This is what I worried about. Anomalies exactly like this. Plans falling apart due to a lack of intelligence, and a lack of intelligence due to plans being flawed from the start. I believe somewhere in my head, despite my best efforts, I had underestimated our opponent here. I saw a medieval society, patched together with strange abilities to make them seem like a peer opponent, and nothing more. I saw them as backwards, and possibly I even looked upon them in a similar way to Cortez with the Aztecs, or to any pioneer on the Great Plains. I miscalculated, I must have, regardless of my plans, my flawed plans resulted in the death of a person. The blood of this marine is not on the hands of the woman who stabbed through his sealed suit; it is on me for not further predicting any unexpected... elite enemy elements. I got cocky since our tech and stealth advantage have been utilized to the maximum. Our enemy is backwards in some aspect, but they aren't stupid.

  I knew it was only a matter of time before our foe developed countermeasures, and then all it takes is one single slip, one minor mistake, or a wrench in the plan, and then people die. This is how it works, and I know this well. I have multiple decades of experience in warfare, and I've lost people, entire ships of them at times. I've sent the bravest sailors to their demise, either knowingly or because of something I overlooked. They all knew there was a chance, no matter how perfectly planned, there is always a chance for losses, and here it happened. This isn't like the curse, this isn't something that I cannot control, even if I am the one who is tasked with that terrible burden I do not feel as terrible afterwards as my actions are out of mercy, but this, a loss like this in a mission that should've gone without a hitch, that's on me, entirely.

  I've gone through the footage, every angle from every camera. I've even reviewed the orbital sensor reports. With this information, I ran wargames with the various tactical AI to figure out what went wrong. To figure out what I did wrong, and every time one Marine dies, with all the information we have now. All by the hand of that single woman. Sometimes she gets to the fight early and gets a lucky strike. Sometimes she's already in the room, and when the marines breach, she gets the point man. Every possible angle of attack I can think of, she is there. The only simulations where she doesn't get one of the marines are if I had allowed for the operation to be hotter, proper firepower, and proper naval and aerial support, but in those simulations, multiple nearby buildings and rooms are destroyed, and it is assumed that, due to the density of the city and the palace, civilians would be lost. While I am sure some did die during the wild weasel, that is minimal collateral; a proper operation with proper weapons and support would've most likely resulted in dozens to hundreds more dead.

  Then there was the problem of my wanting all casualties to be minimal, including enemy soldiers; everything was too surgical and too thin on the margin of error. There was no room for deviancy, and that was my fault. Yet, nothing more can be done now. I can only improve and make sure I take the extra steps in the next engagement.

  I unplug myself from the USS Catfish, my vision returning to my biological eyes. I check the time in the corner of my vision and find I just spent over eight hours simulating the operation. My head is killing me from the strain I put on my mind from all of the simultaneous simulations. The human brain is not designed to take in all the information from multiple simulations like that at once, but all Naval Captains or higher ranks are expected to be able to handle the strain, and then some, for dozens of continuous hours. I think back to the old models that had physical attachment points that hooked up to one's spine... man, those things sucked. Both hooking up and unhooking were painful, and for some reason, there was an awful buzzing in your head for the entire time you and the ship were one. I smile to myself solemnly as I remember the old days, all those decades ago... how things have changed...

  I walk through the ship's halls back to my room. I am not tired, but I do have a nice treat in my room. I walk fantasising about what's awaiting me in my room, a treat that any man would kill for after sailing the stars for so long, a prize that old men like myself fantasize about when no one is looking...

  The door opens, and sitting in my room is Diplo-Colonel Shariah Jamestown, out of normal uniform...

  I freeze, this was not the prize I was hoping for... not one bit, I am also concerned about how she got into my room, they automatically lock and are only accessible by the room's occupants... I step into the room and approach the woman who greets me with a subdued smile. I grab her by the shoulders and look her in the eyes, her usually rosy cheeks turning redder as she asks what I'm doing... I then yank her off my bed and lift the mattress, revealing the actual prize. A clear plastic container of an opaque brown fluid. I quickly unscrew the cap, and a smell comparable to floor cleaner fills the room. I take a long swig of the slightly warm concoction, and my mouth is filled with a sickly sweet and somehow oppressively sour drink, followed by the familiar burning of high proof liquor as it goes down my throat.

