The galaxy is aflame! A hundred-fifty years of war have elapsed between the Free Planets Alliance and Galactic Empire. Between them two masters of war, Yang Wen-li, and Reinhard von Lohengramm rise to command, on opposite sides, and the pendulum of fate swings again. But this time, one half of that conflict isn't filled with 95% blithering idiots by volume.
Legend of the Galactic Heroes: The Battle-Cry of Freedom (AU)
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Prologue: Iserlohn Fallen
Warmind_Of_Skies
What would you do if you suddenly exploded?
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Legend of the Galactic Heroes: The Battle-Cry of Freedom
By: Warmind
Summary: This is basically LoGH, but, if the FPA was more politically interesting, and not loaded with more idiots than the average anti-nuclear protest. Oh also add more detail to combat and the logistics of these wars in the mean-time, since I'm a sucker for all of that stuff.
Author's Note: This is still a LoGH fic. Expect gore, millions dead, and enough graphic deaths to fill several buckets. You've been warned. Also this is my first SV post! So please point out anything I've done wrong with tagging or formatting! Enjoy the read. Point of divergence is after Seventh Iserlohn.
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PROLOGUE: ISERLOHN FALLEN
Saturday, 18 May, 796 UC/487 RC
Free Planets' Alliance member world Sandar
For Alisa Holmes, today was the most normal day in a long time. No war news, not beyond the daily quote "More skirmishing against Imperial forces in the Tiamat Starzone". The normal after the shock of Astarte, and the Empire's offensives. No, the lack of major, announced offensives was a blessing. Her brother was a sailor in the Second, and it came as one of the greatest reliefs of her life that she didn't receive a letter, signed by Defense Secretary Trunicht's photocopy. No, she was lucky, she was pretty sure that his new fleet, the unluckiest number of them all, thirteen, was still sitting in orbit of the capital waiting on its sailing orders, or waiting in the Iserlohn Corridor. The most irregular thing about today was twofold, it was a Saturday, so Jacob wasn't attending his elementary school classes, and she was actually eating her husbands (admittedly fantastic) hashbrowns and fish for breakfast, what with the local government finally having removed the rationing on fresh fish. Between the sounds of morning cartoons, and the clacking of her laptop's keyboard, she barely noticed the sudden, and abrupt change to a familiar sound.
The Strohm News jingle, the flare of trumpets followed with a final roll on a snare, the logo of a (stylized) camera's lens with an eye on it, and then to a desk. Jacob was looking confused, he was young, not stupid. The news never came on at 8:30 in the morning, the hour of cartoons, unless it was big. As in, military action big.
Alisa was a therapist by trade, with a masters in Psychology to boot, she knew people better than most people knew themselves. What stood out about the normal face of the anchor which was, notably more shocked, his eyes were slowly bugging out, and Mr. Green's breathing was notably fast from how his tie's knot was moving. His ginger hair was more of a mess than normal, and looked like he'd wetted it down less than three hours ago. The room was normal, a window showed the morning glow from some tower in some capital somewhere, the desk wasn't visible aside from its stained oak top. He cleared his throat quickly, waited three seconds, then spoke.
"Good morning folks, I'm Audie Green with Strohm News, and, I apologize for the interruption, trust me, I want to be asleep too, but, Strohm is proud to present a special news bulletin directly from Heinessen." The anchor cleared his throat, and the red-on-white square in some faked screen projecting "SPECIAL BULLETIN" in exactly all capitals faded, replaced by the badge of the Star Fleet, overlaid on the corridor. "Some of you may have heard rumors of the deployment of the Alliance's military deeper within the Corridor." The image switched again, zooming in on the Iserlohn system. Alisa clenched her teeth, and looked at her husband, who'd dropped his paperwork and investing practically his whole soul into the flashing LEDs. Alisa started to feel sick. Iserlohn in focus meant there was another offensive, which meant, in some world, probably hers, the Thirteenth had marched, and died at the gates of the Iserlohn. She didn't catch Mr. Green talking something about pride as her dizziness grew rampant from worry. What the hell would she do if, no, when, she got the letter announcing Luke's "honorable" death in combat?!
The last thing the humble citizens clustered in an apartment, watching the news were expecting, was the exact long-winded sentence from the newsman's mouth and into the microphone as the image switched directly to that cruel chrome sphere hanging silently in space "As of four hours ago, the Department of Defense has released footage and confirmation that on May fifteenth, Admiral Yang Wen-li's Thirteenth Fleet and Rosen Ritter Regiment have captured the Iserlohn Fortress, and Iserlohn Star System with no casualties!" Coinciding with the proclamation, where Audie's sweat vanished under confidence and relief, and in place of just a ball, was instead two videos and a face. The recognizable slender form painted standard olive green of Alliance warships slipping under the liquid metal waves, then another of a large, blue-green hued battleship emblazoned with the pennant 144M docking into, what could only be Iserlohn's inside docks, readily accepting the foreign starship. The face was oddly familiar, recognizable from the Astarte disaster, and probably some battles in the corridor.
He cut a sharp, if soft in face, line of clear Chinese descent, not without some Caucasian features and brighter skin for it, but overall an handsome face, still young, maybe just thirty. His hair was matted down, lighter black, and two hazel eyes stared forwards with an immensely clear desire to get the photo shoot done with. Under was labelled Adm. Yang. He was the command behind this magic. Alisa was only reeling when the reporter seemed to look directly into her soul and notice her realization, then spoke "I say again for the good people of the Alliance, Iserlohn has fallen, with no casualties!" It was positive, for once when it came to the war. No it was magical. Hell, even a god-damned miracle! A tear or two crept down her right cheek, a shout escaped her husband, the image changed again to view a stylized map with the evil chrome staring down with the Alliance's flag waving over it. So too was the rest of the corridor.
Her heart had to be racing from this adrenaline, no, too arhythmic, too loud, it wasn't tinnitus, wasn't her heart, couldn't be. It was her- no. She wasn't making the noise at all. That was the flats besides above and below celebrating. That was the noise of a triumphant Alliance. The noise of Miracle Yang, who did the impossible without anybody knowing at all. Alisa's seat became an illusion as she dove towards her family of three, all enveloped in a hug quite probably stronger than a capital neutron cannon. It was all looking up, rationing would end, because they finally had the advantage! There was something about explaining the strategic situation after, but to be honest, Alisa was too excited to listen.
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Reichslande Lindwurm
Gerhard Weber sat in his room, lit only by a small lamp in the corner, furnished with what a commoner could afford, which was to say his grandfather's desk and stationary, a bed, light, some odds and ends of more high-tech devices, pens, some paper, manuals for the farm tools, roughly ten sets of clothes, all of them sun-bleached, a formal suit, and his most important one. A personal radio. He'd spent hours just listening to higher society broadcasts, news, plays. Anything. And now, under the moonlight of slightly past midnight he waited again for it to spark. Gerhard's long ginger hair blocked his view, and he flicked it away as he dialed the knobs again, prowling the airways, a demon in the night, looking for anything to bite his waiting ears. It was mindless, mindless again and again, and with a notepad beside him, Gerhard sighed, shrugged, and looked through stations. The damned lamp flickered. He'd have to replace the bulb. With the left he navigated the radio, the right saw what higher society channels he's seen before, flipping ten, probably twenty total pages of radio frequencies with something on them.
He flipped to 103.0, some radio drama. Then 404.2 at random, because last he checked he hadn't listed that frequency down, but had listed those around it, which blared an all-too-loud opera, recorded probably a century ago. Gerhard really hated the opera, couldn't stand the voices, and in an instant he remembered why he didn't list it. That was a mistake. And the young man rectified it as fast as possible. 100.7 was modern music, some pianos and more experimental reintroductions of electronic sounds and brass. Still too loud. He sighed. Couldn't find anything! Nothing was interesting, nothing about the higher-society forbidden cravings, that a commoner who knew his station wouldn't, shouldn't, bother to think about. None of the others were even broadcasting at midnight. No common channels that weren't things like emergency communications. Which left a last resort, 406.0.
In his experience, news was interesting, but boring. There was too much locally about crop yields, nobility changes in governorship, taxes, rationing (if you weren't at the periphery of useful space like Lindwurm), and the ever-faithful weather reports. His father was a farmer, but he was a repairman. A good repairman at that, but he didn't bother with the actual agricultural side. 406.0, that was different. That was Empire-wide news, the type a commoner needn't care for. But it reported on interesting things, troop movements, war reporting, done days ahead of when he'd be supposed to hear about it. Moreover, it ran twenty-four hours, every day, every hour, and played some good music while they were at it, aside from pompous nobility talk shows. Gerhard ashamedly loved hearing about the war. As a little boy he saw a Cruiser once, and it blocked out the sun. As a teenager he dreamed about running away to join the fleet, or the Panzergrenadiers, or the Army. Anything away from this little, yellow-green rock where you never went more than fifty kilometers in any direction. He'd heard the history of the war, of every Imperial victory, and the glorious campaign against the savage Rebel Army in their new hinterlands, a galactic corridor across. And he'd resolved, eight years ago, at sixteen, that he'd never be able to run away and join. Not for lack of want or trying, but because if the family tractors stopped working, they'd go poor.
It hadn't stopped Gerhard's passion. He still loved hearing about the offensives, the victory at Astarte where the Rebel Army making another attempt down the corridor to penetrate the impenetrable Iserlohn was routed by the excellent young star, Reinhard von Lohengramm, master of war! It was the greatest drama ever known. Today, tonight, was different. Almost targeted directly to his senses, the missile of pain shot at his heart, a gut-punch calculated for maximum effect. Four words Gerhard hadn't thought were actually, reasonably possible to exist. Over the radio set, the strong Imperial German highborn accent from the anchor, spoke with obsidian sharpness and crystal precision to stab into the heart of any Imperial patriot.
"Iserlohn Fortress has fallen." The young ginger rubbed his eyes, spiraled, fell into a mental pit. How the hells could this happen?! He opened his eyes, his ears, his perception, and saw, that somehow, this wasn't, a dream. He zeroed in on the newscast again, the next words ten seconds too late to be directly after, but still on topic. "We are unsure of exact details, but Lindwurm Central Broadcast does know that the Kaiser promises retribution for the failure of the Imperial Military in their duty."
"That is more than enough news for tonight." Gerhard thought to himself, quickly setting the radio back to off, and the room to its natural undisturbed state, notepad on the desk, radio in the drawer. Tucked onto the now inviting bed. He checked the clock one last time, surprised to see that only an hour has elapsed. And when sleep caught him in its grasp, all he could think of was shock, that they'd lost.
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Tuesday, 14 May, 796 UC/487 RC
Free Planets' Star Fleet Cruiser Victoria Falls
He was pinching himself. Not once, and not just on his arm or face but both, one-after-another. Because last Lieutenant Cavish was concerned, he could only be dreaming. Maybe, even, worse than dreaming, he was in purgatory, or an elevator to hell waiting for the jaws to open underneath his radarman's station before it swallowed him whole. The, much less than proverbial jaws of hell being the Iserlohn, which, in fact was going to swallow his ship whole. His cool breath hit his mouth as the gloss silver surface stood stagnant, illuminated by the flash-green-flash-red runway. The CIC's helm slowly lowered the ship in, his station chirped with a friendly Port Guide IFF, the pale reflective ghost made no sound while the cruiser slipped darkly under its wake. The minutes passing were agonizing, blackness slowly enveloping the command deck, autopilot from Iserlohn control, staffed by some ex-Imperial. Victoria Falls had entered its assignment. Cavish pinched his arm again, then neck, then face third in a row. He wasn't dreaming. He was wide awake, he was, in fact, inside the Iserlohn Fortress.
Some fucking magician, that Yang. The same Yang who turned Astarte from a surefire death into, well it wasn't a victory, but it sure wasn't a defeat, and importantly, Vicky Falls hadn't exploded to some stray shot during it. And now they'd somehow taken Iserlohn with half a fleet, and a single battalion of a whole infantry regiment. He leaned in towards the XO, Lieutenant Commander, oh what the hell was his name, Donoghue? The tall, black-haired, fair-skinned spacer who Cavish had come to both love, hate, and deeply respect, Lt. Commander Donoghue looked far from his normal cut-to-shape tall, dark and lanky spacer build. His hair was nearly buzzed to the scalp, age told only from wrinkles, and the face of a man who'd seen too much war. He sat in a chair behind the captain normally, though, Captain Brown wasn't even present. Probably nursing the mother of all stress headaches from the past day of fighting.
"Hey, XO, you sure we're not both dreamin'?" Cavish asked, notably more panicked than he intended to come off as.
The Exec turned towards him in his seat, his face also, tired. Somehow it seemed like Donoghue's nerves were both more shot, and he was more tired than the junior lieutenant. For once, though, a shred of that hidden, hated humanity punched its way to the surface as Iserlohn consumed them both, and the room went silent to him. "Lieutenant Cavish," He said, smooth as silk, with the air of a parent who'd just caught their child doing something very, very disappointing hidden in those vocal nuggets. "If this was a dream, then it would've ended here. I assure you, spaceman, this is all real. Somehow."
Ironically human for someone so machine-like and precise, Donoghue's face shot full of nerves and tiredness while he studied the junior spacer. For Cavish's part, he was as shocked that the Exec wasn't berating him as he was that agreement. His thoughts were interrupted by navigation forwards calling out, "Emergence into Iserlohn Interior in one minute! We are clear for dock!"
Donoghue shot him a piercing stare, and Cavish turned back to his station. "Buoy's locked, autopilot authority's in, all we gotta do now is enjoy the ride, gentlemen." He intoned enough to light up the whole CIC with that acknowledgement alone. Secondary, non-fusion thrusters thrummed under his feet while Victoria Falls managed what's best described as a controlled, lumbering fall towards a horizontal dock, stuck in the airless, gravitated Iserlohn. The breach, though, was something special. Cavish stared out the false-windows, a central spire stretched top to bottom, and in the center and sides the operations areas of the sixty trillion ton behemoth simply, sat like fine Terran architecture. The top hemisphere they descended into was hollow, held up to become the docks for six thousand-four hundred warships, plus thousands of the Thirteenth's unlucky transports and auxiliaries.
There was something absurd about it, absurdly large, grand. It was all man-made, every single curve, spiral and building dotting the dock surface and contained spacecraft slipways was designed. There was beauty in it. There was even more beauty in the fact their slightly-controlled fall was going to end soon as Cavish noted the transponder getting closer, and closer, the ship growing slowly nearer to a hole in the side made probably for an Imperial cruiser class several times larger. Everyone held their breath as the navigational track dew closer, retro-rockets slowing the forwards, and Iserlohn itself pitching in the hold Vicky right where, and how fast the fortress wanted her for optimal catch. Cavish imagined what happened when it failed. The crash of the starship into the bulkheads, probably penetration on lower decks, needing yard tugs to tow it up, docking it here for at least weeks of repairs. He mentally prepared for the tyrant gear to break down, see the color and emblems and stop working to cruelly kill maybe one Alliance sailor. But they didn't. Instead magnetic thuds rang through the warship, clamps fastening the cruiser in place, deep inside the heart of the impenetrable Iserlohn. 'It's been quite penetrated now, I'd say' came his instant, immature thoughts flashing wildly when it finally was over.
The world took a breath, a sigh, and released into stunned celebration. Then Cavish turned towards the hawk of an Exec still running the ship, stood up into a crisp salute. "Permission to get some sleep, sir?" Donoghue looked at him, then nodded.
