencers slugging 155s at us, just aft of Polyphemus Base. A flanking maneuver should be just enough to dispose of them!”
He hesitated for a moment, before turning to Asya. “Cover the ground forces. I’m going to assist the 3rd platoon. I trust you two to handle yourselves adequately.”
“O-of course, sir!” both responded, practically in unison.
“I’m moving to assist,” Attila announced. “Malenko and Lvov will escort assigned conventional forces.”
With that, he parted ways with the duo. Asya looked to Irakly, nervous uncertainty welling up in her. A number of radar blips were identifiable on the other side, which Asya tentatively guessed to be more Titans. There was no shirking away from this responsibility, that much was clear as the column of Space Infantry forces drew ever closer.
“Well, Lvov, let’s prove ourselves.”
“Y-yes, Miss!”
Orienting themselves, both engaged in a thruster-jump that rocketed them into the facility premises. The momentary airtime was a sufficient window of opportunity for Asya to get a few shots in through the course of her descent, decapitating one of the Mk. IIs before landing a penetrating hit topside. Lifeless, it collapsed into an adjacent row of barracks with its fall, the ensuing explosion startling its platoon to action.
Both Bogatyrs touched down just short of the gate, quickly maneuvering behind nearby buildings to find cover. Despite the earlier barrages, most of the facility’s structures held firm, even as some still burned from the earlier deployments of white phosphorus. Sabots battered the military office Asya had sought shelter behind, the Titans within the base maneuvering to meet their challenge.
“Deploy smoke!” Morozov’s instruction preceded the entry of the column into the base, as the maw of Polyphemus Base was quickly bathed in plumes of opaque white.
“Unload!”
The fiery trail of an ATGM pierced the smoke, giving one of the Titans mere seconds to react. CIWS blazed brightly, intercepting the missile just short of it impacting the fencer’s topside. Still, the ensuing torrent of shrapnel reduced the Titan’s optical unit to little more than twisted scrap.
Not letting the opportunity go to waste, Asya peered from cover, putting a round through the Titan’s kneecaps. A few rounds whizzed past her as the mech attempted in vain to return fire on the way down. It met the ground with a thunderous crash, kicking up a plume of ash and dust.
Soldiers emerged from the smoke, hurriedly finding cover behind the rubble-laden streets running through the facility. Almost immediately, gunfights erupted around the gate as the remainder of Coalition troops fended against the advance of the motor rifle company. The remaining Titans peered from cover, a spray from the autocannons reducing one of the advancing fireteams to a pink mist. Asya peeked with her assault cannon, glimpsing the scene from behind cover. She had a clear shot on one of the fighting machines. Pouncing on the opportunity, Asya fired off a volley into one of the Titans. It exploded in a bright orange flash, casting molten reactor ejecta that sent troops on the ground scrambling for shelter.
“Don’t forget your iodide pills…” Morozov grimly remarked.
Another ATGM weaved through the air, only for the pilots’ radar displays to be filled with blips—the pair of surviving Titans had deployed their active missile decoys, which hovered above their positions. The false-positives sent the missile veering off-course, detonating against one of the decoy canisters.
The surviving Mk. II fired off a shot into the smoke, obliterating one of the stationary BTRs covering the ground troops.
“Shit!”
“I-I’ll deal with him!” Peering from cover, Irakly put a volley through the remaining Titan, severing its firing arm. Its head-mounted autocannons erupted in a final, defiant blaze—the ensuing burst of 25mm rounds shredding through a group of infantry on the ground before rising to shred through Irakly’s optical unit.
“My optical suite’s disabled! Switching to auxiliaries!”
“I’ve got you covered, Lvov!”
Asya put a shot through its knees, toppling it—as it hit the ground, the armored platoon finished the fearsome machine off with three rounds into its side. Flames erupted from the doomed machine’s hatches as its ammunition and fuel ignited, yielding a brief spurt of foam from its firefighting systems before its electrical systems completely failed.
“We got the fucker!” exclaimed Tkachov.
“All fencers at center have been dealt with!” Asya exclaimed, breathing a tentative sigh of relief.
Soon, the gunfire diminished, marking the end of the firefight. To the port side, the 1st platoon strode triumphantly over rubble and the trampled remains of enemy fencers, gradually moving to rendezvous with the forces at the center. From the ruined structures, Coalition troops emerged with their hands raised, handfuls quickly becoming droves.
“Is it over?” Irakly questioned.