  A tradition going back in time to antiquity, ship hooch... or as it's modernly called, Ships Swish. The tradition of modern sailors and marines is to start a batch when the ship leaves port on its mission, and during the months or weeks of the voyage, the booze is continually added to, creating a very unique batch per voyage. This one is composed largely of orange peels, grapes, honey, and lemon juice. I had been there on the ship when the sailors and marines all gathered to start the batch, hidden from those who are too much of a stickler to military discipline. Shariah is one of these.

  While yes, as an officer, I am supposed to be against this blatant infraction on Navy code, in fact, this is such a rampant problem that it was legitimately proposed to bring back lashes for those caught making homemade brew, especially after an event where somehow methanol was created instead of tasty ethanol and everyone who drank of it other than the marines received a rather nasty case of methanol poisoning requiring the ship to return home. I, on the other hand, believe that this type of activity will continue regardless of punishment or how strict I am. I decided to oversee the brew, alongside some friendly medical staffers, to make sure no one gets hurt, and as a reward, I get a personal reserve of the stuff. I hadn't wanted to break into my stash, but this situation has driven me to the jug.

  After enjoying my long swig, I turn towards Shariah, who just finished picking herself up off the floor, grumbling the whole way. I ask her casually,

  "How the hell did you get into my room?"

  She shrugs and fires back pointedly,

  "The door just opened when I came here, literally three hours ago."

  I glare at the ceiling. Once again, the ship's AI allowed my door to be opened without permission. I turn back to her and lock eyes. I was too focused on my drink, daddy needed his swish, to notice, but I can see a look of pleading in her eyes. The kind of look rookie officers give after a bad situation has happened. While not a rookie, Shariah is not a combat officer. I look through the reports again from when I was gone and then ask her,

  "Are you bothered by the ship you had ordered destroyed?"

  She shrugs and responds,

  "Yes and no. While I understand the importance of choosing our people over theirs when it comes to a situation, and as I had been told, space combat is measured in fractions of seconds, so I had to make a choice. I'm just having trouble with this whole situation and I guess I haven't had the time to just sit and think about all of it. It is my duty as the Diplomatic leader of the mission to try and find peace, but every time we take one step, something causes all of our progress to slip back.

  Sometimes it's our fault, like with the CIA goons, and others it's their backwards way of thinking. I feel as if I am failing my duties when I am unable to guarantee a peaceful resolution... and then I feel as if I may come up short doing military actions when push comes to shove. I got lucky; the vessel that I had destroyed seemed to be confused or was lining up a specific shot. If they had come to do nothing but destroy, they would've been able to cause massive destruction to the planet below.

  Then there is the capture of the Inquisitor, and don't get me wrong, we made the right choice. While it is a potential political nightmare, it also shows our hard line in the sand, what we won't tolerate, and it shows that not even their high society is safe from us... I haven't yet begun my interrogations to get a confession for the trial being prepared back home... so there is a failure on my part once more...

  I guess what I'm complaining about is how I am utterly unprepared for a mission like this."

  I respond,

  "Who was?"

  She looks at me as I pass over the jug as she sits on the bed next to me. She takes a minor sip of the horrid concoction before coughing her lungs out. She states,

  "How the hell can you guys drink that stuff?"

  I laugh, responding,

  "Acquired taste... don't acquire the taste... It's not good for you."

  She laughs, and I take my swig and hand it back to her. Her second drink much easier. I then continue my point,

  "Shariah, I may not be in the same exact situation as you, and my life has been very... marital to say the least. I've killed, nearly been killed, and have learned a thing or two. I can say without a doubt I was entirely unprepared for this entire mission to make contact with an alien species... or multiple alien species... and you've seen it. Every damn week for a while, it felt as if a whole new crisis had arisen or some new situation that no one had ever seen in the history of humanity. Could we do better? Yeah, of course, that's what living's about. Messing up and doing better.

  I got cocky, I'm sure you heard, we lost a marine. It was my fault, entirely. I made a mission too rigid, and when a wrench was thrown into the works, we lost a life. I dwell on my failures and my mistakes..."

  I take the jug back and take a very long pull from the vile drink before handing it back and continuing,

  "... but I don't let them rule me. Never forget your mistakes; that's important because you don't want to repeat them. You're falling into a common trap most combat officers... or really anyone in a leadership role who regularly sees combat, get into. I went through this before as well. When the bullets fly and people die, in your case, it was mostly diplomatic failure, but I'm trying to connect our situations.