"Permission granted. But this fight isn't over yet, there's still a fleet. You're on station for if we're called to fight. You owe it to the next shift." The ship's XO replied. Cavish didn't need to intone his thanks, his face, worn with eyebags the size of dinner plates was enough. He didn't care if there was a fleet of five hundred thousand outside, though. Iserlohn would break them like it broke the Alliance six times in a row.
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Reichsflotte Battleship Fulda
"Did we... fucking lose?!" Captain Borno von Boetticher's shaky, unsure voice called out to his bridge staff while he rubbed his eyes in something resembling being tired, though closer to annoyance and disbelief. His white-gloved hand went to his mouth soon after, silently cursing his own cursing. The Gods didn't like those of foul mouths, it betrayed fouler spirits within. He got no response. Nobody dared answer a pissed captain, and especially a noble, and especially not when the whole ship was barely held together with spit, a generous helping of duct tape, and prayers. They were near the greatest weapon ever constructed when it fired at its masters, in the center of the formation, positioned somewhat rightwards. Borno sighed then looked towards one of his advisors. "Walter, what's... the damage report?" His voice came in low, and worried. Not normal, not him, but, still. There was more than reason to be worried, terrified even.
Walter Schmeid keyed some cybernetic implant on the side of his head. It presumably linked him into the communications network running the whole battleship. "It's..." He hesitated, maybe too long. That was never good. "Bad, Excellency." His executive officer keyed up a display which instantly mirrored to the curved bridge screen. It occupied only a portion ahead of them, though, it was a large one. A three-dimensional wireframe of Fulda glowed onto the display, the background shifting from black, with a great many stars of the other survivors of Iserlohn to matte black.
"Show me, executive, how bad?" Borno's voice replied, retaining maybe a tenth of its characteristic confidence.
The wireframe sectored into three parts, one showing the port side, one the forwards, the last the aft, then two bars, and a few special numbers. Just from a first-glance inspection of what seemed to be the damage control circuit's special displays, Fulda was more than clearly hurting. Red icons shone over the main underslung engine, across the whole port side, from the thick stern where the triplets of powerful fusion drives sat to the blunt gun-laden nose. The nose of their ship being gratifyingly, mostly unharmed. Walter took a step forwards, looked at the wireframe, sucked down a cool stream, then spat a short, sharp half-grunt out. His deep, rumbling voice, loaded with a more commoner's street thuggish accent, at least when it came to men from Odin stormed like thunder while he spoke. "Port side armor is slag, engine two is down for good, and we barely stopped its fusion superconductors from exploding. All port side Walkürie bays are intact" Walter grimaced. "Barely. But the computers on the fighters are bricks, and the pilots were barely recovered, but so irradiated they may be doomed anyways. I don't need to mention any of the gun ports, or missile tubes. We are still fighting to get engine three's superconductors back into a stable state, but, there is a less than five percent chance of critical failure. Our deflectors are returning to full capacity, and can be expected to be combat-ready within ten minutes, Excellency."
Borno let out a hidden growl. Battleships were expensive. Not so expensive that the Navy couldn't procure thousands per production cycle, but still, the damage to Fulda would take at best months to repair. But, still fighting? It'd been three hours without combat, and a Battleship had a full-stations crew of nearly seven hundred thirty, nearly all of them had at least basic damage control training. They should have been able to stabilize their fusion drives, the two that worked anyways, by now. Unless something had gone horribly terribly wrong with his crew. Borno looked his pale green eyes towards Walter. "Commander Schmeid." Borno's highborn level-tone (still disgustingly shaky) voice said. "We should have most of the internal damage stabilized, unless the crew is incapacitated."
His exec visibly winced, then zoomed in to one of the bars, which populated with nearly a thousand dots, around half of which were red. Walter keyed his implant once more then spoke. "We have, effectively, fifty per-cent casualties. Of those, a full half were in sick bay, and of that half, maybe, sixty percent of our wounded were forced into medical stasis from radiation exposure."
Borno's head found a new home in his hands as the realization that he was flying only half a ship sank in. How did it go so damnably wrong?! He composted himself again, then asked the third pressing question, after their retreat in shockingly good order after that incompetent Seeckt's very timely death by their same Thor's Hammer. "One more question, I apologize for asking so much, but what's our chain of command like now?" They'd gone all this time with no actual known commanding officer. Just the feeling that they should leave, probably for the Amritsar Starzone warp point.
"Rear Admiral von Spee is taking over. He will be broadcasting orders on the all channel shortly."
"Rear Admiral von Spee? What happened to Vice Admiral Tannhäuser?" Captain von Boetticher near-shouted with, for the first time in those same three hours, genuine shock. The Vice Admiral wasn't at the formation's core last he knew, he shouldn't have been in the firing line of the Thor's Hammer strikes... unless. Oh Gods. Walter's stern, carved mouth confirmed his fears. "Did Tannhäuser move his units to reinforce the center?"
"Luckily" Walter's voice said, heaving it out, with his own sigh. "Of all one-thousand five hundred eighty-five lost ships, and especially, the one hundred seventeen dead carrier, Ouroboros was undamaged. Vice Admiral Tannhäuser was on a shuttle to link up with Asgard. Where he was killed by the Thor's Hammer." Somehow, that was worse. He knew the full loss sheet, two hundred ninety-three battleships, almost two hundred ninety-four with Fulda in that list. One hundred seventeen carriers, three hundred fifty-five cruisers, and four hundred ten destroyers. All of them total losses with all hands, fighters included. But Borno's thoughts were interrupted by bridge communications calling out two messages.
"Sir! Captain Gustaf alerts us that his divisions forwards maneuvering thrusters are all ou-"
"Communications request from the battleship Blutadler!"
"Put Rear Admiral von Spee on screen now!" Came the snap-command from Borno's mouth, while he, and seemingly literally his whole staff prayed that von Spee would be sane. The man who emerged was, supposedly, only nearly forty. He looked a decade older. His hair was white, his face streaked with strong, clean-shaven bones and enough wrinkles and eyebags to ensure marks of a long, unnaturally stressful career. His hair was a small fuzz at the top, so the most age came from the parts which were visible, and were visibly grey. His skin bore a tan complexion, pointing maybe to descent from someone Rudolf the Great would have killed in a heartbeat. His amber eyes bored into the hearts of every commander, seemingly to ensure each and every one of them was listening, Gods be damned!
"Attention all surviving Reichsflotte warships. I am Rear Admiral von Spee. As the most senior surviving field officer, I am taking executive control of the Iserlohn Fleet. All ships are ordered to do the following, we are to make at one-third maximum burn in good order to the Iserlohn-Amritsar warp corridor. Any ships which must be abandoned will have all survivors evacuated and rescued by any available warships. Today the Empire has lost nearly seven hundred thousand sailors. I intend to lose no more. Under no circumstances are you clear to engage rebel forces. They have promised us safe retreat. Do not give them a reason to go back on that promise." The image blinked out from the FTL radio screen, and the middling tenor of the new commander's voice faded. Borno breathed a sigh of relief, and his head returned to his hands. Nearly seven hundred thousand dead. Luckily, they weren't charging back. He looked back out into the black. Borno wanted blood. But that, that would come later. For now, he was happy to be going home.
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Wednesday, 15 May, 796 UC
Free Planets' Alliance Capital Heinessen
"Admiral Greenhill! Admiral Greenhill!" Came a voice like a sheet of concrete thrown at mach three to Dwight's unwilling head. It was midnight, dammit! And he'd finally gotten out of a conference, what could be so important! Regardless, he wheeled around. Lieutenant "Statue" Bakula was barreling down the hall at him, carrying a manilla folder loaded with a shockingly light documentsload. He'd heard very good things about the Signals officer, and most notably that the twenty-three year old woman did three very specific things, she, apparently, never had to eat, breathe, or sleep. Sometimes, she never stopped breathing down someone's neck depending on who you asked. Someone had clearly forgotten to inform her of the last one, and the statue was clearly, unbearably tired. She caught her breath, which she supposedly didn't need, and then looked at him, with wild eyes like someone who'd just been informed that the Rapture was actually happening, for real, this time. She slid naturally into a salute, which Greenhill tiredly returned, and then released, with the younger woman releasing hers soon after.
"Apologies, Admiral, I know you were going to sleep, but, you need to see this. My signals groups just got two transmissions, one from our probes in Iserlohn, and intercepted one heading towards Heinessen in Tiamat." Her voice came over more like someone who was audibly trying to keep themselves from hyperventilating (from exertion), sabotaging slightly its normally sharp tone.
Greenhill winced. His daughter was in Iserlohn right now, with the Thirteenth fleet, who had conveniently been sent there, and supposedly, according to the ultra-fast long-range Fleet Intelligence comms arrays, which were only used in situations exactly like these where they needed the information six hours earlier, had slipped off any known detection methods after being occluded by the fortress. Dwight had assumed that they were dead, and mentally was preparing for, probably midday tomorrow when the normal communications circuits caught up, and relayed that the whole fleet had been regrettably destroyed by that silver tombstone. "I assume your reports are in the files, Lieutenant?"
Bakula nodded, her jet-black hair barely moving from its slightly below ear-length cut. She didn't have the customary beret on, but that was more than forgivable given the circumstances. She flipped out the folder to him, its featureless front hiding some news sent very, very early. He took the folder, and flipped it open.
Speedreading was the secret crucial skill of every single flag officer in the Alliance's Star Fleet, Army, and any government service too. You weren't ever told this in officer schooling, but the sheer amount of lengthy paper documents processed for official orders or reports more or less forced it on you. Something about paper being more secure when the electronics environment was closer described as the record-speed best way to turn a fresh-eyed eighteen year old enlistee into an alcoholic.
Greenhill's eyes danced across the pages, each one a record of a comms-log, the first was before the others, by around an hour or two, and they reported fusion flares of around 13,000 warships making a course towards the Amritsar warp point, and two spikes of X-Ray radiation consistent with Thor's Hammer firings. Which was on its own confusing. The Garrison fleet had fifteen thousand ships, never less at any point. The fact it lost around two thousand couldn't exactly be explained by fratricide from the main cannon, even if they were in the firing line. The Empire wasn't that stupid, nor were Seeckt and Stockhausen that hateful of each other yet. Which meant this had to be where the thirteenth died, and their signatures were likely hidden under the (impressively dense) cloud of jamming. And if Greenhill was a betting man (he wasn't, not yet anyways), he'd say that Yang was caught trying to bait the Hammer into fratricide, then died. This made intuitive sense, and better yet, fit in with his assumptions already.
The second sheet wasn't exactly a punch to the gut so much as a shot to it, followed by Fredrica kicking her father in the head, because the very next paper was a message from Thirteenth Fleet's intelligence liaison. Which she was. The admiral barely read most of it, bar one funnier phrase of "It's over, we won, and even if I am told to do this again, I can't" supposedly said by Admiral Yang. He wasn't sure if the junior officer could see the shock stitched onto his face, but he was very sure it was there. Not only was he wrong, but this suicide mission had turned into the Alliance's greatest victory of the war, and de-facto control of the entire corridor. That, changed more than just a couple of things.
Admiral Greenhill closed the folder, then, with significantly more energy than when he started, looked at Bakula. "Thank you, Lieutenant. What you've got here is, a shock to say the least. Tell your team to take tomorrow off, you included. Good job." Dwight turned around, deep in thought. He hoped the young woman wasn't shocked behind him, but really he didn't quite care as he strode back to his office. This was the biggest bombshell of the war. He had some plans to bring out of the dumpster, several to re-draw, and more new ones to make. Even more importantly he had to talk to Sidney Sitolet right the hell now.
By: Warmind
Summary: This is basically LoGH, but, if the FPA was more politically interesting, and not loaded with more idiots than the average anti-nuclear protest. Oh also add more detail to combat and the logistics of these wars in the mean-time, since I'm a sucker for all of that stuff.
Author's Note: This is still a LoGH fic. Expect gore, millions dead, and enough graphic deaths to fill several buckets. You've been warned. Also this is my first SV post! So please point out anything I've done wrong with tagging or formatting! Enjoy the read. Point of divergence is after Seventh Iserlohn.
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PROLOGUE: ISERLOHN FALLEN
Saturday, 18 May, 796 UC/487 RC
Free Planets' Alliance member world Sandar
For Alisa Holmes, today was the most normal day in a long time. No war news, not beyond the daily quote "More skirmishing against Imperial forces in the Tiamat Starzone". The normal after the shock of Astarte, and the Empire's offensives. No, the lack of major, announced offensives was a blessing. Her brother was a sailor in the Second, and it came as one of the greatest reliefs of her life that she didn't receive a letter, signed by Defense Secretary Trunicht's photocopy. No, she was lucky, she was pretty sure that his new fleet, the unluckiest number of them all, thirteen, was still sitting in orbit of the capital waiting on its sailing orders, or waiting in the Iserlohn Corridor. The most irregular thing about today was twofold, it was a Saturday, so Jacob wasn't attending his elementary school classes, and she was actually eating her husbands (admittedly fantastic) hashbrowns and fish for breakfast, what with the local government finally having removed the rationing on fresh fish. Between the sounds of morning cartoons, and the clacking of her laptop's keyboard, she barely noticed the sudden, and abrupt change to a familiar sound.
The Strohm News jingle, the flare of trumpets followed with a final roll on a snare, the logo of a (stylized) camera's lens with an eye on it, and then to a desk. Jacob was looking confused, he was young, not stupid. The news never came on at 8:30 in the morning, the hour of cartoons, unless it was big. As in, military action big.
Alisa was a therapist by trade, with a masters in Psychology to boot, she knew people better than most people knew themselves. What stood out about the normal face of the anchor which was, notably more shocked, his eyes were slowly bugging out, and Mr. Green's breathing was notably fast from how his tie's knot was moving. His ginger hair was more of a mess than normal, and looked like he'd wetted it down less than three hours ago. The room was normal, a window showed the morning glow from some tower in some capital somewhere, the desk wasn't visible aside from its stained oak top. He cleared his throat quickly, waited three seconds, then spoke.
"Good morning folks, I'm Audie Green with Strohm News, and, I apologize for the interruption, trust me, I want to be asleep too, but, Strohm is proud to present a special news bulletin directly from Heinessen." The anchor cleared his throat, and the red-on-white square in some faked screen projecting "SPECIAL BULLETIN" in exactly all capitals faded, replaced by the badge of the Star Fleet, overlaid on the corridor. "Some of you may have heard rumors of the deployment of the Alliance's military deeper within the Corridor." The image switched again, zooming in on the Iserlohn system. Alisa clenched her teeth, and looked at her husband, who'd dropped his paperwork and investing practically his whole soul into the flashing LEDs. Alisa started to feel sick. Iserlohn in focus meant there was another offensive, which meant, in some world, probably hers, the Thirteenth had marched, and died at the gates of the Iserlohn. She didn't catch Mr. Green talking something about pride as her dizziness grew rampant from worry. What the hell would she do if, no, when, she got the letter announcing Luke's "honorable" death in combat?!
