“With the Empire?”
“No, with the Bird Lovers’ Association. Yes, with the Empire.”
“And you know we’re with the Empire, right?”
“She’s an Abh. Of course we know.”
“But you said we’re allies.”
“And we are.”
“Uh-huh.” Jinto gave a big nod.
It was then he grasped the unfathomability of the gap between them and the five hapless Clasbulians, and he turned around to face Lafier. “Well, we heard them out. What say we hit the road?”
“Hold your horses. We’re not done talking.”
“It’s all over my head, okay!?”
“We’re not TALKING to you, the imperial citizen. Marca’s talking to the little Abh lady. As her attendant, you oughta just shut up and listen,” said Bill.
Offended though he was, he decided to own up to his misunderstanding and zip his lips. Even if he told them he was in fact a noble, it wouldn’t be easy to convince them of that, and nothing good would have come of it anyway.
Lafier, on the other hand, spoke up: “His words are my words. Do not belittle him.”
Jinto saw the jealousy flash across Bill’s eyes.
“So, what is your objective?” asked Lafier.
Undertaker’s lips curled in a smile. “We want you to be our hostages.”
“Jinto, it would seem we really had better leave this place.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” said Jinto, his gun remaining at the ready as he made for the door with the irritated impatience of a cat forced to wear a hat.
“Bye bye. It was a ton of fun meeting you. You were a great boredom-killer.”
“Of course they’d misunderstand if you put it that way!” Marca nudged Undertaker on the noggin. “I told you, hold your horses!”
“If you have anything else to say, best out with it quickly. My arm’s growing tired,” said Lafier, giving them one last chance.
“Please listen! At this rate, you’ll be taken into custody for sure!” she started, rattling on without pause. “You two don’t know how this planet works! You’re as out of place as a camel at a swim meet. But if we join forces, we can keep you hidden until the Abh make their return.”
“That would be nice,” said Jinto. He’d had his survival doubts, so if they could gain the help of some locals, they’d be in the best possible position. “But why would anti-imperials like you do that for us?”
“Isn’t it obvious? So we can use you as bargaining chips!” said Undertaker.
“For heaven’s sake, shut up. Must you be renowned the world over for making things more stressful than they need to be?” said Marca. “But what Undertaker said is true. We want to negotiate with the Empire using you two, or rather, just the little lady. Now that we finally have an Abh in reach, we can’t let her get swiped from us by some foreign occupation.”
“What you seek is impossible; Even if I were Her Majesty the Empress herself, the Empire would never...”
Jinto understood what she was driving at. Hostage-taking would never get an Abh to acquiesce. No matter whether the hypothetical hostage were the Empress herself, and the demand a trifling one, it was simply not in the character of the Empire to give in. They would instead plot a suitable revenge against such foul play.
Yet Jinto poked Lafier’s side with an elbow and whispered: “Let’s not deflate their ambitions, actually. If they think negotiation is in the cards, that’s better for us.”
“So we fool them?” Lafier didn’t bother hiding her disgust at the notion.
“We don’t fool them. It’s not like we fed them that ridiculous idea ourselves.”
“That is true, but...”
“Look, ill-conceived motives aren’t exactly rare. We’d just be politely respecting their dreams.”
“But they would learn that I won’t work as a hostage eventually. Then, at that point, they would turn angry, would they not? Enough to want to kill us, surely. That’s what hostage-taking typically entails.”
“That’s the thing, we won’t really be their hostages. Just leave this to me.”
Once Marca saw she had their attention, she pelted them with words like a rapid-fire needlegun. “How do you think we noticed you? You two are already the stuff of rumors. The man at the desk got a clear look at your face. You had your hair dyed black, but there’s no mistaking an Abh face; you’re too perfect-looking to be a Lander, and you were acting strangely to boot. The only conclusion to draw is that you’re an Abh who’s running from trouble. He also happens to be a supporter of ours, so news reached us first, but what would you have done if somebody leaked it to an enemy soldier!? Do you honestly think you were hiding? More like you were ringing a bell advertising ‘there’s an Abh here!’”