  The trap is one you create for yourself, the guilt and the tragedy of a bad situation taking over your mind. Too many should I's or could I's to count, and your mind becomes trapped in this sort of vortex, spinning down and down and down. The problem is you still have a job to do, a responsibility. Yeah, I spent 8 hours going over every conceivable possibility with the information known before the mission, that's not good. Luckily, we are in a situation where I have the luxury of that time. If we were in a full-scale hot war I would maybe have 30 minutes or however long it takes for us to reach the next destination in FTL. Sometimes we don't have time for closure, so that vortex keeps spinning, but that responsibility, the job you are tasked with doing, that no one else has the credentials to do, that is your rope.

  In first contact with the enemy, there are two types of new officers. The first ones freeze; these are the ones who let that vortex pull them under, and as they freeze, more men die and make that spinning even faster. The second type fights, maybe not a valiant charge or rising to face any foe, no, the most common and the best are the ones who find that rope, the rope of responsibility to hold onto and to pull themselves out of that vortex. They don't take unnecessary risks, and they don't let people die easily. They do their job, figure out the situation, and move forward. Sometimes without a single second to ponder.

  Sometimes they get weeks or months... just like the kind who freeze, if you don't pull yourself out, that vortex keeps spinning, and when the time comes again you will freeze just like before, made worse by the failures caused by the initial freeze.

  I had to figure this out. I had all of eight seconds to pull myself out of that vortex during my first taste of combat against the UNCA remnants. I can still hear the sound of realtavistic shells ripping turrets from my vessel. I can still feel the panic deep inside of me, and I still remember when I froze."

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Shariah looks at me as I take the drink back for another pull. Her eyes were wide with worry, and some understanding, so I keep going,

  "It's normal to freeze; that kind of stuff is terrifying, being put on the spot when you are responsible for the potential deaths of those under your command and probably more. I managed to pull myself from that vortex before it was too late. I got my men out, and I did what was needed.

  I consider what I did earlier today, going through all those simulations and reviewing footage over and over, I consider that freezing. Falling into that vortex. I reran simulations with the same criteria, the same movements, the same everything over and over out of guilt, expecting a different outcome. It was insanity, but I found my rope. This time it was the victory we achieved. At the terrible cost of a good marine, but we won. I've celebrated hard for victories after magnitude higher losses back in the day... I guess I've become a sentimental old man.....

  Regardless... I don't know what to say to help you. I just explained how I see things. You gotta pull yourself out of this whiny self-loathing stuff. You're a Colonel, you got to that rank for a reason. There were people with stars on their shoulders who trusted you enough to give you the rank."

  Shariah takes a very long pull from the booze and her head bobbles from side to side, he words a little slurred,

  "Yeah, but I betrayed their trust... my failures resulted in all those deaths from this military action. Who could still trust me?"

  I take the drink and down some more and respond,

  "I trust you, Shariah, and I will continue to trust you. You posting as my second wasn't my plan from the start, but now I wouldn't want anyone else to take your position for this alien operation."

  I give her a warm smile, I forgot that she is quite young for her rank, in her specific part of the military machine I'd expect her to make general if she is able to get rid of her insecurity. I'll do what I can to foster that. It's my role as a senior officer to mentor my juniors.

  She takes another long drink and stumbles out,

  "Thank you so much, Admiral... It means a lot coming from you... the way you've taken charge... I really look up to you..."

  I laugh and take another drink for myself, responding,

  "I'm glad to hear that..."

  We sit in silence, taking sips of the drink for a while. My fortitude as a professional alcoholic grants me the ability to keep myself upright, while Shariah, paired with being much smaller than me, is already almost falling over. Eventually, she does flop over onto me, leaning on my shoulder, not in an affectionate way, more in a drunken, lost her balance way. I smile and keep the drink in my hand, not giving her any more. She looks up at me through glassy eyes and meekly says,

  "Can you hold me closer, sir?"

  I say nothing but give her a kind smile before gently putting my arm around her and laying her onto the bed. I get up and pull my blankets over her as she seemingly tries to make out my shape through double vision. I softly scold,

  "I'm old enough to be your grandpa... also, you can't handle liquor. Get to sleep, Diplo-Colonel, that's an order."

  She tries to salute, but I tucked her in too tightly, and she just lies there. Remembering something important, I roll her to a side with her mouth facing away from my bed and put my desk trash can next to her. Satisfied, I put a glass of water next to the bed and turn off the lights. I leave my room... I already had my five hours of daily sleep earlier, before my repetition. I still have work to do.

  I march down the ship's hallways, my buzz wearing off as my heart pounds from the situation that just happened. That was uncalled for, and worst of all, I almost bit...

  "You'd better have a good explanation, ArchDuchess, for why my son was captured by these... Demons from beyond known space."