The last thing the humble citizens clustered in an apartment, watching the news were expecting, was the exact long-winded sentence from the newsman's mouth and into the microphone as the image switched directly to that cruel chrome sphere hanging silently in space "As of four hours ago, the Department of Defense has released footage and confirmation that on May fifteenth, Admiral Yang Wen-li's Thirteenth Fleet and Rosen Ritter Regiment have captured the Iserlohn Fortress, and Iserlohn Star System with no casualties!" Coinciding with the proclamation, where Audie's sweat vanished under confidence and relief, and in place of just a ball, was instead two videos and a face. The recognizable slender form painted standard olive green of Alliance warships slipping under the liquid metal waves, then another of a large, blue-green hued battleship emblazoned with the pennant 144M docking into, what could only be Iserlohn's inside docks, readily accepting the foreign starship. The face was oddly familiar, recognizable from the Astarte disaster, and probably some battles in the corridor.
He cut a sharp, if soft in face, line of clear Chinese descent, not without some Caucasian features and brighter skin for it, but overall an handsome face, still young, maybe just thirty. His hair was matted down, lighter black, and two hazel eyes stared forwards with an immensely clear desire to get the photo shoot done with. Under was labelled Adm. Yang. He was the command behind this magic. Alisa was only reeling when the reporter seemed to look directly into her soul and notice her realization, then spoke "I say again for the good people of the Alliance, Iserlohn has fallen, with no casualties!" It was positive, for once when it came to the war. No it was magical. Hell, even a god-damned miracle! A tear or two crept down her right cheek, a shout escaped her husband, the image changed again to view a stylized map with the evil chrome staring down with the Alliance's flag waving over it. So too was the rest of the corridor.
Her heart had to be racing from this adrenaline, no, too arhythmic, too loud, it wasn't tinnitus, wasn't her heart, couldn't be. It was her- no. She wasn't making the noise at all. That was the flats besides above and below celebrating. That was the noise of a triumphant Alliance. The noise of Miracle Yang, who did the impossible without anybody knowing at all. Alisa's seat became an illusion as she dove towards her family of three, all enveloped in a hug quite probably stronger than a capital neutron cannon. It was all looking up, rationing would end, because they finally had the advantage! There was something about explaining the strategic situation after, but to be honest, Alisa was too excited to listen.
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Reichslande Lindwurm
Gerhard Weber sat in his room, lit only by a small lamp in the corner, furnished with what a commoner could afford, which was to say his grandfather's desk and stationary, a bed, light, some odds and ends of more high-tech devices, pens, some paper, manuals for the farm tools, roughly ten sets of clothes, all of them sun-bleached, a formal suit, and his most important one. A personal radio. He'd spent hours just listening to higher society broadcasts, news, plays. Anything. And now, under the moonlight of slightly past midnight he waited again for it to spark. Gerhard's long ginger hair blocked his view, and he flicked it away as he dialed the knobs again, prowling the airways, a demon in the night, looking for anything to bite his waiting ears. It was mindless, mindless again and again, and with a notepad beside him, Gerhard sighed, shrugged, and looked through stations. The damned lamp flickered. He'd have to replace the bulb. With the left he navigated the radio, the right saw what higher society channels he's seen before, flipping ten, probably twenty total pages of radio frequencies with something on them.
He flipped to 103.0, some radio drama. Then 404.2 at random, because last he checked he hadn't listed that frequency down, but had listed those around it, which blared an all-too-loud opera, recorded probably a century ago. Gerhard really hated the opera, couldn't stand the voices, and in an instant he remembered why he didn't list it. That was a mistake. And the young man rectified it as fast as possible. 100.7 was modern music, some pianos and more experimental reintroductions of electronic sounds and brass. Still too loud. He sighed. Couldn't find anything! Nothing was interesting, nothing about the higher-society forbidden cravings, that a commoner who knew his station wouldn't, shouldn't, bother to think about. None of the others were even broadcasting at midnight. No common channels that weren't things like emergency communications. Which left a last resort, 406.0.
In his experience, news was interesting, but boring. There was too much locally about crop yields, nobility changes in governorship, taxes, rationing (if you weren't at the periphery of useful space like Lindwurm), and the ever-faithful weather reports. His father was a farmer, but he was a repairman. A good repairman at that, but he didn't bother with the actual agricultural side. 406.0, that was different. That was Empire-wide news, the type a commoner needn't care for. But it reported on interesting things, troop movements, war reporting, done days ahead of when he'd be supposed to hear about it. Moreover, it ran twenty-four hours, every day, every hour, and played some good music while they were at it, aside from pompous nobility talk shows. Gerhard ashamedly loved hearing about the war. As a little boy he saw a Cruiser once, and it blocked out the sun. As a teenager he dreamed about running away to join the fleet, or the Panzergrenadiers, or the Army. Anything away from this little, yellow-green rock where you never went more than fifty kilometers in any direction. He'd heard the history of the war, of every Imperial victory, and the glorious campaign against the savage Rebel Army in their new hinterlands, a galactic corridor across. And he'd resolved, eight years ago, at sixteen, that he'd never be able to run away and join. Not for lack of want or trying, but because if the family tractors stopped working, they'd go poor.
It hadn't stopped Gerhard's passion. He still loved hearing about the offensives, the victory at Astarte where the Rebel Army making another attempt down the corridor to penetrate the impenetrable Iserlohn was routed by the excellent young star, Reinhard von Lohengramm, master of war! It was the greatest drama ever known. Today, tonight, was different. Almost targeted directly to his senses, the missile of pain shot at his heart, a gut-punch calculated for maximum effect. Four words Gerhard hadn't thought were actually, reasonably possible to exist. Over the radio set, the strong Imperial German highborn accent from the anchor, spoke with obsidian sharpness and crystal precision to stab into the heart of any Imperial patriot.
"Iserlohn Fortress has fallen." The young ginger rubbed his eyes, spiraled, fell into a mental pit. How the hells could this happen?! He opened his eyes, his ears, his perception, and saw, that somehow, this wasn't, a dream. He zeroed in on the newscast again, the next words ten seconds too late to be directly after, but still on topic. "We are unsure of exact details, but Lindwurm Central Broadcast does know that the Kaiser promises retribution for the failure of the Imperial Military in their duty."
"That is more than enough news for tonight." Gerhard thought to himself, quickly setting the radio back to off, and the room to its natural undisturbed state, notepad on the desk, radio in the drawer. Tucked onto the now inviting bed. He checked the clock one last time, surprised to see that only an hour has elapsed. And when sleep caught him in its grasp, all he could think of was shock, that they'd lost.
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Tuesday, 14 May, 796 UC/487 RC
Free Planets' Star Fleet Cruiser Victoria Falls
He was pinching himself. Not once, and not just on his arm or face but both, one-after-another. Because last Lieutenant Cavish was concerned, he could only be dreaming. Maybe, even, worse than dreaming, he was in purgatory, or an elevator to hell waiting for the jaws to open underneath his radarman's station before it swallowed him whole. The, much less than proverbial jaws of hell being the Iserlohn, which, in fact was going to swallow his ship whole. His cool breath hit his mouth as the gloss silver surface stood stagnant, illuminated by the flash-green-flash-red runway. The CIC's helm slowly lowered the ship in, his station chirped with a friendly Port Guide IFF, the pale reflective ghost made no sound while the cruiser slipped darkly under its wake. The minutes passing were agonizing, blackness slowly enveloping the command deck, autopilot from Iserlohn control, staffed by some ex-Imperial. Victoria Falls had entered its assignment. Cavish pinched his arm again, then neck, then face third in a row. He wasn't dreaming. He was wide awake, he was, in fact, inside the Iserlohn Fortress.
Some fucking magician, that Yang. The same Yang who turned Astarte from a surefire death into, well it wasn't a victory, but it sure wasn't a defeat, and importantly, Vicky Falls hadn't exploded to some stray shot during it. And now they'd somehow taken Iserlohn with half a fleet, and a single battalion of a whole infantry regiment. He leaned in towards the XO, Lieutenant Commander, oh what the hell was his name, Donoghue? The tall, black-haired, fair-skinned spacer who Cavish had come to both love, hate, and deeply respect, Lt. Commander Donoghue looked far from his normal cut-to-shape tall, dark and lanky spacer build. His hair was nearly buzzed to the scalp, age told only from wrinkles, and the face of a man who'd seen too much war. He sat in a chair behind the captain normally, though, Captain Brown wasn't even present. Probably nursing the mother of all stress headaches from the past day of fighting.
"Hey, XO, you sure we're not both dreamin'?" Cavish asked, notably more panicked than he intended to come off as.
The Exec turned towards him in his seat, his face also, tired. Somehow it seemed like Donoghue's nerves were both more shot, and he was more tired than the junior lieutenant. For once, though, a shred of that hidden, hated humanity punched its way to the surface as Iserlohn consumed them both, and the room went silent to him. "Lieutenant Cavish," He said, smooth as silk, with the air of a parent who'd just caught their child doing something very, very disappointing hidden in those vocal nuggets. "If this was a dream, then it would've ended here. I assure you, spaceman, this is all real. Somehow."
Ironically human for someone so machine-like and precise, Donoghue's face shot full of nerves and tiredness while he studied the junior spacer. For Cavish's part, he was as shocked that the Exec wasn't berating him as he was that agreement. His thoughts were interrupted by navigation forwards calling out, "Emergence into Iserlohn Interior in one minute! We are clear for dock!"
Donoghue shot him a piercing stare, and Cavish turned back to his station. "Buoy's locked, autopilot authority's in, all we gotta do now is enjoy the ride, gentlemen." He intoned enough to light up the whole CIC with that acknowledgement alone. Secondary, non-fusion thrusters thrummed under his feet while Victoria Falls managed what's best described as a controlled, lumbering fall towards a horizontal dock, stuck in the airless, gravitated Iserlohn. The breach, though, was something special. Cavish stared out the false-windows, a central spire stretched top to bottom, and in the center and sides the operations areas of the sixty trillion ton behemoth simply, sat like fine Terran architecture. The top hemisphere they descended into was hollow, held up to become the docks for six thousand-four hundred warships, plus thousands of the Thirteenth's unlucky transports and auxiliaries.
There was something absurd about it, absurdly large, grand. It was all man-made, every single curve, spiral and building dotting the dock surface and contained spacecraft slipways was designed. There was beauty in it. There was even more beauty in the fact their slightly-controlled fall was going to end soon as Cavish noted the transponder getting closer, and closer, the ship growing slowly nearer to a hole in the side made probably for an Imperial cruiser class several times larger. Everyone held their breath as the navigational track dew closer, retro-rockets slowing the forwards, and Iserlohn itself pitching in the hold Vicky right where, and how fast the fortress wanted her for optimal catch. Cavish imagined what happened when it failed. The crash of the starship into the bulkheads, probably penetration on lower decks, needing yard tugs to tow it up, docking it here for at least weeks of repairs. He mentally prepared for the tyrant gear to break down, see the color and emblems and stop working to cruelly kill maybe one Alliance sailor. But they didn't. Instead magnetic thuds rang through the warship, clamps fastening the cruiser in place, deep inside the heart of the impenetrable Iserlohn. 'It's been quite penetrated now, I'd say' came his instant, immature thoughts flashing wildly when it finally was over.
The world took a breath, a sigh, and released into stunned celebration. Then Cavish turned towards the hawk of an Exec still running the ship, stood up into a crisp salute. "Permission to get some sleep, sir?" Donoghue looked at him, then nodded.
"Permission granted. But this fight isn't over yet, there's still a fleet. You're on station for if we're called to fight. You owe it to the next shift." The ship's XO replied. Cavish didn't need to intone his thanks, his face, worn with eyebags the size of dinner plates was enough. He didn't care if there was a fleet of five hundred thousand outside, though. Iserlohn would break them like it broke the Alliance six times in a row.
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Reichsflotte Battleship Fulda
"Did we... fucking lose?!" Captain Borno von Boetticher's shaky, unsure voice called out to his bridge staff while he rubbed his eyes in something resembling being tired, though closer to annoyance and disbelief. His white-gloved hand went to his mouth soon after, silently cursing his own cursing. The Gods didn't like those of foul mouths, it betrayed fouler spirits within. He got no response. Nobody dared answer a pissed captain, and especially a noble, and especially not when the whole ship was barely held together with spit, a generous helping of duct tape, and prayers. They were near the greatest weapon ever constructed when it fired at its masters, in the center of the formation, positioned somewhat rightwards. Borno sighed then looked towards one of his advisors. "Walter, what's... the damage report?" His voice came in low, and worried. Not normal, not him, but, still. There was more than reason to be worried, terrified even.
Walter Schmeid keyed some cybernetic implant on the side of his head. It presumably linked him into the communications network running the whole battleship. "It's..." He hesitated, maybe too long. That was never good. "Bad, Excellency." His executive officer keyed up a display which instantly mirrored to the curved bridge screen. It occupied only a portion ahead of them, though, it was a large one. A three-dimensional wireframe of Fulda glowed onto the display, the background shifting from black, with a great many stars of the other survivors of Iserlohn to matte black.
"Show me, executive, how bad?" Borno's voice replied, retaining maybe a tenth of its characteristic confidence.
The wireframe sectored into three parts, one showing the port side, one the forwards, the last the aft, then two bars, and a few special numbers. Just from a first-glance inspection of what seemed to be the damage control circuit's special displays, Fulda was more than clearly hurting. Red icons shone over the main underslung engine, across the whole port side, from the thick stern where the triplets of powerful fusion drives sat to the blunt gun-laden nose. The nose of their ship being gratifyingly, mostly unharmed. Walter took a step forwards, looked at the wireframe, sucked down a cool stream, then spat a short, sharp half-grunt out. His deep, rumbling voice, loaded with a more commoner's street thuggish accent, at least when it came to men from Odin stormed like thunder while he spoke. "Port side armor is slag, engine two is down for good, and we barely stopped its fusion superconductors from exploding. All port side Walkürie bays are intact" Walter grimaced. "Barely. But the computers on the fighters are bricks, and the pilots were barely recovered, but so irradiated they may be doomed anyways. I don't need to mention any of the gun ports, or missile tubes. We are still fighting to get engine three's superconductors back into a stable state, but, there is a less than five percent chance of critical failure. Our deflectors are returning to full capacity, and can be expected to be combat-ready within ten minutes, Excellency."
Borno let out a hidden growl. Battleships were expensive. Not so expensive that the Navy couldn't procure thousands per production cycle, but still, the damage to Fulda would take at best months to repair. But, still fighting? It'd been three hours without combat, and a Battleship had a full-stations crew of nearly seven hundred thirty, nearly all of them had at least basic damage control training. They should have been able to stabilize their fusion drives, the two that worked anyways, by now. Unless something had gone horribly terribly wrong with his crew. Borno looked his pale green eyes towards Walter. "Commander Schmeid." Borno's highborn level-tone (still disgustingly shaky) voice said. "We should have most of the internal damage stabilized, unless the crew is incapacitated."
His exec visibly winced, then zoomed in to one of the bars, which populated with nearly a thousand dots, around half of which were red. Walter keyed his implant once more then spoke. "We have, effectively, fifty per-cent casualties. Of those, a full half were in sick bay, and of that half, maybe, sixty percent of our wounded were forced into medical stasis from radiation exposure."
Borno's head found a new home in his hands as the realization that he was flying only half a ship sank in. How did it go so damnably wrong?! He composted himself again, then asked the third pressing question, after their retreat in shockingly good order after that incompetent Seeckt's very timely death by their same Thor's Hammer. "One more question, I apologize for asking so much, but what's our chain of command like now?" They'd gone all this time with no actual known commanding officer. Just the feeling that they should leave, probably for the Amritsar Starzone warp point.
