Chapter Text
The Vice Admiral stared at her screen, scanning the live readout on the tablet in her hand. Status reports and graphics representing the various systems of each of the three-score ships under her command blinked and scrolled across the transparent screen like electronic gnats. After reading without internalizing the same comms system report from her ship, she screwed her eyes shut and rubbed her forehead. Perhaps it was time to admit that the twenty-six standard hours of sleeplessness were beginning to weigh on her despite the five cups of black coffee she had consumed and the adrenaline coursing through her.
From her operations center on the bridge of HMS Valkyrie III, Vice Admiral Fontes Da Silva was more attentive to the sensation of a bead of sweat condensing and then trickling down the side of her neck. Forty years of honorable service in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy had her nearly accustomed to the thrumming rhythm of her heart signaling an oncoming fight-or-flight response, and yet, she couldn’t help but feel as if she were perched on a tightrope over an impossible canyon. Did she feel anxiety? Certainly. But even more than that, she felt anticipation, or a sense of thrill, even.
Another status report raced by and she heard a static-laced voice, too faint underneath the ringing in her ears. After a moment, it grew louder.
“Vice Admiral? Ma’am, do you read me?”
Vice Admiral Fontes Da Silva blinked to force her attention on the matter at hand. “Confirmed, Captain Durant,” she barked. She didn’t hear his initial report, but she didn’t need to. “Proceed to the objective. Rain hell upon the insurgents. Leave no survivors. Godspeed.” A small part of her felt like a snake, a hypocrite, a traitor even uttering the order, but these intrusive thoughts she quickly suppressed.
“Aye, ma’am.” A confirmatory click, then silence on the aural communicator.
The readout in front of her continued to scroll, white glyphs on the turquoise screen: reports on fleet movements, personnel changes, supply levels, weather in different regions of space, and operation plans speeding by faster than any human could expect to glean an understanding from.
“Ma’am, the solar storm in the local system is expected to begin during the bombardment. The whole fleet will be in the area of highest solar storm severity.” Lieutenant Commander Ueda reported his update on the unfolding extraplanetary weather patterns with only the barest hint of trepidation in his voice. His subtle but grave concerns about Fontes Da Silva’s orders didn’t escape her notice, but she knew he would never dare say so to her face.
“Expected impact on the operation?”
“Severe to extreme casualties to the entire fleet, ma’am. I’m sure you know, but the Tempest- and Quadrireme-class vessels that supply much of the ordnance aren’t equipped to operate in such a disrupted EMF.”
In truth, the vice admiral had known of the forecast coronal mass ejection by 3 Dryopis well in advance. In fact, to simply say she had long been aware of the solar storm served to grossly understate the matter: her stratagem relied on the storm. She fiddled with the ceremonial dagger at her hip restlessly. “What’s the chance of the CME occurring during the offensive?”
“Eighty-five percent, ma’am.” Concern bowed the chief astrometeorologist’s tone, and for good reason: Fontes Da Silva had just sent one of the largest fleets in the Outer Arm on an apparent suicide mission, to glass a sparsely-populated failed colony that orbited a disappointingly mundane white dwarf star, which itself occurred in a backwoods neck of the galaxy that she wondered whether Empress Arsinoë IV even knew about. And for what? Because some upstart prisoners on Penelopeia had decided that they didn’t want to carry the yoke of the Terran Interstellar Empire any longer?
The operation Fontes Da Silva led seemed needlessly and ruthlessly cruel, both to the denizens of Penelopeia and to the captains of the ships she commanded in the assault. But she had been granted Special Unilateral Authority by the Empress’s 1st Terran Security Fleet through direct communique, a rare acknowledgment of Fontes Da Silva’s loyalty by Her Majesty Arsinoë IV herself. Fontes Da Silva couldn’t squander this chance—certainly not when the Empress, the closest thing she had to a commanding officer, was at the most vulnerable she had been in years. And so, despite the risk—or in her mind, because of the risk—
“The directive stands, Lieutenant Commander.”
So issued, the order could not be questioned. The officer returned to his station with only a sober “yes ma’am” as a parting response.
A quiet electronic click captured The Vice Admiral’s attention, and her eyes snapped to the tablet. On the status feed scrolled past a garbled text message from “Unknown Sender”. With all the other status reports competing for space on the tablet, a less discerning eye would likely have missed the cryptic string of nonsense characters. As if on cue, the automatic door behind her whirred open and a confident, charmingly accented voice sounded from behind her. “Captain Ayo, reporting to relieve you, ma’am.” Fontes Da Silva swiveled in her command chair and the officer saluted. Returning the salute, the vice admiral summarized the operation status, then excused herself to her cabin.
Despite her fatigue, Fontes Da Silva felt more wired than after her third cup of coffee as she navigated the narrow, featureless halls of the capital ship. No sooner had the door to her cabin closed behind her when, after a few clandestine swipes and taps, the vice admiral opened an encrypted channel on her portable data pad. A few more taps and the tablet automatically decoded the message:
> All vessels in place. The gap in her armor you left proved reliable for infiltration. Ready at your order to open assault on the flotilla.
The barest flicker of a smile crossed the vice admiral’s face. She typed her response:
> You have an estimated three hours to wreak havoc before the storm hits. While her loyal hounds are away being good jingoist boys and girls, make her regret the moment she decided privilege was more important than liberty. Open fire on the flotilla, but remember - capture her alive if you can.
As if sent automatically, she received a near-instant reply:
> All vessels opening fire. Will report in at 0030.
Satisfied, Vice Admiral Fontes Da Silva closed the encrypted channel and tossed the tablet unceremoniously on her bunk. Despite her coursing adrenaline, fatigue tugged ever more insistently at the corners of her mind. The officer unfastened her belt, removing her sheathed dagger in the process, and sat on her bed. Sighing, she held the scabbard under the stark ceiling light in the center of the room. The platinum-coated hilt, molded in the shape of a roaring lion, served as the last keepsake of her status as a ranking member of the now-defunct Leonine Legion. She slowly unsheathed the blade, her haggard reflection catching in its brilliant hoary-silver finish. The dagger signified a righteous vindication to upholding three tenets: loyalty to Her Majesty, the Empress of Humankind; the courage to carry out Her will, the will of humankind; and the strength to oppose all that would stand in the way of human sovereignty. She traced the mane of the lion sculpted into the hilt with her thumb. If only she had known how her loyalty, courage, and strength could have been so warped and perverted to empower the most unjust among humankind.
She sheathed the dagger and placed it on its stand. Lying back on the mattress, she closed her eyes. With a practiced eye toward ship-to-ship combat, she envisioned the damages the privateer fleet led by her undercover contact were currently inflicting on the Empress’s flotilla in the absence of the majority of Her defensive fleet. She then imagined the effect of the coronal mass ejection: an invisible wave ripping through this very defensive fleet, stationed dozens of light years away from the Empress’s flotilla, searing electronics and detonating nuclear weaponry before it had even been launched toward the planet. Fontes Da Silva knew that sealing the fate of a over five thousand Royal Navy servicemen and women in her brazen suicide mission, let alone those who would die in the insurgent onslaught on the rest of the Royal Armada, would not leave a favorable legacy for the Fontes Da Silva lineage. As she returned the dagger to its metal stand, she idly chewed on her cheek. Legacy was the care of a younger Fontes Da Silva, the one who naïvely believed that blind loyalty held greater worth than principled loyalty.
Where once the Vice Admiral’s righteous vindication to uphold the justice of humankind once smoldered, now it raged. Imminently, this righteous vindication would be brought to bear on the assaulting fleet that meted out the destruction of her home, as well as the autocratic authority behind it.