“We’ll have to wait for command to confirm—”
As if on cue, Jiancheng’s voice filled the comm. “Coalition forces have surrendered as of now!”
“We… did it!” Irakly exclaimed.
Asya exhaled. “Oh, thank God!”
“You’ve done well,” Attila complimented them over the comm. “I’m heading over there now.”
A nervous laugh escaped Irakly. “Took a bit of damage, but—”
Something had startled him into silence. “LOOK OUT!”
With an abrupt boost from his thrusters, he put his Bogatyr before Asya’s, raising his fencer’s assault cannon against the unseen threat.
RATATATAT
Asya went pale as Irakly’s fencer lurched backwards, landing with an earth-shattering crash. One of the disabled Titans had raised its rifle defiantly, a plume of gunsmoke rising from its glowing, cherry-red barrel.
“Hu… Huh? Huh?”
Confusion gradually gave way as the reality of what just happened sank into Asya’s head.
“No… NOOOOOO!!!”
She held down the trigger on her 2A43, mere moments before the downed Titan was to do the same to her. Round after round pierced the stationary fighting machine, transforming it into a fiery coffin. A resounding click marked the magazine’s depletion, and yet the sight of the burning fencer granted her no reprieve.
“LVOV? ARE YOU THERE?”
None answered her call.
“IRAKLY?!”
Still nobody.
“Raklya, please…” she muttered, as the corners of her eyes went wet in bewilderment.
“Mi… Miss…”
“R- I- Lvov?! I’ll come over, hang in there!”
Separating herself from the stim-pumps and harness, she hardly let the sharp, disorienting sensation of her separation from the fencer’s neural interface deter her. A few uneasy steps became a run as she quickly bolted out of the cockpit, leaving the spherical chamber to hurriedly rise the ladder. Her heart pounded in her chest as she looked down from her position atop the Bogatyr’s topside, glimpsing the sight of Irakly’s ruined fencer sprawled on the ground. Without hesitation, she scrambled for a descent cable, quickly sliding down to attend to her squadmate.
Once her feet were firm on the ground, she raced towards the mechanical carcass containing Irakly, at a pace that would outstrip her performance in any physical exercise she’d had in her life.
“LVOV? LVOV?!” she cried, a frantic call of adrenaline.
“Ye…” Irakly grunted.
“I’m almost there!”
The sight of the fallen Bogatyr began to overwhelm her vision. As she neared, the figure of her teammate emerged, tiny beside the metal giant as he dragged his body away with great difficulty. Nevertheless, the mere knowledge of him being alive was enough to afford Asya some relief.
“Lvov!” She slowed down, a smile creeping onto her face. “Are you all ri—”
Her smile and relief proved short-lived, once she was aware of the answer to her interrupted question: Irakly’s lower body was an unrecognizable crimson rag, torn and leaving blood everywhere. By reflex, she ended her two seconds of horror, and took hold of his upper torso. He groaned—she could well hear him tremor through his rough breaths. His blood loss was tremendous. She reached inside her backpack. There was the first-aid foam. Her hands shook as she turned to his mangled lower body. All hope was in the foam.
It vanished uselessly alongside her hope.
She tried again. And again. The froth never coagulated as needed. She checked the expiry date: it was two years ago. She cast her can away, and grabbed Irakly’s inside his backpack. Much the same result. His blood was still flowing—she couldn’t bear to look.
“Malenko, how’s Lvov?” the voice of Attila roused her from her fright.
“I- Michman Lvov is badly wounded, sir!” her voice cracked through the response.
“… I’ll hurry there, provide first aid if you can.”
The dams on her tears burst at last. She could only remove Irakly’s helmet—perhaps at least he would breathe with more comfort. She removed hers too, the least she could do was give him a human face in that despair. She tried to be gentle as her hands placed the Michman’s head on her lap. Blood was even flowing from his mouth, she noticed. Her effort to dam her eye-water back up was as fruitless as those expired first-aid kits.
Irakly looked up to her, her tears trickling down onto his visage. The strength required to look up was too much of a demand for his body, so his head drooped back down.
“D-don’t cry, Miss… You’ll break my heart…”
Asya’s voice remained cracked under the pressure of her weeping. “Don’t worry, Raklya… Kallio is coming, we’ll get you… back soon…”
Irakly was heedless. “I’m sorry… I let you down.”
“W-what could you mean?” Asya forced a smile, her voice higher than usual. “You saved me just now, didn’t you?”
“I did…” the wounded pilot muttered. “I did something useful.”