"Rear Admiral von Spee is taking over. He will be broadcasting orders on the all channel shortly."
"Rear Admiral von Spee? What happened to Vice Admiral Tannhäuser?" Captain von Boetticher near-shouted with, for the first time in those same three hours, genuine shock. The Vice Admiral wasn't at the formation's core last he knew, he shouldn't have been in the firing line of the Thor's Hammer strikes... unless. Oh Gods. Walter's stern, carved mouth confirmed his fears. "Did Tannhäuser move his units to reinforce the center?"
"Luckily" Walter's voice said, heaving it out, with his own sigh. "Of all one-thousand five hundred eighty-five lost ships, and especially, the one hundred seventeen dead carrier, Ouroboros was undamaged. Vice Admiral Tannhäuser was on a shuttle to link up with Asgard. Where he was killed by the Thor's Hammer." Somehow, that was worse. He knew the full loss sheet, two hundred ninety-three battleships, almost two hundred ninety-four with Fulda in that list. One hundred seventeen carriers, three hundred fifty-five cruisers, and four hundred ten destroyers. All of them total losses with all hands, fighters included. But Borno's thoughts were interrupted by bridge communications calling out two messages.
"Sir! Captain Gustaf alerts us that his divisions forwards maneuvering thrusters are all ou-"
"Communications request from the battleship Blutadler!"
"Put Rear Admiral von Spee on screen now!" Came the snap-command from Borno's mouth, while he, and seemingly literally his whole staff prayed that von Spee would be sane. The man who emerged was, supposedly, only nearly forty. He looked a decade older. His hair was white, his face streaked with strong, clean-shaven bones and enough wrinkles and eyebags to ensure marks of a long, unnaturally stressful career. His hair was a small fuzz at the top, so the most age came from the parts which were visible, and were visibly grey. His skin bore a tan complexion, pointing maybe to descent from someone Rudolf the Great would have killed in a heartbeat. His amber eyes bored into the hearts of every commander, seemingly to ensure each and every one of them was listening, Gods be damned!
"Attention all surviving Reichsflotte warships. I am Rear Admiral von Spee. As the most senior surviving field officer, I am taking executive control of the Iserlohn Fleet. All ships are ordered to do the following, we are to make at one-third maximum burn in good order to the Iserlohn-Amritsar warp corridor. Any ships which must be abandoned will have all survivors evacuated and rescued by any available warships. Today the Empire has lost nearly seven hundred thousand sailors. I intend to lose no more. Under no circumstances are you clear to engage rebel forces. They have promised us safe retreat. Do not give them a reason to go back on that promise." The image blinked out from the FTL radio screen, and the middling tenor of the new commander's voice faded. Borno breathed a sigh of relief, and his head returned to his hands. Nearly seven hundred thousand dead. Luckily, they weren't charging back. He looked back out into the black. Borno wanted blood. But that, that would come later. For now, he was happy to be going home.
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Wednesday, 15 May, 796 UC
Free Planets' Alliance Capital Heinessen
"Admiral Greenhill! Admiral Greenhill!" Came a voice like a sheet of concrete thrown at mach three to Dwight's unwilling head. It was midnight, dammit! And he'd finally gotten out of a conference, what could be so important! Regardless, he wheeled around. Lieutenant "Statue" Bakula was barreling down the hall at him, carrying a manilla folder loaded with a shockingly light documentsload. He'd heard very good things about the Signals officer, and most notably that the twenty-three year old woman did three very specific things, she, apparently, never had to eat, breathe, or sleep. Sometimes, she never stopped breathing down someone's neck depending on who you asked. Someone had clearly forgotten to inform her of the last one, and the statue was clearly, unbearably tired. She caught her breath, which she supposedly didn't need, and then looked at him, with wild eyes like someone who'd just been informed that the Rapture was actually happening, for real, this time. She slid naturally into a salute, which Greenhill tiredly returned, and then released, with the younger woman releasing hers soon after.
"Apologies, Admiral, I know you were going to sleep, but, you need to see this. My signals groups just got two transmissions, one from our probes in Iserlohn, and intercepted one heading towards Heinessen in Tiamat." Her voice came over more like someone who was audibly trying to keep themselves from hyperventilating (from exertion), sabotaging slightly its normally sharp tone.
Greenhill winced. His daughter was in Iserlohn right now, with the Thirteenth fleet, who had conveniently been sent there, and supposedly, according to the ultra-fast long-range Fleet Intelligence comms arrays, which were only used in situations exactly like these where they needed the information six hours earlier, had slipped off any known detection methods after being occluded by the fortress. Dwight had assumed that they were dead, and mentally was preparing for, probably midday tomorrow when the normal communications circuits caught up, and relayed that the whole fleet had been regrettably destroyed by that silver tombstone. "I assume your reports are in the files, Lieutenant?"
Bakula nodded, her jet-black hair barely moving from its slightly below ear-length cut. She didn't have the customary beret on, but that was more than forgivable given the circumstances. She flipped out the folder to him, its featureless front hiding some news sent very, very early. He took the folder, and flipped it open.
Speedreading was the secret crucial skill of every single flag officer in the Alliance's Star Fleet, Army, and any government service too. You weren't ever told this in officer schooling, but the sheer amount of lengthy paper documents processed for official orders or reports more or less forced it on you. Something about paper being more secure when the electronics environment was closer described as the record-speed best way to turn a fresh-eyed eighteen year old enlistee into an alcoholic.
Greenhill's eyes danced across the pages, each one a record of a comms-log, the first was before the others, by around an hour or two, and they reported fusion flares of around 13,000 warships making a course towards the Amritsar warp point, and two spikes of X-Ray radiation consistent with Thor's Hammer firings. Which was on its own confusing. The Garrison fleet had fifteen thousand ships, never less at any point. The fact it lost around two thousand couldn't exactly be explained by fratricide from the main cannon, even if they were in the firing line. The Empire wasn't that stupid, nor were Seeckt and Stockhausen that hateful of each other yet. Which meant this had to be where the thirteenth died, and their signatures were likely hidden under the (impressively dense) cloud of jamming. And if Greenhill was a betting man (he wasn't, not yet anyways), he'd say that Yang was caught trying to bait the Hammer into fratricide, then died. This made intuitive sense, and better yet, fit in with his assumptions already.
The second sheet wasn't exactly a punch to the gut so much as a shot to it, followed by Fredrica kicking her father in the head, because the very next paper was a message from Thirteenth Fleet's intelligence liaison. Which she was. The admiral barely read most of it, bar one funnier phrase of "It's over, we won, and even if I am told to do this again, I can't" supposedly said by Admiral Yang. He wasn't sure if the junior officer could see the shock stitched onto his face, but he was very sure it was there. Not only was he wrong, but this suicide mission had turned into the Alliance's greatest victory of the war, and de-facto control of the entire corridor. That, changed more than just a couple of things.
Admiral Greenhill closed the folder, then, with significantly more energy than when he started, looked at Bakula. "Thank you, Lieutenant. What you've got here is, a shock to say the least. Tell your team to take tomorrow off, you included. Good job." Dwight turned around, deep in thought. He hoped the young woman wasn't shocked behind him, but really he didn't quite care as he strode back to his office. This was the biggest bombshell of the war. He had some plans to bring out of the dumpster, several to re-draw, and more new ones to make. Even more importantly he had to talk to Sidney Sitolet right the hell now.
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Chapter One: The Devil's Poker Table
Warmind_Of_Skies
What would you do if you suddenly exploded?
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter One: The Devil's Poker Table
With Iserlohn fallen, it was only a matter of time before the cards began to change, and the winds of fate blew their merry havoc. Between the spiral arms, and the fates of billions, a small drop in the bucket had changed its course, and caused a cascade. The Alliance had a new hero, the Empire needed someone to blame. But the victory couldn't have come at a worse time. The Alliance, ever the stalwart democracy, had elections, and mere months before voting later that year. With a new piece in play, they all went scrambling. The Empire? The golden brat who'd shown up five experienced commanders at Astarte, had become the youngest Fleet Admiral in Imperial history, vice-commander of the Reichsflotte, and the master of the Alliance war. A full half of the Galactic Empire's eighteen fleets and their skirmish groups had fallen into his sway. Like a house of cards being built, the galaxy teetered towards a cliff face.
Wednesday, 22 May, 796 UC
Admiral Greenhill's office, Heinessen
Dwight Greenhill's office was quaint, by the standards of military officials turned almost political figures. His personal oak desk, was more a conference table he hadn't bothered to change, specifically for around four, but if someone could bear to sit near the edge, it could uncomfortably seat eight, the window-side was a screen so he could cast displays of whatever he was needing. The back end was equally basic, though was his personal wall. Plaques of his graduation now nearly twenty-six years old, old rank insignia from his time in the fleet, pictures of his wife, and only daughter. Frederica. The fact she was alive was a miracle, one he could attribute to the exemplary competence of Rear Admiral Yang. The same man who was the exact reason for this, extremely delayed, meeting.
If looking from the door, then turning in, the right-hand wall was a screen, the left-hand was books, and easily the most boring. But it was perhaps the most important wall, because that wall had the secret reason any civil society functioned. Alcohol. Checking his watch the faded blonde man noted that he didn't have too long, and quickly checked the selection. The invitation, better said, request he'd delivered to the Star Fleet's director and chief of operations hadn't been exactly friendly, but Sidney would know between one of his few friends that it wasn't exactly a fully formal meeting anyways. Perusing the selection revealed a bottle of six-year-aged El Facil whiskey. Appropriate, and half-drained, the bottle was, among many things, the gift which kept on giving as far as Greenhill was concerned. Two glasses, some ice, and the bottle later, the door chimed.
Greenhill tapped a button on his personal tablet, then slid it onto the table. He didn't need to look. At one o'clock sharp, Sidney Sitolet, Director of the Star Fleet, marched, and nodded. Greenhill flashed towards the director, hand outstretched, and in a snatch of the hand, and the shudder of a secure door, the veneer of professionalism melted away.
Sitolet was a tall, imposing, powerful man despite having spent his recent four years commanding cadets and piloting desks. Stood a colossal six foot six inches, with dark, slightly darker than chestnut, complexion, and still with broad shoulders, complementing the short grey hair of age and cut to the official male hair regulations, Sidney Silolet, Alliance Marshal and Director of the Star Fleet had the busiest schedule of any man in the military. Through a feat about as herculean as his physique, he'd more or less manhandled the Star Fleet to bend to his needs, and what he needed was a discussion with a close friend.
In comparison, Dwight Greenhill, senior for an admiral and approaching fifty with no promotion in sight, was a comparatively miniscule five-foot-nine. His hair was kept in its dirty, faded blond (growing whiter by the day) still in regulation, but tempting fate with its length. Not that anyone would exactly question him due to rank, but it helped to set an example. His build was average, trending lankier, and his skin a healthier form of pale, developed from years spent either indoors or on a starship without sun exposure more than fleet week and PT. The two men were physically, nearly nothing alike, but mentally, and in experiences? Extremely close. Both men had fought at one of the battles of Iserlohn, both men had been frontline officers moved to advisory and back-line roles, both hated Job Trünicht.
"Sidney." The smaller man said first.
"Dwight." Sidney's voice boomed in response while their handshake evolved into a brotherly half-hug.
"It's been awhile."
Sidney scoffed in reply, shaking his head and letting a small laugh loose. "That, is true. Did you bring me here to chat or for an actual reason?"
Now it was Dwight's turn to snort out a laugh. "Don't tell me for a damned second you'd be mad if I did this to force you to take a break."
The Director's smile was, as much infectious, as it was fought down. "You wouldn't be wrong. I get the impression it might get worse after this meeting."
"Well, then I guess we should get right to making our lives both more miserable." Dwight led the way towards the table, with Sidney taking a seat next to, instead of across from his longtime friend. "Okay for a drink, sir?" Greenhill asked, expecting the answer, but adding rank as a formality. Longtime officer tradition was that the lowest-ranked poured the first round, unless someone else bought it, which, unluckily, Dwight was both.
"Oh, what the hell." Sitolet replied with a lower tone, fighting the urge to accept. It was a losing battle. At least it'd calm him down for a little bit. He shrugged, and sat in a seat next to Greenhill, who took his designated seat at the table's head. "What do you have today?"
"I picked it at random, but it's the El Facil Equatorial Classic. Oddly relevant." For his part, Greenhill nodded, and poured the whiskey in the two glasses, near to the brim on both, floating cubes of ice onto the top, with less than a quarter inch of give on the smaller glasses. The admiral held his glass up to give a basic toast. "To the Alliance."
"To the Alliance." Sidney replied, clinking the glasses, while both took a first sip. "Now, first order of business?"
"Luckily, this one's in my wheelhouse as Chief of Staff for Lobos, but Yang's still running on half a fleet plus Iserlohn." Greenhill casted a real time (as close to it as possible, the reality was that it ran on the slower comms circuits, so this force disposition was from two to four days ago. The date was, unhelpfully, not stamped in any of the four corners) map of the Alliance's fleets and corridor raiding groups. The Alliance had ten fleets "Closer to nine and a half." was Greenhill's thoughts, a corridor skirmishing force, and their rear-lines anti-piracy second-rank ships. Ideal to organization, the fleets were each twelve-thousand eight hundred strong. In practice, this varied, with some lower or higher depending on stationing, manpower, and current war status. Right now, it was more than likely every fleet would be getting upgraded in size, what with Astarte still having over twenty thousand surviving ships. "I'll pull up the map of our current forces," Greenhill remarked while it resolved further.
Thirteenth had cobbled what little remained totally combat-ready and wasn't in dock for repairs from Second, Fourth, and Sixth. Even then, a week after their mission, they still only had half a fleet. Assuming (and making a rookie mistake), the Alliance's numbered battle fleets comprised eight (slightly) over-strength fleets around a thousand too large, and two half-fleets. In those alone, the Alliance had just six hundred shy of a hundred-eleven thousand ships, and was still recovering from Astarte. Headquarters could form its own half-fleet of six thousand, and the skirmishing groups in the corridor counted to around five thousand in independent squadrons and commands.
Around forty thousand ships were stuck in the rear line, but they were outdated, and not listed for that reason. It wasn't like they had much use anyways. Both men studied the map intently, force deployments, what was needed. Sitolet took a sip from his glass, leaning back at studying the wall, specifically seeming to focus near the shipyards.
"What are we going to do with the Astarte survivors still under repair?" He asked, considering his options.
Greenhill responded with a verbal shrug. "I was thinking of splitting them off across the fleets, maybe twelve hundred each, then the rest to the skirmishing groups after bumping thirteenth to fifteen thousand."
"Giving Yang all that after his first big win? Walk me through it." Sitolet wasn't opposed. His vocal tone made it clear, but it didn't hurt to help the reasoning.
"Iserlohn can comfortably garrison fifteen thousand ships without support. Given that it's also our new frontline, and Yang has apparently some damn good formation controller, he'd probably appreciate the extra help." Greenhill noted. Then continued. "Splitting the wealth to the rest puts the technical average at fifteen-thousand strong fleets," Greenhill didn't need to note, at all, the fact the numbers were rather slanted and would remain that way based off who was playing Corridor Security in their assignments. He also didn't need to mention that it'd help Eleventh get back to fighting strength, hopefully by the end of the year. "Then the skirmishing force gets, around four thousand additional helpers."