  Archduchess Psilta Contall Hektos shows no emotion to the challenge from the Second Prince, the brother of his most holy Majesty. She knows this is a risky situation, one that could either see her stripped of all titles, dead, or made to... well, replace the lost son. None of these options is good, and only two of them legally make sense for the situation at hand, but when one faces the wrath of what is, for all intents and purposes, a minor deity, normal legal procedure means nothing, even for an Archduchess, someone who is just below the royal family. She collects her thoughts and makes a gamble,

  "I believe, m'lord, that his capture was not of my doing. He had ignored many of my warnings and had seemingly underestimated the... Demons."

  She doesn't give him time to think before explaining,

  "I had recommended that we no longer stay on worlds that were within five stars of the last of the demon incursions, while the Inquisitor decided to stay within this area around the first world we made contact with them, and that we have declared under their control and now dead. While I agree that after suffering an injury such as he did at the hands of the demons, he deserved some well-needed rest and relaxation. Still, there are dozens of paradise worlds at his disposal, much further away from places considered actively dangerous. Then, on the night there was the raid that resulted in his capture, he dismissed my concerns about needing a guard in his room, and also chose to partake in the local women. These women appeared to be a major factor in his capture as he couldn't fight as well as the two fearful women bogged down his arms.

  Second is his underestimation, which I did warn him about as well. He believed that since the demons attacked slowly, that meant they moved slowly. There were week-long periods without any enemy contact, but watching them escape from their mission to capture the Inquisitor proved a theory I had. The demons above all else are cautious. They really don't like losing anyone and have no qualms about disregarding any honor just to make sure one of their own survives. I theorize that the demons are able to move between stars at the same rate as our ships or faster through means still unknown to us. Somehow, they always seem to have intricate knowledge of the interiors of our buildings, meaning they have methods to observe us without being seen, and they take the time to make sure everything is perfect.

  Then there is the third part, the fact that demons prefer stealth and quick execution of their foes. The Inquisitor used the ship that he ordered destroyed as an example of how easy they are to defeat in space combat, but neglected to remember that the same ship tasked with the destruction was destroyed by unseen vessels. I have reason to believe that after watching the recordings, the vessel that was destroyed was unarmed and was meant to be seen as their version of a diplomatic ship. Reports from the Shipmaster of the world, the demons control before he was declared dead by our intelligence, is that human vessels are strange in design, focused on pure utility and capability before any aesthetic choices are made. They paint them black as the background of space, and rely on a few but very potent weapon systems, focused on mobility as their protection from incoming fire when they are spotted. Their ships, disregarding stealth, rely on the same attacking philosophy as I do, rather than our traditional royal doctrines."

  The Prince stares at the woman for a moment before leaning back in his chair and asking,

  "Okay... I see your point, and they do explain why my son may have been captured. It was unbecoming of me as a divine to become so irate at you, Archduchess. My son has been known to be rather prideful. I simply let my fatherly instincts take over."

  The Archduchess bows slightly and states,

  "It is quite right, m'lord, you show your greatness by caring for your son."

  The Prince takes a long breath and a long drink from his cup before asking the woman,

  "So, I can judge by your expression that you have some ideas on how we may move forward... let me hear them."

  Psilta nods before beginning her explanation,

  "I do not think our traditional way of thinking is capable of harming or defeating the demons, and especially so if we want your son to come back alive and well. I cannot imagine what kind of defilement he may be experiencing right now, but I am certain it is horrible.

  So my plan is this:

  First, we must create a small fleet of ships capable of combating theirs. From what little we have seen of their space vessels, we know they prefer smaller, more maneuverable, and hard-hitting vessels. We know from their single that what was said to be a civilian vessel, that their ships do not have shields, but we cannot be certain if their combat vessels are more durable than the one destroyed. I believe they are simply based on standard military logic. The shapes of their ships appear to be based around how their armor works, focusing on heaviest on the front rather than the belt, like our traditional thinking. Due to their seeming reliance on throwing heavy metal objects through space, this seems to be an effective method for potentially countering this type of weapon. As of right now, I don't know anything about the extremely destructive weapons they used on your son's personal vessel, and I believe avoiding a situation where we face that type of weapon is the proper choice. I believe they won't fire it from too close or at targets of seeming insignificance.

  Their ships are metal, not sure what kind, but I can assume it is similar to the metal of their monster I slew. It's incredibly tough and resistant to extreme damage; my weapon enchantment was multitudes higher than normal just to poke a hole in the armor. It isn't manasteel, but it has similar metallurgical properties; it seems that with a few others, I do not have the knowledge to understand.