“Fine, we get it,” he raised a hand to stop her. “We’ll give ourselves over. That is, if you follow our conditions.”
“Hostages with conditions?” said Undertaker, eyes open wide.
“You do know what a hostage is, don’t you?”
“Shut it, Undertaker. If you lot had done your jobs properly, we wouldn’t be in such a bind. We would’ve had the advantage. We could’ve strongly urged them to be our hostages with the guns in OUR hands!”
“Then why didn’t you just do it yourself, Marca?”
“You want a frail maiden like me to do the fighting? Talk about inconsiderate!”
“Might you let me lay out our conditions sometime soon,” said Jinto timidly.
“Go ahead,” said Marca.
“One, we’re not handing you our weapons.”
“Armed hostages!? Now you’re just desecrating the CONCEPT of a hostage!”
“How many times do I need to tell you to shut it, Undertaker!? Yes, what else?”
“We do everything together. You can’t leave our side unless we say so.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“One last one. We want you to explain everything you do before you do it. Where you’re going, what you’re doing, et cetera.”
“That’s fine. And now that we’ve cleared the air, let’s vacate the premises, quickly.”
Marca had accepted their terms so readily that Jinto felt almost disappointed.
“Wait, she needs to change.” He pointed at Lafier, who was still in her sleepwear.
“I prefer this attire,” said Lafier. “It’s better than that atrocious garb you bought me.”
“What do you think?” he asked Marca.
“It doesn’t look like it could be anything other than nightwear. And it’s very strange to go out wearing nightwear here.”
“See?” He pulled clothes from out of the duffel bag and handed them to Lafier. “Change into these and come back.”
“Do not treat me like a child!” she said indignantly, but she did as she was told and disappeared into the bedroom.
“You really an imperial citizen attendant of a noble girl?” asked Bill, clearly suspicious. “Aren’t you being a bit impolite?”
“That’s just an act. And what an act it is,” said Marca.
“Uhh, I’ve got a question of my own,” said Jinto.
“What?”
“You’re all assuming the Empire retakes this planet. But what if they never come? What’ll become of us then?”
“You think they’d leave the planet to its own devices after they lost a battle!?” said Undertaker, staring at him unblinkingly. “That’s the craziest hot take I’ve heard all year.”
About 6,000 flat space cédlairh away from the Sfagnoff Marquessate, there was the Ciïoth Biborbina Yunr (Yunh 303 Star-system). 6,000 cédlairh only took five hours or so using a high-speed connecting vessel, and even a slower-speed transport freighter would take seven. For the Monarchy of Ilich, where the gates were so far apart, it was practically a hop and a skip away.
That was where the Abh fleet was positioned.
The fleet’s glagac (flagship) was the patrol ship Cairhdigh. As it was designed with its potential use as a flagship in
mind, its bridge was constructed with a two-tier structure. In the higher tier of the bridge where command of the ship was conducted, the Gahorh Glar (Commander’s Bridge) was situated.
That was where Tlaïmh Borgh Ybdér Laimsairh (“TLIFE”) was pacing hurriedly.
Looks like we’ve gotten to the good part.
He was stocky for an Abh, his hair dark green, and his swarthy, convex face almost aquiline in its features, like some bird of prey. However, whenever a member of the Tlife family spoke, they laid bare the pointed fangs that were their unique family feature, thereby evoking not a falcon or hawk, but a savage beast. In either case, he exuded such a fierce aura, that one would swear he was born to be a soldier. Though he was no different from other Abhs in his handsomeness, it was his countenance’s ferocious intensity that left the bigger impression.
The Command Bridge’s spénuch (military staff) comprised two casariac (staff officers) and one luciac (adjutant), as well as a handful of catboth (KAHBOHTH, HQ personnel), all of whom were watching their restive Commander-in-Chief.
On the wall behind the Glaharéribach (Commander’s Seat) at which Tlife was supposed to be calmly seated, three coat-of-arms banners hung in a triangle. At the top of that triangle lay the rüé-niglac (imperial flag), the eight-headed Gaftnochec. At the base-left lay the flag of the Chtymec Ralbrybr (Ralbrybh Naval Station). It too bore the dragon, but its base was red, and it was adorned with bolts of lightning.