"Why the skirmishing force?" Sitolet asked again, interrogating his subordinate, and interrupting Greenhill.
"It's more a reserve at this point that happens to be in the corridor where we'll need it. It's gonna do more good than staffing them to policing actions or the HQ reserve." When Greenhill finished, his older friend nodded in agreement.
"About my thoughts too. Other than boosting Yang, but, we can arrange that. I would have considered reviving Second Fleet, but Paetta will be in hospital for months anyways."
"And we don't exactly have a wealth of flag officers at commodore waiting for an instant jump to vice admiral." Greenhill finished the thought. "I would volunteer you, or myself, but, someone needs to staff the upper ranks." Sitolet only nodded at the words. Greenhill took another sip of the amber liquid in the cup and looked again at the force board.
"Yang will need a follow-on force. We could station a second fleet within striking range and to back him up while we get more of his ships together. Appleton's sitting on his laurels over Heinessen doing internal security. I can tell he hates it."
"You want to send Eighth Fleet?" Greenhill asking, somewhat surprised. The Free Planets Alliance's eight numbered fleet was a heavy formation, large, with more battleships than average, and headed by the single most well-armed warship the Alliance had built, Krishna. Its commander, Vice Admiral Zachary Appleton had a reputation as a level, cool, but traditional officer who favored grinding aggression and firepower over much else. He was younger than average, and hadn't often fought, his last major engagement being the disappointment over Van-Fleet, wherein a whole seven days of nothing happened.
"It wouldn't hurt. And as a show, the Empire would know we're serious about holding Iserlohn. Besides, Appleton has been chomping at the bit for a frontline posting for two years, and Corridor Command is asking for at least four fleets plus the raiding command." That was an expansion from three, then the most held in active, ready reserve in the heartland. Of course, the three set to 796's corridor deployment, Second, Fourth, and Sixth, were all wiped out. Which left a pressing need for three fleets to back up Thirteenth Fleet.
Greenhill nodded, understanding. "I didn't know Corridor's staff wanted that much more. I won't say it doesn't track with the current situation." Sidney was looking at the deputy to Lobos expectantly, given he did more know the actual fleets better than Sitolet. His eyes darkened to near-obsidian while Greenhill drained his glass, then looked to his laptop, pulling up a more in-dept fleet review. "But, given we should assign more to our immediate frontline, and we can just rebuild supply bases in Dagon, Van-Fleet, or maybe Tiamat, it wouldn't be hard to supply all those troops. Aside from Eighth, I think Seventh and Fifth are going to be out best fits. Seventh is longer-ranged, more modern ships, and any front with Old Man Bucock as its most senior officer is bound to be, at least a little more confident." Greenhill looked towards his tablet still resting, and Sitolet drained the whiskey glass, tapping it on the table.
Sitolet nodded after, then highlighted several starzones on the corridor. "Eighth will station out of Legnica, so in Iserlohn's limited starzone as a reserve, I would place Fifth at Tiamat, and Seventh as a mobile group. We can then have the skirmishing commands base further back as a rear guard in case," Sitolet scoffed. "Iserlohn is ever recaptured."
Greenhill nodded in reply. "I can arrange that. Though it will take some more time to mobilize the other two fleets."
"Appleton built his fleet like a battering ram anyways. Sending his fleet to link up with skirmishing groups to destroy the Empire's forces there is good practice for him." Sitolet said to calm the nerves of what could easily spiral into a disaster. He was checking his watch, mostly to see the date. "If we give him the orders today, and he leaves tomorrow, his fleet will be in position by June thirteenth, give a few days for combat. What is your assessment for Bucock and Hawood?"
"I'd give them both three days to complete preparations. Which should mean a stable front by later June, but until then we'll have the skirmishers bulk out his fleet if anything major happens." Greenhill's voice instantly rattled off as he continued to assess their situation. A lingering question burned, the second major topic. "Speaking, of major things. What do you think Trünicht will have us do now that his suicide mission went wrong?"
In a flash, the mind of strategist and commander Sitolet took over from officer teacher and director Sitolet. "If I had to be elected, and wanted something big, I'd launch an attack into the Empire directly. Mobilize all our useful battlefleets, the army, and wage enough war to keep the officers in my pocket, and population convinced a true democracy needs to be at war." Sitolet poured two more glasses, and he drained his in a massive gulp, putting his elbows on the table, then resting his face on his paired curled fists. "Even if it failed, you can easily blame the failure on not having enough military funding, and with Iserlohn, the Alliance is safe while it rots behind that eternal wall."
Greenhill could only nod in agreement. He only had one response, and he looked towards his friend with, a grimace. "So what are you planning to do about it?"
Sidney returned the grimace. "I," Dwight could count the second tick by, at least five had passed. "I don't know. The fact is that this could be him trying to force me into retirement. I don't know yet." Those words hung in the air. Sidney was always calculated, always, ready. To hear that he wasn't, was so alien, in fact, it was incomprehensible. They could leave the topic here.
Dwight coughed, and took a sip from the second glass. He had one suggestion. "You could try to sink the campaign, though I doubt Trünicht would even let that happen." He took a second sip. Sitolet nodded slowly, then took a breath in.
"I've also received a communication from the Heinessen Military Academy. They want Yang back at Heinessen for their anniversary. I could refuse, but, the Department of Defense also has been yelling in my ear about some brass they want to pin on Yang's chest for Iserlohn anyways." Sitolet mentioned, looking at his watch.
Greenhill's grimace didn't budge, and he looked to the ceiling. Then back down, and to the board, which still displayed the strategic map. "I don't want Yang back here. It's too dangerous for him. He has no interest in politics, and the Empire will be looking for what happens regarding their lost fortress. If they catch that Yang's gone, they might try something. I don't think any of Yang's subordinates are quite as good as he is."
"He has Murai as the fleet XO. The man's conservative, and cautious maybe to a fault, but he can hold down the fort. Literally, in this case. I will grant the leave, maybe it helps us if the new Bruce Ashbey has a public face." Siltolet said casually, his face relaxing, eyes brightening to their normal deep brown shade. He checked his watch, and then looked at his friend. "Besides. With our time scale as it is, when Yang gets home, Appleton will be in the region, and technically would be Yang's superior anyways. If we're reinforcing his fleet, he needs to become a vice admiral, not a rear admiral." Sitolet was serious about this. Importantly too, he seemed to have some alternate motive the deputy chief could not parse.
"We could send his promotion notice and rank pins over courier, along with his reinforcements." Greenhill chimed in, exasperated. There was so much danger from the PKC, from interceptions, and Imperial remnant skirmishers, and if Yang died now, there went up in flames their new officer to add to the cadre of competent men still left in the Star Fleet.
"Then consider that an order to get together." Sitolet checked his watch once more, and winced. "My apologies, Dwight, but I have an apparently unscheduled meeting with some defense department men very soon. I'll have to leave now."
Greenhill understood. Even on days when there was everything to do, someone would come out with even more to do. "Well then, don't let me keep you. Thanks for making time, sir." The rank address signaled a change back to professional atmosphere, and the end of these conversations. Greenhill assumed a salute in respect while Sithole emerged from the chair, unfolding to his massive natural height.
"Of course. Anything for one of the few men I can actually trust." Sidney returned the salute, and dropped it, leaving out of the compartment door, and Greenhill to sigh, and check his itinerary again. His next meeting was with Mashal Lasalle Lobos, the man who controlled all the deployments. "What a fun meeting that will be". The senior admiral told himself, the voice occupying his head dripping venom.
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Freitag, 24 Mai, 487 RC
Imperial Marshal von Lohengramm's office, Odin
Nine of the most powerful men in the Empire were gathered, wasting their time and energy on Odin, when they could instead be setting forth to retake the Iserlohn. Or, if not that otherwise barren system, maybe attempting a bypass to turn Legnica into a supply base. Reinhard scowled to himself as he looked at the paintings. Among him were seated at the long oak table were his hand-picked admirals. Some nobles, some commoners. All possessing a unique skillset, like a beautiful flower on a lake. Between them all, and at nominal strength of twenty thousand ships, his raiding force, and the now reduced Iserlohn Garrison, he should have commanded the largest fortress the Empire had, and two hundred thousand warships, an equal number of support assets, the Imperial Army's contingent. In the fleet alone, Reinhard deployed seventy and a half million men. Combined with the other half of the Navy, and the private fleets of the High Nobility? He commanded a sizeable portion of the Empires nearly five hundred thousand strong wall of battle.
Sure there would have been some deployments earlier, raiding operations, skirmishes, with the whole navy having been recalled to Odin for ceremony, and his half specifically for what was one of the most confusing and disastrous events of the year, now more than at its beginning. Lohengramm had met Seeckt and Stockhausen in person to notify them of the change in command. For a month, early May, they hadn't even had a fight. Which was impressive, especially as his forces were recalled for the yearly fleet review in later April. He'd only arrived four days ago, and then was given the news from a week ago. The Iserlohn had fallen, and he would be trapped here for some time yet.
However, when he set out, he would need a plan. And so, the "Gang of Nine" as the nobles of the court had labeled them, met in the vice-commander's office. Seated were himself, Imperial Marshal and Fleet Admiral, His Excellency Reinhard von Lohengramm at the head of the table, High Admiral Siegfried Kircheis to his right, High Admiral Wolfgang Mittermeyer across from Kircheis, High Admiral Oskar von Reunthal next to Mittermeyer. Across from Reunthal sat another High Admiral, Fritz Josef Bittenfeld, next to him, High Admiral Ernst Mecklinger, across, High Admiral Cornelius Lutz, next to Lutz, High Admiral Karl Gustav Kempff, across from him, and last, but certainly not the least, High Admiral August Samuel Wahlen.
Each man was chosen for three main reasons aside from birth. Talent, loyalty, and ambition. The three traits Reinhard liked the most in an officer. He intended to keep this meeting short. There were other, less public matters to discuss, and more time to enjoy with Annerose. The room sat in silence for a time as a central holographic projector showed off what was now understood to be the current situation, with Iserlohn fallen and under control of a half-fleet, the two Imperial forces in the region, Admiral Seeckt, now technically Rear Admiral von Spee's Iserlohn Fleet, and Vice Admiral Claasen's skirmishing force. The problem was thus, von Spee was leaving, Odin-bound to report to the Kaiser in person about his shameful defeat. He could be discounted, and it would also be Reinhard's problem. That fleet would arrive in twenty-three more days, which left one out of his nine fleets, his own, paralyzed. Claasen had, supposedly, marshalled all of his formations into Legnica, a starzone only slightly closer to the Alliance than Iserlohn, and still within the corridor, reportedly waiting until the Empire's reinforcements could arrive. Even worse, the Alliance's raiding groups had taken to scouring the Corridor for all of the Empire's listening posts, and hyper-fast comms arrays, pointing to some follow-on force being deployed by the Alliance, and making him blind.
All of these were relatively major problems. Problems Reinhard could not, did not, or was not wanting to solve on his own, and which the perspectives of his personal admiralty were required. The first to break the tense silence was the tall, six-foot clean-shaven redhead looked towards Reinhard, showing off strong, wide facial bones, and a well-kept body expected of a younger, nearly thirty years old, officer. Bittenfeld commanded the notorious Black Lancers. Ten million men and twenty thousand ships whose ferocity, speed, and aggression was unmatched. Their numbers had been expanded when Bittenfeld was appointed High Admiral, and earlier skirmishing in later February had only sharpened their knives. Bittenfeld himself was an excellent leader. His men loved him, and on the field, he only spoke in results and loyalty. If there was one criticism, Bittenfeld was a blunt instrument, and lacked the tactical ingenuity of his peers. "Excellency, why haven't we mobilized all of our fleet, and made a move on Iserlohn, ceremony be damned? Even if you, Kircheis and another must stay, between six of us, we can marshal a force of a hundred twenty thousand to retake the fortress, and then punish the Rebels for their arrogance."
Reinhard knew full well that Bittenfeld understood what made that corridor of warp-space so vital. It also revealed his bluntness, but, that was exactly like the readhead. Reinhard sighed, then thumbed a small console near his part of the table, turning the central holographic display into an overlay of warp routes, and time delays. He then overlayed his assumptions of the Alliance's movements. The chart itself assumed that the Alliance would dispatch fleets from Heinessen. Intelligence had indicated most of the Alliance's fleets were in Ba'alat, and if not that starzones, ones in the same rough distance to Iserlohn as Heinessen. A sane Alliance, and even one obsessed with war, like they were, was going to send a reinforcement force. His signals-men had said three fleets were on their way, and likely reinforcements for Yang.
"To be honest, Bittenfeld, I would like to redeploy to Iserlohn and make up for that embarrassment. If it was possible to take it back in time." Reinhard waved his hand, and it zoomed in. "However, we are on Odin. If we started travelling today, it would take us thirty-three days, and we would arrive by the twenty-sixth. Of June." Reinhard finished, emphasizing the second. He paused, waiting for Bittenfeld to understand. The redhead nodded, looking at the map, as did the rest. "The Alliance has only a twenty-one day trip to Iserlohn from their positions, and will have a head-start of more than ten days. Even if we were to mobilize the force you suggested, and assault Iserlohn, we would be facing at least half our number in Alliance warships, and would have to deal with the Corridor's geography." Reinhard played a zoomed order of battle for a basic simulation, proposing the Iserlohn assault from the corridor outside of the Starzone. Arranged were the fortress, and four Alliance fleets opposing six Imperial fleets. It played at extreme speed, and was notably primitive. It assumed equally competent (and dogmatic) commanders. "This battle is at least even, possibly against our favor if the Rebels have learned to use the fortress well, and if we win, we would not have enough left-over to deal with their counter-attack. Not only would you all die and be captured, but half the Imperial Navy would be lost, in a defeat even more shameful than Dagon." Reinhard finished. His other admirals studied the maps, and words.
Surprisingly, it was Kircheis who spoke against him. The tallest in the room, and a redhead in the literal sense, Kircheis was the closest thing Reinhard had to an anchor. The two had known each other for a decade, and done everything together. Reinhard was lucky that Kircheis, whose first name was the disappointing Siegfried, wasn't merely a yes man. "However, Excellency, Iserlohn still is a strategic objective, and, even if not its strategic value, the Goldenbaum courts will breathe down our necks until Iserlohn is ours again." The unspoken words in that sentence still came through, 'And we can't go to war with, or coup them just yet, now can we?'. Intermixed, of course, with Reinhard's continued annoyance that Kircheis insisted on referring to him as 'Excellency'. He'd told him to cut that out months ago, even. Reinhard pursed his lips, and thought some. He wasn't wrong. Of course the courts would be breathing down his neck every day the Iserlohn wasn't back in the Empire's hands. But it wasn't like he had much of a choice.
"Regrettably, Kircheis, we don't have much of a choice regarding that beyond letting the idiots ramble until they keel over." Reinhard responded, seeing the rest of the Gang of Nine largely nod in agreement. He didn't have much choice. The next to speak up was Mittermeyer.
"I think, Excellencies, we have a bit more pressing problem. It's the rebels I'm concerned about. They've taken a very large advantage, and now have to wonder, what will they do with it?" The second blonde at the table, Mittermeyer had served Reinhard as a Rear Admiral, and a commander as one of his many fleet groups. His mind was a sharpened weapon, and his grey eyes held an uncanny foresight in them. Reinhard liked Wolfgang Mittermeyer. He was skilled, younger, loyal, and extremely piercing in all those thoughts.