  So for these new vessels, I say we produce a vessel designed as an all-weapons forward type, like the rammers of the War of the Long Night thousands of years ago. Instead of focusing on ramming, focus on a very durable front with the most powerful implements of destruction we have, as well as the strongest detection magic and artifices available. They like ranged fights, so we must be able to at least defend ourselves beyond our normal range of operation. Most of all, and I am willing to bet my title on this plan, we need the ships to be entirely manufactured from manasteel, or some other magical metal. I don't care what kind, it just needs to happen, your majesty."

  The prince rubs his chin, asking,

  "And on the ground, or when we board to get my son, what then?"

  The woman nods and continues,

  "We, as of the moment, are not as adept in long-range combat as their standard ground forces, and our standard troop is nothing compared to their monsters in terms of physical capability. Our advantage is that they know this. They were cocky, and I proved it by slaying one of their number. We must have our knights forgo any normal mindsets of honorable combat and rely on terrain and architecture to perform ambushes, as well as attack enemies in large numbers rather than one at a time, as traditional honor requires.

  They are demons, not fellow warriors. Honor isn't a problem in this situation."

  The man nods, waving his hand, stating,

  "So be it. I will have your new fleet ready as soon as our shipbuilders can make it. They won't have any normal comforts due to the rushed job... I can't believe we are churning out ships for once... reminds me of... no... that was different..."

  The man mumbles to himself as a floating parchment has words scribbled onto it by an invisible pen. Once done, it disappears, delivered to its destination. The man looks the Archduchess in the eye and dismisses her with a single warning,

  "You have done well to come back into his Highness's good graces. Do this... and you may yet be granted a proper fief, one far greater than that of your traitorous father."

  Psilta smiles and takes her leave. She has a whole legion of knights to train...

  ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  End of Operation Force Composition

  2 New Mexico Class Light-Battleships- USS Navajo, USS Pueblo- Role: Heavy Firesupport and Mainline Combat

  Marine Compliment- 20

  1 Viking Class Large-Cruiser- USS Catfish- Role: Flagship and Fire Support

  3 SF-21 Fighters- 6 support wingmen each

  2 UD-12 Dropships- Gunship Configuration

  Marine compliment- 100

  2 Preist Class Support and Fabrication Vessels- USS Shovelnose, USS Palid- Role: Auxillary

  Marine Compliment- 50

  2 MacArthur Class Heavy Cruisers- USS Terrapin, USS Snapper- Role: Battleline

  2 UD-12 Dropship

  Marine Compliment -100

  4 Bowman Class Missile Cruisers- USS Quillback, USS Hognose, USS Redhorse, USS Buffalo-Role: Long Range Combat

  Marine Compliment- 100

  4 Cutter Class Destroyers- USS Bluegill, USS Longear, USS Redear, USS Shellcracker- Role: Escort

  Marine Compliment- 80

  4 Teach Class Destroyers- USS Largemouth, USS Smallmouth, USS Spotted, USS Neosho- Role: Backline Disruption

  Marine Compliment- 100

  2 Hellstorm Class Frigates- USS Eel, USS Lamprey- Role: Naval Raiding

  Marine Compliment- 50

  1 Arsenal Bird Class Drone Carrier- USS Heron- Role: Drone Carrier

  400 MQ-25 "Parasite" attack Drones

  20 MQ-30 "Plover" Bomber Drones

  Marine Compliment-25

  6 Boohag Class Marine Transports- USS Bullfrog, USS Peeper, USS Daddys Belt, USS Toad, USS Newt, USS Salamander- Role: Marines

  8 UD-12 Dropships- Gunship Configuration

  1200 Marines

  800 Shipbreakers

  4 M3A1 "Stonewall" MBT

  24 M8A3 "Gavin" IFVs

  8 M112 MRTWP (Multi-role Transport Weapons Platform)

  12 M8 "Bunny" Fast Attack/Recon Vehicles

  4 Patton Class Army Transport Vessels (unnamed)- Role: Transport

  1 Cavalry Division

  1 Artillery Division

  1 Engineer Division

  1 Infantry Division

  Total Force:

  28 Capital Vessels

  4 Troop Carriers

  12 Dropships

  3 Manned Fighters

  420 Drone Fighters

  2544 Marines (Including Shipbreakers)

  48 Ground IFVs (Crews included)

  ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  Losses:

  1 Marine

  ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________