The flag at the right was the Tlife family’s coat of arms, the Ctaich (Lamenting Pheasant). Officers of Raichaicec Ïadbyrer (Half-fleet Commander) rank or higher enjoyed the right to hang that particular banner.
“Lonh (Honorable), the patrol ship Adlas has brought back an up-to-date map of the situation,” reported the Üass Casarér (Chief of Staff).
His name was Cahyurec (CAH’HYOOR), Ïarlucec Bot-Satécr (Noble-Prince of Bot-Satéc), Lemaich Cheüass (Kilo-commander LEMESH). Unlike his commander, he had the typical slender Abh frame. His hair was the typical dark blue, and his features were average for an Abh (which was to say that maybe one in one thousand Landers could hope to compare to their perfection). His eyes always looked sleepy, giving the impression that he was only dimly aware of goings-on.
“They have, have they? Bring it here.” Tlife nodded, expected good news.
“Yes, sir.” Cahyoor gave one of his subordinates the sign.
A stereoscopic video of flat space emerged.
The currents of space-time particles from the densely crowded central band of the Milky Way Gate-belts and the space-time particles from the “volcanoes” of the outer brink of the Twelfth Ring collided near the Sfagnoff Gate, making for a relatively high-concentration area in the vicinity.
Space-time bubbles had a hard time penetrating high-density areas, but they did make for easy escapes from flat space. For battles that involved mutual mine flinging, whichever side lined up in formation in a high-concentration area had the advantage. It was akin to securing the high ground in a land war, and the map of flat space similarly displayed such areas as “tall.”
Within that high-concentration area, a flock of space-time bubbles was assembling. That was the ideal spot to fend off any invasion of the Sfagnoff Gate.
“The enemy has made contact with our ship, and so they’ve become aware of our approach,” Cahyoor explained. “Going by the mass, it is equivalent to three half-fleets. It’s clearly an interception formation. As such, we believe that the enemy has no current plans to launch a preemptive strike from their base in Sfagnoff.”
“Three half-fleets. I see. There really aren’t that many of them after all.” This was the good news he was awaiting, so Tlife beamed bright. “That must be all of their forces, too.”
“Probably, yes. I know that if I were a strategist on their side, I’d have them intercept using all of their forces.”
“Enough speculation; do you have any concrete information for me?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Cahyoor, shaking his head. “In order to confirm anything, we need intelligence from Central, but we’re currently lacking in that regard. The Information Department hadn’t even caught wind of this invasion beforehand, so it’s likely well beyond their means to grasp their total military strength.”
“Ugh. The Information Department,” said Tlife, making sure they heard the annoyance in his voice. “A bunch of incompetent hacks unfit even to feed the cat.”
“I feel you may be exaggerating slightly, Lonh,” said the casariac drochotr (communications staff officer), Roïbomüass (Vice Hecto-commander) Nasotryac (NAHSOHTRYOOA), pointedly. It hadn’t been long since she’d transferred over from the Rÿazonh Spodér Rirragr (Military Command HQ Information Department). When he’d badmouthed her old haunt, the sour look on her face said it all.
“I see...” Tlife placed his chin against his fist and paced aimlessly around the room.
The Saimh Spodér Rirragr (Director-General of the Information Department) Cachmanch (CAHSHMAHNSH) Fraudéc (Commodore) was a man against whom he bore a personal grudge — a grudge that traced its beginnings to a certain episode revolving around a sky-blue-haired girl and a room at their flight academy. Ever since then, they bickered every time they crossed paths.
There’s no doubt Cashmansh is a trash human, or that he’s as inept as it gets. The fact that a “winner” like him made such an important position can only be some nasty prank on the part of Rÿazonh (HQ). That said, it’s hardly fair of me to paint all of his subordinates with the same brush. They slipped up this one time, but they’ve more or less done their jobs over the years. A man’s man always takes back his words when he’s wrong. Yes, I should take back what I said.
“I was wrong,” said the Commander-in-Chief. “Feeding the cat would be the perfect position for the crew over at the Information Department!”