He'd also landed on the major reason Reinhard worried about. What was the Alliance going to do with their newfound strategic position? His question was answered by Mecklinger. Ernst Mecklinger, the shorter than the rest at five-ten, possibly a little stranger than the rest, and a man of the arts, was distinguished more by his brown-black hair, strange uniform-length cut at his lower jaw, and moustache. Like the rest he possessed a calculated intellect, but one of moderation. Nowhere near as aggressive as Bittenfeld, not emotionally intelligent as Kircheis, nor as far-thinking as Mittermeyer, but always a steady voice. He'd been Reinhard's Chief of Staff before now, and very much retained his luster and promise. "The obvious, and very much in-character thing for the rebels to do would be direct attacks on the Empire's worlds. If they can concentrate enough forces, and we have to anticipate they will, they might even make some headway."
"Which wouldn't exactly pose much of a threat" Bittenfeld rumbled in response, still seeing some degree of reason in the plan to directly assault Iserlohn. "It isn't like the Rebels have the manpower to actually defeat the whole Navy, or invade every world that mattered."
"But that isn't the point." Mecklinger shot back. "This war, to them, it's like an art piece, and one which ends in our death, or their eternal existence. There's no better way to make it than to be at the head of the first direct invasion into our space. If it fails, then who cares. It isn't like both of us haven't been slowly destroying our populations to win this war."
Reinhard considered the words, and then the threat. It made sense. It made a lot of sense, it was also the logic he wasn't expecting. For his part, any sane admiral, possibly Yang, that tricky bastard, would have probably just waited for the Empire to bleed itself doing Bittenfeld's tactics. The Alliance had been fighting defensively anyways for a hundred and fifty years, grand offensive theory like the Imperial Navy had centuries of experience in, wasn't anything they'd even had to consider. "Mecklinger, I would like to ask, then, when do you believe an invasion of our land would commence?"
"I would have to say some time around late July or August. With some variance maybe into earlier September. I doubt they would deploy any time later than September tenth or so, by then we would be more than in position. For when we would hear, June is likely when our intelligence agencies would get back to us on any plans."
"Excellent, Mecklinger, excellent. Now, with this being a possibility, and I agree it is a likely one, I would like you all to wargame out potential scenarios and our possible countermoves. The rebels are predictable, and usually staffed with incompetents. That does not means we should discount them." Reinhard responded. This was as much to test their thinking as it was his actual thoughts. His admirals should not just be good at tactical command, but also strategically. Reinhard, as skilled as he was, could not command every action. Kircheis was dependable, and his other half in many ways, strategic ability was one of them. The rest, he was unsure of. "Now gentlemen, I dismiss this meeting."
The Gang of Nine all stood in unison, saluted, did an about-face, and left the room to do, really, whatever. The only one who stayed was Kircheis. As expected, and never unwelcome. Reinhard turned towards his friend. He looked over the man's face, slightly older than his at twenty-one, and around a decade younger than every other officer under Reinhard's command. "Kircheis, what do you really think? Not about the invasion, about why they're holding us here."
Kircheis was taken aback some. He could have told from a thousand miles away that something was troubling his friend. Siegfried also had been looking into that at some varied points. The problem was not a practical one. Even if it required the commander of the Rebel Suppression War to report to Odin, alongside the Iserlohn Fleet, that did not require that half of the navy be stationed on the capital planet. "Well, Exc-"
"Please, I asked you to stop than." Reinhard sighed out, cracking a small smile, and shaking his head. His grey eyes glinted up towards Kircheis."
"Sorry Reinhard, old habit. And besides, it's good training for when you rule the universe. You may even like it." Siegfried retorted, noticing his friend's reaction, and fueling some extent of it further, causing Reinhard to sigh again.
"Please, Kircheis, I already have enough people calling me 'Your Excellency' whenever I enter a room. Can my closest friend not even call me by name anymore?"
"No, someone has to make you enjoy being called that. After all you'll have sixty years of it to look forwards to." Kircheis continued, no longer resisting his own goofy smirk. "Anyways, Reinhar-"
"Aha! You can use my name!" Reinhard exclaimed, both men barely holding in boyish laughter unbecoming of their positions. But roughly expected for young men in their early twenties. They took a few minutes to calm down, before Kircheis started again.
"As I was saying, Excellency," Kircheis took care to grind the title in, slightly mockingly, "There is at least some reason, beyond Odin wanting to update the computer specifications, and rangefinders across the fleet. The Kaiser is supposedly attending an event hosted by his granddaughter, and would like several of the Navy's accomplished admirals to attend."
Reinhard's fist met table with a thud. "All so he can parade around Annerose like some thing of honor or beauty. Damn that old bastard." Reinhard's voice spat, gaining an angry dog's bark. Kircheis stepped back a few steps, then breathed in and continued.
"Speaking of Lady Annerose, she has reached out to us. She wants us to visit her, preferably some time this week. From the handwritten letter she's under the impression we have more important navy business to attend to." Kircheis withdrew a slip of paper from his uniform's inner pocket. The black jumpsuits were shockingly good at hiding papers inside their pockets. Placed on the table, a flash went by where Reinhard recognized his sister's handwriting in a heartbeat.
"When could we schedule this?" He asked, looking, a smile back on his face, the bite of rage dissipated as soon as it came.
"I could excuse us tomorrow, and give the Admirals and yards more time to work on our plans and ships."
"Then do that. Maybe seeing her will take the weight off my mind." Reinhard's smile, faded to a grimace, and he stared at the small stack of personnel transfer orders and general annoyances of high-scale command waiting on his desk.
"Of course, now, I should leave you to your papers." Kircheis replied with characteristic brightness. He didn't mention the joke of 'But not leave for too long, you still have your sidearm after all.', as if Reinhard would shoot himself for the dishonor of doing paperwork. However, both saluted each other, then hugged, and Kircheis, standing tall and proud as ever, left the room. Reinhard wandered back to his desk, and put on the radio.
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Wednesday, 22 May, 796 UC
The Third Rail, City of Terneuzen, Heinessen
By all rights, the worst possible place to talk politics, was a bar. In fact, the worst time was a Sunday night in a bar, between complete and total strangers from across the Alliance, who'd went here mostly because of the reputation of the woman who'd shouted at Trünicht in his own territory. The political grandstand. And yet, here, she, Jessica Edwards, that same woman was, organizing the largest political movement aside from the Action Front Against Tyranny party.
A century and a half of war weighted hard on the population, it weighed harder on the mothers and factory workers, the fathers too old, and the medically unfit, stopped working in the basic guts of a functioning society. Even then, decay was everywhere. Self-directing traffic and trains didn't run on time, people drank themselves half to death when their son or daughter died fighting another pointless battle. At some point, the madness had to end, no? And that was what this newly-minted political activist was thinking about. Alongside nine others. They were all notable, sure, but they had nothing on the main leader here, of the largest anti-war party in the Free Planets Alliance, James Thorndike.
Thorndike was old, clearly in his earlier fifties, and apparently a veteran of the Star Fleet for around six years. Of course, that was water under the bridge to the tune for his actually important role. He was the leader of the Heinessen Peace Party. The others were leaders of party coalitions interested in generally the same idea of peace, or if not peace, at least de-escalating the military situation. Jessica, for her part, had one real goal. These were all disparate opposition parties, unified by nothing. They were by nature easy to defeat, and easier to split into pieces. That mostly had even kept them down beforehand.
They'd been there for thirty minutes, talks were happening, but she felt she needed to get to the point. It was mostly drinks and pleasantries.
"I think now I'd like to get to the point I had for bringing you all here." The roughly ten other people at the table looked towards her, faces ranged from content, to dismissive, to shocked that Jessica was speaking so quickly. "As it stands, we all agree that this war needs to end, and that we have some vague plan of action. None of us have won local National Assembly seats, none of us planetary seats, and there isn't even a dent in Heinessen. We can't just be left as the opposition party Trünicht can send his goons on."
One of the men, another young woman like her, spoke up. "And what exactly do you propose? Some coalition party? Who'd even lead it?" The less than spoken other part was that, of all of these smaller party coalitions, they also disliked each other. They did need somebody to rally them. And there were two obvious candidates. Thorndike was politically experienced. He served, and held office. There was also her. And she did not like the idea of being a party leader. The man was healthy white, his eyes a bright green, his hair faded blong.
"Yes, I would. I think some, citizen's anti-war union of sorts." Jessica said, breathing in. "As for who would lead it, I think James Thorndike would be our best option."
Thorndike was taken aback over the table, then sighed. Shocked flashed into the blonde man's eyes, registering the abruptness of those words. He looked at Jessica, up and down, waiting, thinking. "I'm honored, but, why me?" The question was pointed, more of a test to Jessica's thinking than of her choice. Thorndike's voice was a bass tone, one carrying power and sensation with his words.
She, in return nodded, then talked. "You've won and held office, and a servicemember with a prominent, spotless history. Being in charge may convince people on the more, pro-war side of things that the supposedly weak doves are able to convince public servants and the army members they so venerate." The memory of the military brought rushing back Jean-Robert. And she choked back the silent deluge of tears. That was in January. It was now May. The pain hadn't subsided at all.
Thorndike nodded, his eyes glancing at hers. He seemed to understand. He then turned and addressed the crowd. "Well? What do we think? Am I fit to lead your parties combined in some union?"
The table erupted in chatter, barely audible over the other patrons. Safe, secure. But a man in a black suit, from the outer Alliance was the one to bring order back. His hair, slicked back in a combover, a face strong with experience especially in the business sector, and deeper Korean ancestry spoke up. His voice had the crunch of old leather. "The rest of the table seems to agree, and I would under a condition. My apologies if it seems unreasonable, but the Olive Branch Party will only accept this, union party if our policies also focus on reducing Fezzanese economic aggression."
Eyes turned to Jessica, now the unofficial ringleader. She sighed, and waved a hand worriedly. Fezzan was so major, declaring a stance like that. Well it could be a disaster, or it could be extremely useful. Regardless, this union party couldn't work to mobilize the votes effectively without every one of them. So, she heaved a sigh, and nodded approval to the demand. Met with other talking, the question of a name came up, passing through her mind without much of a thought.
The hardest part wasn't the agreements. Those had been hashed out thirty minutes earlier by politicians, not a political agitator with a background in political sciences like Jessica. But what they had trouble with, and she had trouble was, was, ironically, how to even name this organization. At least a dozen names were thrown. The Progressive Peace Party, dismissed for being too idealist, the Alliance Forwards Party, which sounded too nationalist. The other standout was the Future Preservation Union. Only barely rejected by vote, until something slipped someone's mouth, seemingly Thorndike's, that all this was was a citizen's anti-war union. Ironically, that one stuck. And so, there, in a bar called the Third Rail, a new political force had just risen, with a starting goal locked, to win the Terneuzen-based elections for Heinessen's seat in the National Assembly. Before the overall administrative elections later that year in November.
With Iserlohn fallen, it was only a matter of time before the cards began to change, and the winds of fate blew their merry havoc. Between the spiral arms, and the fates of billions, a small drop in the bucket had changed its course, and caused a cascade. The Alliance had a new hero, the Empire needed someone to blame. But the victory couldn't have come at a worse time. The Alliance, ever the stalwart democracy, had elections, and mere months before voting later that year. With a new piece in play, they all went scrambling. The Empire? The golden brat who'd shown up five experienced commanders at Astarte, had become the youngest Fleet Admiral in Imperial history, vice-commander of the Reichsflotte, and the master of the Alliance war. A full half of the Galactic Empire's eighteen fleets and their skirmish groups had fallen into his sway. Like a house of cards being built, the galaxy teetered towards a cliff face.
Wednesday, 22 May, 796 UC
Admiral Greenhill's office, Heinessen
Dwight Greenhill's office was quaint, by the standards of military officials turned almost political figures. His personal oak desk, was more a conference table he hadn't bothered to change, specifically for around four, but if someone could bear to sit near the edge, it could uncomfortably seat eight, the window-side was a screen so he could cast displays of whatever he was needing. The back end was equally basic, though was his personal wall. Plaques of his graduation now nearly twenty-six years old, old rank insignia from his time in the fleet, pictures of his wife, and only daughter. Frederica. The fact she was alive was a miracle, one he could attribute to the exemplary competence of Rear Admiral Yang. The same man who was the exact reason for this, extremely delayed, meeting.
If looking from the door, then turning in, the right-hand wall was a screen, the left-hand was books, and easily the most boring. But it was perhaps the most important wall, because that wall had the secret reason any civil society functioned. Alcohol. Checking his watch the faded blonde man noted that he didn't have too long, and quickly checked the selection. The invitation, better said, request he'd delivered to the Star Fleet's director and chief of operations hadn't been exactly friendly, but Sidney would know between one of his few friends that it wasn't exactly a fully formal meeting anyways. Perusing the selection revealed a bottle of six-year-aged El Facil whiskey. Appropriate, and half-drained, the bottle was, among many things, the gift which kept on giving as far as Greenhill was concerned. Two glasses, some ice, and the bottle later, the door chimed.
Greenhill tapped a button on his personal tablet, then slid it onto the table. He didn't need to look. At one o'clock sharp, Sidney Sitolet, Director of the Star Fleet, marched, and nodded. Greenhill flashed towards the director, hand outstretched, and in a snatch of the hand, and the shudder of a secure door, the veneer of professionalism melted away.
Sitolet was a tall, imposing, powerful man despite having spent his recent four years commanding cadets and piloting desks. Stood a colossal six foot six inches, with dark, slightly darker than chestnut, complexion, and still with broad shoulders, complementing the short grey hair of age and cut to the official male hair regulations, Sidney Silolet, Alliance Marshal and Director of the Star Fleet had the busiest schedule of any man in the military. Through a feat about as herculean as his physique, he'd more or less manhandled the Star Fleet to bend to his needs, and what he needed was a discussion with a close friend.
In comparison, Dwight Greenhill, senior for an admiral and approaching fifty with no promotion in sight, was a comparatively miniscule five-foot-nine. His hair was kept in its dirty, faded blond (growing whiter by the day) still in regulation, but tempting fate with its length. Not that anyone would exactly question him due to rank, but it helped to set an example. His build was average, trending lankier, and his skin a healthier form of pale, developed from years spent either indoors or on a starship without sun exposure more than fleet week and PT. The two men were physically, nearly nothing alike, but mentally, and in experiences? Extremely close. Both men had fought at one of the battles of Iserlohn, both men had been frontline officers moved to advisory and back-line roles, both hated Job Trünicht.
"Sidney." The smaller man said first.
"Dwight." Sidney's voice boomed in response while their handshake evolved into a brotherly half-hug.
"It's been awhile."
Sidney scoffed in reply, shaking his head and letting a small laugh loose. "That, is true. Did you bring me here to chat or for an actual reason?"
Now it was Dwight's turn to snort out a laugh. "Don't tell me for a damned second you'd be mad if I did this to force you to take a break."
The Director's smile was, as much infectious, as it was fought down. "You wouldn't be wrong. I get the impression it might get worse after this meeting."
"Well, then I guess we should get right to making our lives both more miserable." Dwight led the way towards the table, with Sidney taking a seat next to, instead of across from his longtime friend. "Okay for a drink, sir?" Greenhill asked, expecting the answer, but adding rank as a formality. Longtime officer tradition was that the lowest-ranked poured the first round, unless someone else bought it, which, unluckily, Dwight was both.
