With the Emperor's order to eradicate the Tartarusios, General Rozasar began his preparations. He knew very well what he was about to face, and he refused to make the mistake of underestimating the enemy just because they were few. To prepare for every possible outcome, he called a full briefing with his commanders and the two God Unit pilots aboard his flagship, the Morphius.
She was a ship of cold gray metal and sharp red accents, elegant and intimidating at once, with multiple engine pods packed tightly together at her rear, each one layered with machinery and glowing red casings. Her command deck sat amidships inside a dome that rose slightly above the rest of the hull. From there the crew controlled navigation, communications and every weapon she carried, while turrets guarded her bow and her surface was covered in panels and structural lines that hinted at how much she had been built to endure. Inside the dome, the command deck was circular, its reinforced glass offering a partial view of the drifting stars, with holographic displays floating over sleek consoles to project star maps and fleet arrangements, Tartarusios signatures and system diagnostics. At its center the captain's chair sat slightly raised, surrounded by the officers who ran the ship.
The commanders arrived one by one. Mikhail himself led seventy ships, divided among seven sub-commanders of ten ships each, and with Emilia's thirty more, the fleet stood at a formidable hundred. As the briefing was about to begin, the two God Unit pilots finally came aboard.
At first glance, they looked almost like children walking through the halls, and that impression drew uneasy stares from every officer they passed. But even in those small frames, their presence carried weight.
The doors to the command deck slid open, and the two of them stepped inside.
On the left was Anemone Christ, the pilot of Perciosa. She was seventeen and carried herself with the careless confidence of someone who had never been allowed to be anything but exceptional. Her deep violet hair fell in loose, shoulder-length waves that shimmered almost like metal when the light caught them, and her glossy pitch-black eyes gave away nothing at all. A soft, freckled, youthful face sat strangely above her posture, which was relaxed, careless, a little rebellious. She was known for being direct to the point of disrespect, rowdy enough to unsettle her superiors, and incapable of pretending to respect any rank she had not personally decided was worthy of it. She never bothered to hide when she was bored — which was often.
On the right walked Maximilian Stappen, the pilot of Sirius. He was only eighteen and already sanctified by the Empire as one of its deadliest weapons. His light brown hair was tousled but controlled, his face marked by focus and defiance, so that even standing still he looked as if he were straining against some invisible boundary. His sharp blue eyes almost never softened. Among the ranks he was known for three things: unmatched talent, an ego to match it, and an absolute refusal to lose.
The assembled commanders stared at them. These were the two who would face a monster feared across the entire Empire.
Anemone came in first with light steps, and as she drifted toward one of the terminals, Mikhail addressed her. "You must be Anemone."
She turned to him with a quick smile and dropped into the seat beside the controls. "Indeed. I'm looking forward to seeing what that pretty face of yours is made of, General Rozasar."
"Don't tease him, Ane," Maximilian cut in at once. "Can't you see he's in front of his commanders?"
"Who cares?" she said, without a moment's hesitation. "He is pretty."
Mikhail cleared his throat. "I suppose introductions are unnecessary. Let's proceed with the briefing."
Before he could begin, a message came through announcing that General Leonora Kaelthorn had been assigned to the operation as reserve, and the briefing was paused until she arrived, which did not take long. Once she was there, Mikhail began again — but Anemone kept staring at Leonora the whole time. Leonora noticed, she ignored it, right up until Anemone abruptly stood, crossed the room and planted herself directly in front of her. With a wide, sarcastic grin, she looked Leonora in the eye.
"My god. Are you the bitch of that old-timer we're going to kill?"
The words echoed around the deck. Leonora looked at her for exactly one second, and then she slapped her across the face hard enough to turn her head. "Do you know who you're calling a bitch?"
Anemone spat a thin line of blood onto the floor and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she burst into a frantic laugh, lunged forward and seized Leonora by the throat. "You've got guts. I'll give you that."
Leonora did not even flinch. She only smiled. "Well, missy, you lack strength." She caught Anemone's wrist, twisted it, and put her on the floor, breaking the grip with insulting ease.
Anemone was about to surge back up when Maximilian stepped forward, his voice cold and cutting. "Ane. Stop. That's enough. Can't you see that woman is already being punished? She has to watch her husband die. Save your strength for the battlefield. That's where you can really hurt her — when you're cutting her lovely husband to pieces."
Mikhail stepped quickly between them. "That is quite enough. Both of you, leave. You weren't listening to a word anyway."
Anemone shot Leonora a feral smile on her way out, and Maximilian followed her without another word.
Mikhail turned to Leonora. "I'm sorry, General. It escalated quickly, and I was slow to step in."
Leonora shook her head. "Don't worry, Mikhail. It wasn't your fault. They're only children — bred to fight and to live short lives. No wonder they turned out the way they did."
With the two pilots gone, the briefing went on. The strategy had already been drafted in the Consul. Once Emilia's forces had joined the main fleet, they would travel to the Bermuda Nebula and on to Antia. Seventy percent of the fleet would surround the planet and cut off all communication with the outside, while Leonora's fifty ships held back near Antia's twin moons as a reserve in case of disaster. The battle itself was expected to take place on the ground, because the Tartarusios' speed and unpredictability made a fight in open space too chaotic to contain. Thirty percent of the forces would make landfall, and from that point on, everything would depend on the God Units. If Altopereh appeared, there was no way to predict the damage. But one fact was absolute: losing was not an option. Not with a hundred and fifty ships, eighty Orbitons, and two God Units.
If there existed a nation that could be defeated only by overwhelming firepower, then this was how much it would take.