Asya sniffed, her sobbing choking her up. “Yes… I owe you my life, Raklya…”
“Raklya…”
His eyes half-closed, he held his head up once more. Something resembling a smile appeared on his lips.
“I’m happy… I was the hero for someone I love.”
His eyes closed, and his pallid face hit her lap with the weight of a rock.
She hugged his head, her whole body crumbling inward. She too shut her eyes. If only there were a way for her tears to wake him as they rained on that smile.
Asya had hardly noticed the arrival of her superior, or his hurried approach at the sight of the pair. One look at his subordinates was enough. He knelt beside the surviving Michman, and landed one hand on her shoulder.
“Come now. Let’s bring you away from here.”
Asya gave no response, even if she wanted to. She wept and wept.
Union State heavy cruiser Admiral Khasanov (Pr.11753.13)
Polyphemus Spaceport, Union State Provisional Military Government
Asterian Union State
Entire spreadsheets worth of data were overlaid upon the glowing cathode ray tube monitors in the Admiral Khasanov’s CIC, Al-Qadi observing attently. All things considered, the operation had succeeded with relatively low casualties. Yet no further instructions had come over the comm… total silence had befallen the CIC.
“Strange, isn’t it?” questioned the admiral, stroking his chin.
Gil nodded in hesitant agreement. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Al-Qadi furrowed his brow. “I’ve checked again. All Union State comm networks in L4 remain unresponsive. And the Plateian mainland still refuses our hails…”
“Some kind of attack?” questioned Gil.
“I’m not ruling anything out.” Despite the situation, Al-Qadi had managed to keep his cool.
The automatic doors opened, Lin gliding weightlessly into the room. “My inspection was meticulous and thorough. Engineers found no malfunctions in our comms equipment. Fleetwide instructions to run checks yielded identical results. Whatever it is, it’s not us.”
“So why’s every colony and fleet in the L-Point on radio silence?” asked the admiral. It was a rhetorical question, which none in the room could answer without delving into speculation.
“I.. have no answer, sir,” Lin conceded.
Simeon… if only I had your guidance in a moment like this, Al-Qadi thought to himself. Still, the admiral maintained a stoic facade. As leader, the fleet’s morale hinged on how he’d approach the present crisis.
“Initiate the Contingency Protocol,” instructed Al-Qadi. “We’re deploying a comms probe and holding our ground until we can better determine the situation. All understrength units are to be merged, and units that have been depleted of combat effectiveness are to have their personnel transferred to more coherent forces. As long as we’re here, Polyphemus is to become a fortress of the Union State.”
“Understood, sir.” Gil got to work immediately in executing the admiral’s instructions. Barking instructions to the comms officer, he loomed over her in anticipation of a response.
“Emergency probe has been loaded into silo six,” she noted. “Launch process commencing…”
“Pull up a cam-feed,” ordered Al-Qadi.
One of the monitors in the room flickered, offering a camera view of the ship’s starboard side. The vessel’s silos were designed with a multipurpose role in mind—their payload could range from IPBMs to missile buses and, in the current situation, emergency probes. The blast door swung open, ejecting the comms probe. RCS modules stabilized the device, leaving it to float freely in the void.
“RTGs are functioning,” noted the comms officer. “Signal broadcast is commencing.”
The admiral nodded solemnly. “Very well.”
“As for the Contingency…” Gil began.
Al-Qadi nodded. “Let’s see what Polyphemus has to offer us.”
GDF Die Ruiter (SS-10)
In transfer, L4
The officers’ dining room stood as a singular sight, a rarity unique to the President-class of super battleships. An oasis of opulence amidst the prevailing ethos of frugality and simplicity in the broader Grensland Defense Force, the ornate furniture and resplendent wall-paneling diverged markedly from the utilitarian decor that permeated the rest of the Die Ruiter. With only five such vessels in existence, the amenity before die Kok was a remarkable rarity.
The artful set-piece itself was held together in zero-g by bolts subtly integrated at the base of the table and its surrounding chairs. At one end of the room, a portrait of the late President Frederik Andries Vlok decorated the wall. Opposite his likeness was that of the incumbent Pieter Gerhardus Besuidehout, who had become the face of Grensland’s struggle against the Coalition. The two men had become central to Grensland’s national myth, a cult of personality surrounding the heroic martyred president and his loyal successor. Classical music played over the sound system, further casting an aura of elegance to the scene.