"Oh, what the hell." Sitolet replied with a lower tone, fighting the urge to accept. It was a losing battle. At least it'd calm him down for a little bit. He shrugged, and sat in a seat next to Greenhill, who took his designated seat at the table's head. "What do you have today?"
"I picked it at random, but it's the El Facil Equatorial Classic. Oddly relevant." For his part, Greenhill nodded, and poured the whiskey in the two glasses, near to the brim on both, floating cubes of ice onto the top, with less than a quarter inch of give on the smaller glasses. The admiral held his glass up to give a basic toast. "To the Alliance."
"To the Alliance." Sidney replied, clinking the glasses, while both took a first sip. "Now, first order of business?"
"Luckily, this one's in my wheelhouse as Chief of Staff for Lobos, but Yang's still running on half a fleet plus Iserlohn." Greenhill casted a real time (as close to it as possible, the reality was that it ran on the slower comms circuits, so this force disposition was from two to four days ago. The date was, unhelpfully, not stamped in any of the four corners) map of the Alliance's fleets and corridor raiding groups. The Alliance had ten fleets "Closer to nine and a half." was Greenhill's thoughts, a corridor skirmishing force, and their rear-lines anti-piracy second-rank ships. Ideal to organization, the fleets were each twelve-thousand eight hundred strong. In practice, this varied, with some lower or higher depending on stationing, manpower, and current war status. Right now, it was more than likely every fleet would be getting upgraded in size, what with Astarte still having over twenty thousand surviving ships. "I'll pull up the map of our current forces," Greenhill remarked while it resolved further.
Thirteenth had cobbled what little remained totally combat-ready and wasn't in dock for repairs from Second, Fourth, and Sixth. Even then, a week after their mission, they still only had half a fleet. Assuming (and making a rookie mistake), the Alliance's numbered battle fleets comprised eight (slightly) over-strength fleets around a thousand too large, and two half-fleets. In those alone, the Alliance had just six hundred shy of a hundred-eleven thousand ships, and was still recovering from Astarte. Headquarters could form its own half-fleet of six thousand, and the skirmishing groups in the corridor counted to around five thousand in independent squadrons and commands.
Around forty thousand ships were stuck in the rear line, but they were outdated, and not listed for that reason. It wasn't like they had much use anyways. Both men studied the map intently, force deployments, what was needed. Sitolet took a sip from his glass, leaning back at studying the wall, specifically seeming to focus near the shipyards.
"What are we going to do with the Astarte survivors still under repair?" He asked, considering his options.
Greenhill responded with a verbal shrug. "I was thinking of splitting them off across the fleets, maybe twelve hundred each, then the rest to the skirmishing groups after bumping thirteenth to fifteen thousand."
"Giving Yang all that after his first big win? Walk me through it." Sitolet wasn't opposed. His vocal tone made it clear, but it didn't hurt to help the reasoning.
"Iserlohn can comfortably garrison fifteen thousand ships without support. Given that it's also our new frontline, and Yang has apparently some damn good formation controller, he'd probably appreciate the extra help." Greenhill noted. Then continued. "Splitting the wealth to the rest puts the technical average at fifteen-thousand strong fleets," Greenhill didn't need to note, at all, the fact the numbers were rather slanted and would remain that way based off who was playing Corridor Security in their assignments. He also didn't need to mention that it'd help Eleventh get back to fighting strength, hopefully by the end of the year. "Then the skirmishing force gets, around four thousand additional helpers."
"Why the skirmishing force?" Sitolet asked again, interrogating his subordinate, and interrupting Greenhill.
"It's more a reserve at this point that happens to be in the corridor where we'll need it. It's gonna do more good than staffing them to policing actions or the HQ reserve." When Greenhill finished, his older friend nodded in agreement.
"About my thoughts too. Other than boosting Yang, but, we can arrange that. I would have considered reviving Second Fleet, but Paetta will be in hospital for months anyways."
"And we don't exactly have a wealth of flag officers at commodore waiting for an instant jump to vice admiral." Greenhill finished the thought. "I would volunteer you, or myself, but, someone needs to staff the upper ranks." Sitolet only nodded at the words. Greenhill took another sip of the amber liquid in the cup and looked again at the force board.
"Yang will need a follow-on force. We could station a second fleet within striking range and to back him up while we get more of his ships together. Appleton's sitting on his laurels over Heinessen doing internal security. I can tell he hates it."
"You want to send Eighth Fleet?" Greenhill asking, somewhat surprised. The Free Planets Alliance's eight numbered fleet was a heavy formation, large, with more battleships than average, and headed by the single most well-armed warship the Alliance had built, Krishna. Its commander, Vice Admiral Zachary Appleton had a reputation as a level, cool, but traditional officer who favored grinding aggression and firepower over much else. He was younger than average, and hadn't often fought, his last major engagement being the disappointment over Van-Fleet, wherein a whole seven days of nothing happened.
"It wouldn't hurt. And as a show, the Empire would know we're serious about holding Iserlohn. Besides, Appleton has been chomping at the bit for a frontline posting for two years, and Corridor Command is asking for at least four fleets plus the raiding command." That was an expansion from three, then the most held in active, ready reserve in the heartland. Of course, the three set to 796's corridor deployment, Second, Fourth, and Sixth, were all wiped out. Which left a pressing need for three fleets to back up Thirteenth Fleet.
Greenhill nodded, understanding. "I didn't know Corridor's staff wanted that much more. I won't say it doesn't track with the current situation." Sidney was looking at the deputy to Lobos expectantly, given he did more know the actual fleets better than Sitolet. His eyes darkened to near-obsidian while Greenhill drained his glass, then looked to his laptop, pulling up a more in-dept fleet review. "But, given we should assign more to our immediate frontline, and we can just rebuild supply bases in Dagon, Van-Fleet, or maybe Tiamat, it wouldn't be hard to supply all those troops. Aside from Eighth, I think Seventh and Fifth are going to be out best fits. Seventh is longer-ranged, more modern ships, and any front with Old Man Bucock as its most senior officer is bound to be, at least a little more confident." Greenhill looked towards his tablet still resting, and Sitolet drained the whiskey glass, tapping it on the table.
Sitolet nodded after, then highlighted several starzones on the corridor. "Eighth will station out of Legnica, so in Iserlohn's limited starzone as a reserve, I would place Fifth at Tiamat, and Seventh as a mobile group. We can then have the skirmishing commands base further back as a rear guard in case," Sitolet scoffed. "Iserlohn is ever recaptured."
Greenhill nodded in reply. "I can arrange that. Though it will take some more time to mobilize the other two fleets."
"Appleton built his fleet like a battering ram anyways. Sending his fleet to link up with skirmishing groups to destroy the Empire's forces there is good practice for him." Sitolet said to calm the nerves of what could easily spiral into a disaster. He was checking his watch, mostly to see the date. "If we give him the orders today, and he leaves tomorrow, his fleet will be in position by June thirteenth, give a few days for combat. What is your assessment for Bucock and Hawood?"
"I'd give them both three days to complete preparations. Which should mean a stable front by later June, but until then we'll have the skirmishers bulk out his fleet if anything major happens." Greenhill's voice instantly rattled off as he continued to assess their situation. A lingering question burned, the second major topic. "Speaking, of major things. What do you think Trünicht will have us do now that his suicide mission went wrong?"
In a flash, the mind of strategist and commander Sitolet took over from officer teacher and director Sitolet. "If I had to be elected, and wanted something big, I'd launch an attack into the Empire directly. Mobilize all our useful battlefleets, the army, and wage enough war to keep the officers in my pocket, and population convinced a true democracy needs to be at war." Sitolet poured two more glasses, and he drained his in a massive gulp, putting his elbows on the table, then resting his face on his paired curled fists. "Even if it failed, you can easily blame the failure on not having enough military funding, and with Iserlohn, the Alliance is safe while it rots behind that eternal wall."
Greenhill could only nod in agreement. He only had one response, and he looked towards his friend with, a grimace. "So what are you planning to do about it?"
Sidney returned the grimace. "I," Dwight could count the second tick by, at least five had passed. "I don't know. The fact is that this could be him trying to force me into retirement. I don't know yet." Those words hung in the air. Sidney was always calculated, always, ready. To hear that he wasn't, was so alien, in fact, it was incomprehensible. They could leave the topic here.
Dwight coughed, and took a sip from the second glass. He had one suggestion. "You could try to sink the campaign, though I doubt Trünicht would even let that happen." He took a second sip. Sitolet nodded slowly, then took a breath in.
"I've also received a communication from the Heinessen Military Academy. They want Yang back at Heinessen for their anniversary. I could refuse, but, the Department of Defense also has been yelling in my ear about some brass they want to pin on Yang's chest for Iserlohn anyways." Sitolet mentioned, looking at his watch.
Greenhill's grimace didn't budge, and he looked to the ceiling. Then back down, and to the board, which still displayed the strategic map. "I don't want Yang back here. It's too dangerous for him. He has no interest in politics, and the Empire will be looking for what happens regarding their lost fortress. If they catch that Yang's gone, they might try something. I don't think any of Yang's subordinates are quite as good as he is."
"He has Murai as the fleet XO. The man's conservative, and cautious maybe to a fault, but he can hold down the fort. Literally, in this case. I will grant the leave, maybe it helps us if the new Bruce Ashbey has a public face." Siltolet said casually, his face relaxing, eyes brightening to their normal deep brown shade. He checked his watch, and then looked at his friend. "Besides. With our time scale as it is, when Yang gets home, Appleton will be in the region, and technically would be Yang's superior anyways. If we're reinforcing his fleet, he needs to become a vice admiral, not a rear admiral." Sitolet was serious about this. Importantly too, he seemed to have some alternate motive the deputy chief could not parse.
"We could send his promotion notice and rank pins over courier, along with his reinforcements." Greenhill chimed in, exasperated. There was so much danger from the PKC, from interceptions, and Imperial remnant skirmishers, and if Yang died now, there went up in flames their new officer to add to the cadre of competent men still left in the Star Fleet.
"Then consider that an order to get together." Sitolet checked his watch once more, and winced. "My apologies, Dwight, but I have an apparently unscheduled meeting with some defense department men very soon. I'll have to leave now."
Greenhill understood. Even on days when there was everything to do, someone would come out with even more to do. "Well then, don't let me keep you. Thanks for making time, sir." The rank address signaled a change back to professional atmosphere, and the end of these conversations. Greenhill assumed a salute in respect while Sithole emerged from the chair, unfolding to his massive natural height.
"Of course. Anything for one of the few men I can actually trust." Sidney returned the salute, and dropped it, leaving out of the compartment door, and Greenhill to sigh, and check his itinerary again. His next meeting was with Mashal Lasalle Lobos, the man who controlled all the deployments. "What a fun meeting that will be". The senior admiral told himself, the voice occupying his head dripping venom.
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Freitag, 24 Mai, 487 RC
Imperial Marshal von Lohengramm's office, Odin
Nine of the most powerful men in the Empire were gathered, wasting their time and energy on Odin, when they could instead be setting forth to retake the Iserlohn. Or, if not that otherwise barren system, maybe attempting a bypass to turn Legnica into a supply base. Reinhard scowled to himself as he looked at the paintings. Among him were seated at the long oak table were his hand-picked admirals. Some nobles, some commoners. All possessing a unique skillset, like a beautiful flower on a lake. Between them all, and at nominal strength of twenty thousand ships, his raiding force, and the now reduced Iserlohn Garrison, he should have commanded the largest fortress the Empire had, and two hundred thousand warships, an equal number of support assets, the Imperial Army's contingent. In the fleet alone, Reinhard deployed seventy and a half million men. Combined with the other half of the Navy, and the private fleets of the High Nobility? He commanded a sizeable portion of the Empires nearly five hundred thousand strong wall of battle.
Sure there would have been some deployments earlier, raiding operations, skirmishes, with the whole navy having been recalled to Odin for ceremony, and his half specifically for what was one of the most confusing and disastrous events of the year, now more than at its beginning. Lohengramm had met Seeckt and Stockhausen in person to notify them of the change in command. For a month, early May, they hadn't even had a fight. Which was impressive, especially as his forces were recalled for the yearly fleet review in later April. He'd only arrived four days ago, and then was given the news from a week ago. The Iserlohn had fallen, and he would be trapped here for some time yet.
However, when he set out, he would need a plan. And so, the "Gang of Nine" as the nobles of the court had labeled them, met in the vice-commander's office. Seated were himself, Imperial Marshal and Fleet Admiral, His Excellency Reinhard von Lohengramm at the head of the table, High Admiral Siegfried Kircheis to his right, High Admiral Wolfgang Mittermeyer across from Kircheis, High Admiral Oskar von Reunthal next to Mittermeyer. Across from Reunthal sat another High Admiral, Fritz Josef Bittenfeld, next to him, High Admiral Ernst Mecklinger, across, High Admiral Cornelius Lutz, next to Lutz, High Admiral Karl Gustav Kempff, across from him, and last, but certainly not the least, High Admiral August Samuel Wahlen.
Each man was chosen for three main reasons aside from birth. Talent, loyalty, and ambition. The three traits Reinhard liked the most in an officer. He intended to keep this meeting short. There were other, less public matters to discuss, and more time to enjoy with Annerose. The room sat in silence for a time as a central holographic projector showed off what was now understood to be the current situation, with Iserlohn fallen and under control of a half-fleet, the two Imperial forces in the region, Admiral Seeckt, now technically Rear Admiral von Spee's Iserlohn Fleet, and Vice Admiral Claasen's skirmishing force. The problem was thus, von Spee was leaving, Odin-bound to report to the Kaiser in person about his shameful defeat. He could be discounted, and it would also be Reinhard's problem. That fleet would arrive in twenty-three more days, which left one out of his nine fleets, his own, paralyzed. Claasen had, supposedly, marshalled all of his formations into Legnica, a starzone only slightly closer to the Alliance than Iserlohn, and still within the corridor, reportedly waiting until the Empire's reinforcements could arrive. Even worse, the Alliance's raiding groups had taken to scouring the Corridor for all of the Empire's listening posts, and hyper-fast comms arrays, pointing to some follow-on force being deployed by the Alliance, and making him blind.
All of these were relatively major problems. Problems Reinhard could not, did not, or was not wanting to solve on his own, and which the perspectives of his personal admiralty were required. The first to break the tense silence was the tall, six-foot clean-shaven redhead looked towards Reinhard, showing off strong, wide facial bones, and a well-kept body expected of a younger, nearly thirty years old, officer. Bittenfeld commanded the notorious Black Lancers. Ten million men and twenty thousand ships whose ferocity, speed, and aggression was unmatched. Their numbers had been expanded when Bittenfeld was appointed High Admiral, and earlier skirmishing in later February had only sharpened their knives. Bittenfeld himself was an excellent leader. His men loved him, and on the field, he only spoke in results and loyalty. If there was one criticism, Bittenfeld was a blunt instrument, and lacked the tactical ingenuity of his peers. "Excellency, why haven't we mobilized all of our fleet, and made a move on Iserlohn, ceremony be damned? Even if you, Kircheis and another must stay, between six of us, we can marshal a force of a hundred twenty thousand to retake the fortress, and then punish the Rebels for their arrogance."