“I’m certain the members of the Information Department will feel honored by your words of praise, sir,” said the Chief of Staff impassively.
“Good, I’m glad,” said Tlife, pleased as punch.
Nasotryac kept mum, her face a war ground of dueling emotions.
Tlife proceeded to forget about the matter of the Information Department entirely, as he turned his thoughts to more serious concerns. Now then, how do we go about this?
At the moment, he had seven half-fleets under his command:
The ïadbyrec acharr (offensive half-fleet) Byrdaimh.
The offensive half-fleet Rocérh.
The offensive half-fleet Üacapérh.
The offensive half-fleet Citirec.
The ïadbyrec bhotutr (strike half-fleet) Basc-Gamlymh.
The ïadbyrec usaimr (reconnaissance half-fleet) Ftuné.
The ïadbyrec dicpaurér (supply half-fleet) Achmatuch.
In addition, a handful more saubh lagoradha (independent squadrons) and a provisional fleet including HQ’s glabaüriac (directly controlled warship) formed another unit adorned with the name of the Commander-in-Chief — the Byr Tlaimr (Tlife Fleet), totaling around 2,100 warships strong.
Pitiful numbers, thought Tlife discontentedly.
The fleet didn’t even have a clear objective to begin with.
When the Ralbrybh Naval Station learned of the attack on the Sfagnoff Marquessate, they sent seven half-fleets to Roïglaharérh Chtymér (Naval Station Vice Commander-in-Chief) Commodore Tlife as a temporary stopgap measure.
Their foremost objective was reconnaissance: that is to say, determining the scope of the enemy’s forces, and snooping around for their plans. However, he had too many ships for just reconnaissance. Reconnaissance didn’t even necessarily call for the formation of a fleet at all. He ought to leave it to the reconnaissance half-fleet under his command, the Ftuné.
On the other hand, he had too few ships for the retaking and anti-invasion defense of the Sfagnoff Marquessate.
I must have pulled the short end of the stick. As they sailed along, Tlife recalled the faces of his colleagues.
The Ralbrybh Naval Station
had four vice commanders-in-chief, Tlife included. A Naval Station Vice Commander-in-Chief‘s position was assigned by the Commander-in-Chief when it came time for strategizing and drills. In peacetime, one possessed no fleet to command, but during times of crisis, they were always attended by staff officers. A patchwork fleet could operate, but not so for Glagamh (Headquarters).
The other three were fine candidates for the job, so why him? Frankly put, Tlife had been nursing the feeling that he’d been treated unfairly the entire time he navigated to this place. He didn’t even encounter the enemy invasion fleet he’d expected he would on the way over. It had been a perfectly smooth journey. Even drills had more nervous tension than this, if only slightly.
Little wonder, when the enemy that lurked in the Sfagnoff Marquessate had penetrated deep into Empire territory with such vastly insufficient forces.
“We can win this,” he said, running the sentiment by the Chief of Staff.
“Yes. That is, however, assuming that the whole of the enemy’s forces is what has already appeared.”
“Can’t say I like fighting based on assumptions.”
“Then shall we retreat? Shall we ask for reinforcements?”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” declared Tlife, raising an arm overhead. “We’re retaking the Sfagnoff Marquessate.”
“Yes, sir.” The Chief of Staff clicked his heels and bowed.
“Cahyoor, how long will you take to draw up a plan?”
“There are some matters that I must confirm first,” he said quietly.
“What matters?”
“Do we include the annihilation of the enemy as one of our strategic goals?”
Casariac ïocsscurhotr (strategy staff officer) Hecto-commander Chrir motioned: “I think we should use a pincer attack.”
“Hmm...” It was an intriguing proposal. Pincer attacks were flashy as far as war tactics went. It involved splitting one’s ships and having them advance to their rear, cutting off escape. Then they’d attack from the flanks along with the main force. If it succeeded, they could obliterate the enemy without a trace. Plus, it was difficult to see how they could possibly lose in this situation. They had more than twice the total power of the opposing side. Even if each enemy ship destroyed one of theirs, it would still be possible for them to progress the battle toward a favorable position.
A War Most Modest (JNC Edition) Page 21
