Under the bruised sky, the base finally exhaled. For a moment the whole world felt absurdly calm, a lull after the storm. Out of that fragile quiet came the sound of celebration — ragged, relieved, a little guilty. They had won. The wrecked ramparts were still smoking and the dead still lay where they had fallen, but the living were laughing anyway. The sound rang like struck metal across the ruins.
"Captain, the Empire is retreating! We won!" someone shouted over the open channel. Cheers rose behind the words, muffled and hoarse, like people rediscovering their own voices.
Oscar did not scold any of them. They were cheering as though the noise could drown out the memory of the flames, and he understood that, because he felt it too — the strange weightlessness that settles over the survivors when death has passed them by.
Stefan leaned against the back of Oscar's chair with his strapped shoulder and a grin that had found its way back onto his face wherever a grin could be afforded. "Bring her down, Os. I want to throw a big party for this."
"Come on, Stefan," Oscar said. "You still do those things?"
"That's what keeps morale high," Stefan said, the grin still firmly in place.
Oscar let a laugh crack free of his chest. "Why did I even ask? Let's go, then."
"Wait," Halley said suddenly, and the word cut through the good mood like a blade. "We still need to find Youri."
The memory of everything they had almost lost tugged at all of them at once, and the worry came rushing back in. "Shit," Oscar said, raising both hands to his head. "I completely forgot he was still down there."
Bjorn's hands were already steady on the controls. "Shall I?"
"Bjorn, land the ship."
"Roger, Captain."
They filed out onto the scarred earth with their boots stirring up the dust, and handshakes were exchanged all around with the raw, sacred civility of people who had just fought side by side. A tall man in his mid-forties made his way through the crowd toward Oscar, and the soldiers parted for him without being asked.
"Nice to meet you in person, Captain Meilton," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm Barry."
Captain Barry did not just lead his people; he lifted them up. He was tall and steady, the kind of man whose presence brought calm to chaos and strength to uncertainty. His thick black hair, swept back with quiet confidence, framed a face that had weathered storms and still chosen kindness. He was neither flashy nor loud, but when he spoke, his crew listened — not out of fear, but out of trust. He remembered every name. He noticed when someone was tired, and he made sure the mess hall had extra rations on the hard days. His leadership had never been built on rank. It had been built on respect, earned one moment and one mission at a time.
"Captain Barry," Oscar said, gripping his hand. "Thank you for what you did out there."
"Don't mention it. It was our duty." They saluted each other, and the gesture clicked in the air like small, bright knives. Then Barry broke into a laugh. "Well, since we're here, let's enjoy what's left of the kitchen."
"Lead the way," Oscar said, gesturing toward the half-collapsed mess hall.
The party, when it came together, was a strange and lovely thing. Someone had found crates of supplies the bombs had somehow missed. Someone else had found music. Before long the ruined base was full of light and noise, full of people who had very nearly died a few hours earlier, all deciding together that they were going to be alive tonight. In one corner, a group of rebel pilots uncorked a bottle, and the pop of it felt almost sacramental. "Damn Miller," one of them said, raising it toward the sky. "He finally kicked the bucket. He was a bit of a dick, but mostly he was a warrior. To a brave warrior of the galaxy — may he rest in peace." Glasses flashed in the firelight. Men drank with the thin smiles of people who had lost a common enemy and now had to face the human cost of what they had done.
Oscar was halfway through his first drink when he spotted a familiar, stumbling figure at the edge of the crowd. He was across the hall before he knew he had moved. "There you are! Where were you all this time? I was worried you were dead under some rubble."
Youri stepped out of the shadows looking half asleep and entirely at peace. "Come on, Os. You'd write me off that easily?" He waved a lazy hand. "Don't worry. I was looking around and found a liquor cellar. The alcohol did its thing, and I was asleep until a few minutes ago."
Oscar let the exasperation fall off him like an old jacket. "I don't know what to do with you!"
Youri only smiled, a little sheepish. "You can't do anything with me." Then he held up the bottle in his hand and looked at it with mild curiosity. "Oh, I also just found out I can't taste these anymore. The effect still works on me, though."
Oscar shook his head slowly, and if he noticed what that meant, he did not say it aloud. "You're still an anomaly to me, Youri. Anyway, I'm glad you're okay."
Later, when the music had softened and the fires had burned down to embers, the talk drifted into quieter, more dangerous territory. They traded small gossip, cigarettes, and the hush of people who had seen too much. "They lost a lot of men in the end," Oscar said, looking out at the dark shapes of the wrecks beyond the base. "The spoils of war, or so they say. Let's just hope their souls move on and find some peace."
Youri's voice was blunt and soft at the same time. "Peace. Oscar, if God really exists, do you think this war is a punishment for us?"
Oscar looked up at the sky, where the smoke still traced its slow patterns across the stars. "I know one thing, Youri. God works in mysterious ways. Like it or not, we don't get to decide what He does. Maybe when I walk into His palace one day, He'll finally answer me."
Youri snorted and gave a half-laugh. "Keep dreaming, brother. I don't think either of us is headed that way."
"You do have a point," Oscar said, laughing, and the laughter rippled out around them, brittle but genuine.
Far away, in the marble corridors of Fansilia, news traveled differently — not with cheers, but with ceremony.
"That is very unfortunate news. May his soul rest in peace," Minister Alan said to the hologram of a tired pilot with a pale scar on his neck. "Thank you for your report, Captain More. You will serve as acting commander until you return to the capital."
"Thank you, Minister."
When the hologram faded, Alan stood alone for a moment, then turned to his aide. "Alia, send our condolences to the Miller estate, and tell them we will hold a proper royal funeral for Norda here at the palace. All commanding personnel, in and out of campaign, are to be summoned to the royal palace." His tone was heavy. "I'll go and speak with the Emperor myself."
"It's going to be sad news for His Highness," Alia said quietly as she led him through the long halls. "But war claims souls, good ones and bad ones alike." She stopped before a pair of towering doors. "His Highness is in the throne room, Minister."
"Thank you, Alia."
When Alan delivered the news, it landed in the throne room like a verdict. "My Emperor, it is with a heavy heart that I bring you bad news."
"What is it, Minister Alan?" the Emperor asked quietly.
"At the Battle of Altea earlier today, Marquis Miller led our forces. We lost him."
The Emperor went very still. "Minister… Marquis Miller is dead?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
For a long moment the Emperor said nothing. When he spoke again, his voice was rough. "Did he at least fight valiantly until the end?"
"So I am told. He used the main cannon as a last resort to take the enemy with him, but he was shot from behind and perished in the explosion."
The Emperor's face folded, as if a mask were slowly hardening over a memory. "I see. So they shot him from behind." His hand tightened on the arm of the throne. "Who was responsible for the Marquis's death?"
Alan's voice carried the weight of an indictment. "According to the soldiers who were present, it was a renegade crew that goes by the name of their ship, the Tartarusios. They did the damage, Your Highness."
The order dropped like a guillotine. "Minister Alan, hear me. I give you a command: do whatever is necessary to capture these criminals. They will pay for what they did to my friend. Tell everyone that whoever brings them to me will receive ten million zells, foe or ally."
That proclamation meant the horizon would never be peaceful again. Even amid the toasts and the laughter in the ruined mess hall on Altea, the crew of the Tartarusios would soon hear the echo of the Emperor's edict — a price on their heads, and a drumbeat for another hunt. That night they drank, they celebrated, they mended what could be mended. But beneath the clink of glasses and the rough jokes there was a low hum of something inevitable. They had won the battle, but its cost had multiplied, the chase would go on, and the world had grown a little darker than it had been that morning.