Reinhard knew full well that Bittenfeld understood what made that corridor of warp-space so vital. It also revealed his bluntness, but, that was exactly like the readhead. Reinhard sighed, then thumbed a small console near his part of the table, turning the central holographic display into an overlay of warp routes, and time delays. He then overlayed his assumptions of the Alliance's movements. The chart itself assumed that the Alliance would dispatch fleets from Heinessen. Intelligence had indicated most of the Alliance's fleets were in Ba'alat, and if not that starzones, ones in the same rough distance to Iserlohn as Heinessen. A sane Alliance, and even one obsessed with war, like they were, was going to send a reinforcement force. His signals-men had said three fleets were on their way, and likely reinforcements for Yang.
"To be honest, Bittenfeld, I would like to redeploy to Iserlohn and make up for that embarrassment. If it was possible to take it back in time." Reinhard waved his hand, and it zoomed in. "However, we are on Odin. If we started travelling today, it would take us thirty-three days, and we would arrive by the twenty-sixth. Of June." Reinhard finished, emphasizing the second. He paused, waiting for Bittenfeld to understand. The redhead nodded, looking at the map, as did the rest. "The Alliance has only a twenty-one day trip to Iserlohn from their positions, and will have a head-start of more than ten days. Even if we were to mobilize the force you suggested, and assault Iserlohn, we would be facing at least half our number in Alliance warships, and would have to deal with the Corridor's geography." Reinhard played a zoomed order of battle for a basic simulation, proposing the Iserlohn assault from the corridor outside of the Starzone. Arranged were the fortress, and four Alliance fleets opposing six Imperial fleets. It played at extreme speed, and was notably primitive. It assumed equally competent (and dogmatic) commanders. "This battle is at least even, possibly against our favor if the Rebels have learned to use the fortress well, and if we win, we would not have enough left-over to deal with their counter-attack. Not only would you all die and be captured, but half the Imperial Navy would be lost, in a defeat even more shameful than Dagon." Reinhard finished. His other admirals studied the maps, and words.
Surprisingly, it was Kircheis who spoke against him. The tallest in the room, and a redhead in the literal sense, Kircheis was the closest thing Reinhard had to an anchor. The two had known each other for a decade, and done everything together. Reinhard was lucky that Kircheis, whose first name was the disappointing Siegfried, wasn't merely a yes man. "However, Excellency, Iserlohn still is a strategic objective, and, even if not its strategic value, the Goldenbaum courts will breathe down our necks until Iserlohn is ours again." The unspoken words in that sentence still came through, 'And we can't go to war with, or coup them just yet, now can we?'. Intermixed, of course, with Reinhard's continued annoyance that Kircheis insisted on referring to him as 'Excellency'. He'd told him to cut that out months ago, even. Reinhard pursed his lips, and thought some. He wasn't wrong. Of course the courts would be breathing down his neck every day the Iserlohn wasn't back in the Empire's hands. But it wasn't like he had much of a choice.
"Regrettably, Kircheis, we don't have much of a choice regarding that beyond letting the idiots ramble until they keel over." Reinhard responded, seeing the rest of the Gang of Nine largely nod in agreement. He didn't have much choice. The next to speak up was Mittermeyer.
"I think, Excellencies, we have a bit more pressing problem. It's the rebels I'm concerned about. They've taken a very large advantage, and now have to wonder, what will they do with it?" The second blonde at the table, Mittermeyer had served Reinhard as a Rear Admiral, and a commander as one of his many fleet groups. His mind was a sharpened weapon, and his grey eyes held an uncanny foresight in them. Reinhard liked Wolfgang Mittermeyer. He was skilled, younger, loyal, and extremely piercing in all those thoughts.
He'd also landed on the major reason Reinhard worried about. What was the Alliance going to do with their newfound strategic position? His question was answered by Mecklinger. Ernst Mecklinger, the shorter than the rest at five-ten, possibly a little stranger than the rest, and a man of the arts, was distinguished more by his brown-black hair, strange uniform-length cut at his lower jaw, and moustache. Like the rest he possessed a calculated intellect, but one of moderation. Nowhere near as aggressive as Bittenfeld, not emotionally intelligent as Kircheis, nor as far-thinking as Mittermeyer, but always a steady voice. He'd been Reinhard's Chief of Staff before now, and very much retained his luster and promise. "The obvious, and very much in-character thing for the rebels to do would be direct attacks on the Empire's worlds. If they can concentrate enough forces, and we have to anticipate they will, they might even make some headway."
"Which wouldn't exactly pose much of a threat" Bittenfeld rumbled in response, still seeing some degree of reason in the plan to directly assault Iserlohn. "It isn't like the Rebels have the manpower to actually defeat the whole Navy, or invade every world that mattered."
"But that isn't the point." Mecklinger shot back. "This war, to them, it's like an art piece, and one which ends in our death, or their eternal existence. There's no better way to make it than to be at the head of the first direct invasion into our space. If it fails, then who cares. It isn't like both of us haven't been slowly destroying our populations to win this war."
Reinhard considered the words, and then the threat. It made sense. It made a lot of sense, it was also the logic he wasn't expecting. For his part, any sane admiral, possibly Yang, that tricky bastard, would have probably just waited for the Empire to bleed itself doing Bittenfeld's tactics. The Alliance had been fighting defensively anyways for a hundred and fifty years, grand offensive theory like the Imperial Navy had centuries of experience in, wasn't anything they'd even had to consider. "Mecklinger, I would like to ask, then, when do you believe an invasion of our land would commence?"
"I would have to say some time around late July or August. With some variance maybe into earlier September. I doubt they would deploy any time later than September tenth or so, by then we would be more than in position. For when we would hear, June is likely when our intelligence agencies would get back to us on any plans."
"Excellent, Mecklinger, excellent. Now, with this being a possibility, and I agree it is a likely one, I would like you all to wargame out potential scenarios and our possible countermoves. The rebels are predictable, and usually staffed with incompetents. That does not means we should discount them." Reinhard responded. This was as much to test their thinking as it was his actual thoughts. His admirals should not just be good at tactical command, but also strategically. Reinhard, as skilled as he was, could not command every action. Kircheis was dependable, and his other half in many ways, strategic ability was one of them. The rest, he was unsure of. "Now gentlemen, I dismiss this meeting."
The Gang of Nine all stood in unison, saluted, did an about-face, and left the room to do, really, whatever. The only one who stayed was Kircheis. As expected, and never unwelcome. Reinhard turned towards his friend. He looked over the man's face, slightly older than his at twenty-one, and around a decade younger than every other officer under Reinhard's command. "Kircheis, what do you really think? Not about the invasion, about why they're holding us here."
Kircheis was taken aback some. He could have told from a thousand miles away that something was troubling his friend. Siegfried also had been looking into that at some varied points. The problem was not a practical one. Even if it required the commander of the Rebel Suppression War to report to Odin, alongside the Iserlohn Fleet, that did not require that half of the navy be stationed on the capital planet. "Well, Exc-"
"Please, I asked you to stop than." Reinhard sighed out, cracking a small smile, and shaking his head. His grey eyes glinted up towards Kircheis."
"Sorry Reinhard, old habit. And besides, it's good training for when you rule the universe. You may even like it." Siegfried retorted, noticing his friend's reaction, and fueling some extent of it further, causing Reinhard to sigh again.
"Please, Kircheis, I already have enough people calling me 'Your Excellency' whenever I enter a room. Can my closest friend not even call me by name anymore?"
"No, someone has to make you enjoy being called that. After all you'll have sixty years of it to look forwards to." Kircheis continued, no longer resisting his own goofy smirk. "Anyways, Reinhar-"
"Aha! You can use my name!" Reinhard exclaimed, both men barely holding in boyish laughter unbecoming of their positions. But roughly expected for young men in their early twenties. They took a few minutes to calm down, before Kircheis started again.
"As I was saying, Excellency," Kircheis took care to grind the title in, slightly mockingly, "There is at least some reason, beyond Odin wanting to update the computer specifications, and rangefinders across the fleet. The Kaiser is supposedly attending an event hosted by his granddaughter, and would like several of the Navy's accomplished admirals to attend."
Reinhard's fist met table with a thud. "All so he can parade around Annerose like some thing of honor or beauty. Damn that old bastard." Reinhard's voice spat, gaining an angry dog's bark. Kircheis stepped back a few steps, then breathed in and continued.
"Speaking of Lady Annerose, she has reached out to us. She wants us to visit her, preferably some time this week. From the handwritten letter she's under the impression we have more important navy business to attend to." Kircheis withdrew a slip of paper from his uniform's inner pocket. The black jumpsuits were shockingly good at hiding papers inside their pockets. Placed on the table, a flash went by where Reinhard recognized his sister's handwriting in a heartbeat.
"When could we schedule this?" He asked, looking, a smile back on his face, the bite of rage dissipated as soon as it came.
"I could excuse us tomorrow, and give the Admirals and yards more time to work on our plans and ships."
"Then do that. Maybe seeing her will take the weight off my mind." Reinhard's smile, faded to a grimace, and he stared at the small stack of personnel transfer orders and general annoyances of high-scale command waiting on his desk.
"Of course, now, I should leave you to your papers." Kircheis replied with characteristic brightness. He didn't mention the joke of 'But not leave for too long, you still have your sidearm after all.', as if Reinhard would shoot himself for the dishonor of doing paperwork. However, both saluted each other, then hugged, and Kircheis, standing tall and proud as ever, left the room. Reinhard wandered back to his desk, and put on the radio.
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Wednesday, 22 May, 796 UC
The Third Rail, City of Terneuzen, Heinessen
By all rights, the worst possible place to talk politics, was a bar. In fact, the worst time was a Sunday night in a bar, between complete and total strangers from across the Alliance, who'd went here mostly because of the reputation of the woman who'd shouted at Trünicht in his own territory. The political grandstand. And yet, here, she, Jessica Edwards, that same woman was, organizing the largest political movement aside from the Action Front Against Tyranny party.
A century and a half of war weighted hard on the population, it weighed harder on the mothers and factory workers, the fathers too old, and the medically unfit, stopped working in the basic guts of a functioning society. Even then, decay was everywhere. Self-directing traffic and trains didn't run on time, people drank themselves half to death when their son or daughter died fighting another pointless battle. At some point, the madness had to end, no? And that was what this newly-minted political activist was thinking about. Alongside nine others. They were all notable, sure, but they had nothing on the main leader here, of the largest anti-war party in the Free Planets Alliance, James Thorndike.
Thorndike was old, clearly in his earlier fifties, and apparently a veteran of the Star Fleet for around six years. Of course, that was water under the bridge to the tune for his actually important role. He was the leader of the Heinessen Peace Party. The others were leaders of party coalitions interested in generally the same idea of peace, or if not peace, at least de-escalating the military situation. Jessica, for her part, had one real goal. These were all disparate opposition parties, unified by nothing. They were by nature easy to defeat, and easier to split into pieces. That mostly had even kept them down beforehand.
They'd been there for thirty minutes, talks were happening, but she felt she needed to get to the point. It was mostly drinks and pleasantries.
"I think now I'd like to get to the point I had for bringing you all here." The roughly ten other people at the table looked towards her, faces ranged from content, to dismissive, to shocked that Jessica was speaking so quickly. "As it stands, we all agree that this war needs to end, and that we have some vague plan of action. None of us have won local National Assembly seats, none of us planetary seats, and there isn't even a dent in Heinessen. We can't just be left as the opposition party Trünicht can send his goons on."
One of the men, another young woman like her, spoke up. "And what exactly do you propose? Some coalition party? Who'd even lead it?" The less than spoken other part was that, of all of these smaller party coalitions, they also disliked each other. They did need somebody to rally them. And there were two obvious candidates. Thorndike was politically experienced. He served, and held office. There was also her. And she did not like the idea of being a party leader. The man was healthy white, his eyes a bright green, his hair faded blong.
"Yes, I would. I think some, citizen's anti-war union of sorts." Jessica said, breathing in. "As for who would lead it, I think James Thorndike would be our best option."
Thorndike was taken aback over the table, then sighed. Shocked flashed into the blonde man's eyes, registering the abruptness of those words. He looked at Jessica, up and down, waiting, thinking. "I'm honored, but, why me?" The question was pointed, more of a test to Jessica's thinking than of her choice. Thorndike's voice was a bass tone, one carrying power and sensation with his words.
She, in return nodded, then talked. "You've won and held office, and a servicemember with a prominent, spotless history. Being in charge may convince people on the more, pro-war side of things that the supposedly weak doves are able to convince public servants and the army members they so venerate." The memory of the military brought rushing back Jean-Robert. And she choked back the silent deluge of tears. That was in January. It was now May. The pain hadn't subsided at all.
Thorndike nodded, his eyes glancing at hers. He seemed to understand. He then turned and addressed the crowd. "Well? What do we think? Am I fit to lead your parties combined in some union?"
The table erupted in chatter, barely audible over the other patrons. Safe, secure. But a man in a black suit, from the outer Alliance was the one to bring order back. His hair, slicked back in a combover, a face strong with experience especially in the business sector, and deeper Korean ancestry spoke up. His voice had the crunch of old leather. "The rest of the table seems to agree, and I would under a condition. My apologies if it seems unreasonable, but the Olive Branch Party will only accept this, union party if our policies also focus on reducing Fezzanese economic aggression."
Eyes turned to Jessica, now the unofficial ringleader. She sighed, and waved a hand worriedly. Fezzan was so major, declaring a stance like that. Well it could be a disaster, or it could be extremely useful. Regardless, this union party couldn't work to mobilize the votes effectively without every one of them. So, she heaved a sigh, and nodded approval to the demand. Met with other talking, the question of a name came up, passing through her mind without much of a thought.
The hardest part wasn't the agreements. Those had been hashed out thirty minutes earlier by politicians, not a political agitator with a background in political sciences like Jessica. But what they had trouble with, and she had trouble was, was, ironically, how to even name this organization. At least a dozen names were thrown. The Progressive Peace Party, dismissed for being too idealist, the Alliance Forwards Party, which sounded too nationalist. The other standout was the Future Preservation Union. Only barely rejected by vote, until something slipped someone's mouth, seemingly Thorndike's, that all this was was a citizen's anti-war union. Ironically, that one stuck. And so, there, in a bar called the Third Rail, a new political force had just risen, with a starting goal locked, to win the Terneuzen-based elections for Heinessen's seat in the National Assembly. Before the overall administrative elections later that year in November.
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Very interesting and based. There should be more LOGH docs especially those that treat the FPA as actually somewhat competent.
Warmind_Of_Skies
What would you do if you suddenly exploded?
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Thank you! apologies for the long delay, life and ADHD are intervening, hopefully I'll have cheaper 3 out by the end of the month.
Take your time IRL health should come first.
Rest up and take care of yourself.
…
is it safe to say you're going to take a Mission of Honor: Retold manner to show a strong break of the status quo?
Warmind_Of_Skies
What would you do if you suddenly exploded?
- Pronouns
- He/Him
One, even trying to compare me to Mission of Honor: Retold is a high compliment, but, as for rocking the boat (enough that it sinks), absolutely that will be the case.
- Location
- Nice try
This fic reminds me a bit from "An Ideal to Fight For" another AU LOGH where the FPA is the protagonist and the author introduce changes things here and there slowly butterfly events away. You know For Want of a Nail trope.
While also expanding the little background of the FPA that was show in cannon.
While also expanding the little background of the FPA that was show in cannon.