Kommandant Migael die Kok observed carefully as drinks were distributed. The crystalline glasses distributed among those present were of an enclosed design with microgravity in mind, each one tipped with a metallic tube lined with gold. It was as close as one could get to fancy—the alternative were plastic drinking bags unbefitting the occasion.
With Die Kok in the room was the 22. Mobile Fencer Wing’s commanding staff, Majoor Diederik Witman responsible for the subordinate 10. Mobile Fencer Squadron, and Majoor Jakomina Griffioen responsible for 1. Mobile Fencer Squadron. Accompanying both were their respective second-in-commands, Kaptein Anika Bolland and Kaptein Willem Visser.
Grensland’s finest.
To describe the 22nd was to describe an all-star team, the reputable unit being staffed by some of the best Grenslander aces of the war. Furthermore, they were part of 1. Mobile Division “Lyfstandaard President Frederik Andries Vlok”, one of the GDF’s most elite and zealous fighting forces.
“To what might we owe the pleasure, sir?” asked Majoor Witman, reclining in his seat.
“We have new orders,” the Kommandant explained, “straight from the highest echelons.”
Griffioen, whose eyes had been focused on the pages of the Holy Diatheca in her hand, looked up to express in words, “The Lord works in peculiar ways. We’ve been kept away from a proper fight for far too long…”
Unfurling the envelope, Die Kok passed the document on to those at the table, each pausing to read through the paper and dwell upon its ramifications. Witman and his subordinate were first, followed by Griffioen and Visser. Once the paper was passed back to the Kommandant, he finally spoke.
“Krauzer’s rebellion has left the forces of the Union State in complete disarray. Fearing a repeat of Kunlun’s secession, communications between all Asterian colonies and fleets in the L-point have been halted, limiting the reach of the Oprichnik hero’s broadcast and driving all Union State forces in the vicinity to hunker down and prepare for the worst.”
“Surely they won’t leave themselves in the dark forever…” Visser observed.
“We do not know how long this comms blackout will last,” continued Die Kok. “We have a limited opportunity to cripple the Union State’s fleets in the L-point, precipitating a full-scale war of liberation. Our operation will run in tandem with a multitude of others, all taking place across the broader Plateian sphere.”
“Our cooperation with them was always a matter of convenience,” Griffioen remarked. “All who oppressed us shall receive God’s judgment in due time.”
Visser nodded at his superior. “They would have done the same to us.”
The prospect brought something anxious and skeptical about Bolland’s tone, “Sir, the Union State vastly outnumbers us, surely the Generaals have planned accordingly?”
“Despite our differences in manpower, the Solar War has greatly overextended the Union State’s logistical capabilities across the solar system, and they still struggle to recover from their humiliating blunders at Apason and Tanaro. We need merely kick the door with sufficient force… and the whole rotten structure may come crashing down. Krauzer’s rebellion is evidence enough of this.”
“May the Kingdom that drowneth in the blood of brothers be set on fire,” Griffioen quoted from the book she was closing.
The Kommandant continued, “As such, our objective is to strike their fleets while they are isolated and alone. The 36th Battle Flotilla has just finished capturing the Coalition colony Polyphemus, and command is giving us three hours to conduct a lightning raid against Asterian forces stationed at the colony, after which we are to redeploy and assist in combating the far larger 3rd Battle Flotilla. In that window of time, we are to cause as much damage as possible, after which we will retreat expediently. This preemptive maneuver will force them into a defensive posturing for the foreseeable future, allowing the nascent Stellar State of Tyanlun to maneuver undeterred.”
Die Kok’s words had visibly roused his subordinates. He played along, segueing into an impassioned speech, “Our struggle against the whims of history is unwavering. Ten years ago, our people were little more than pawns for the Coalition, grinding ourselves to dust for the sake of distant politicians and parasitic corporations. Today, we stand poised to liberate the stars! We have only come this far because we, and we alone, carry the will to do what must be done! It was inevitable that this conflict would expand to encompass the other Plateian powers complicit in the perpetuation of our suffering. Call it the weaving hand of Providence, call it the will of God—this holy struggle is one that will determine the future of all Spacers!”
The Kommandant raised his glass. “Gesondheid!”
“Gesondheid!” The room followed in fiery unison, all steeling their nerves with a robust helping of wine.
Once all had finished their drinks, Die Kok produced two diskettes from his pocket, handing them to both Majoors. “All the necessary briefing data for your units are contained within these drives,” he instructed. “You have twelve hours to prepare.”
“I wish our adversaries luck,” Witman smiled in confidence. They’ll be needing it.”