Epilogue

  Admiral Luitpold stood rigidly as ever on the uppermost balcony of his mansion. Next to him was an exceptionally high-quality telescope and a circular side table, complete with cooled wine and glass.

  He drew his eye away from the telescope and stared with an ugly grin at the night sky. It was better than he could ever have hoped for. He’d prepared, if needs must, to sacrifice most of the Home Fleet if it dealt with Grand Admiral Columabae and his other opposition - but this - this he hadn’t even dared dream of!

  A single rock had careered solely into the Defence Platform, taking the Grand Admiral with it. The Home Fleet was wounded, no doubt, but all told? What an exceptional result! He was so pleased he could have danced - were such an action appropriate for someone of his standing, of course.

  He poured a generous glass and took a pleased sip from it; a good vintage for such an occasion. TSU-s would have all the funding he could ever desire tomorrow morning. His first course would be scapegoats, get the people to trust him by lobbing off a few heads most loyal to Columbae.

  The Curadh’s captain would be foremost on the list, and he’d see to it all the ships in the rogue fleet found their way into TSU-s, where they could be watched and dealt with if needed.

  “Governor of Abhaile…” he whispered. That would be his first goal. From there, he would burn down the stain that was Bannerman. His TSU-s would have no need for such a place; Abhaile’s sole use was to be a Goibhniu farm and nothing more.

  From there, well, Grand Admiral sounded quite nice indeed. For now, though, he poured another glass and enjoyed the light show.

  ****

  “Can’t we go any faster?!” the third-ranked Seth Sturman bellowed aboard the bridge of his ship, Fayume. Fourth-ranked Apahte Paneb watched on a few steps back, his imposing form looking more like a statue than a man.

  Outside the bridge's windows, a spec in the distance lay TSU’s rogue fleet. Once the Cabal had met their untimely end, both Casnel and Curadh had beat a hasty retreat.

  “Do you want to catch up to them?” the ship's first mate replied.

  “Of course! They have stolen our glorious plan from us.”

  “But they outnumber us now, Sir. That goes against Admiral Agitate’s policy for our missions…”

  “Their Casnel left, did it not? Catch up, and I shall slay them with my own, haha! - I, The Mind Warper, shall crush them all!” Seth laughed pompously.

  “He’s the one with the warped mind,” an ensign whispered darkly.

  The first mate, no Apahte noted, most of the bridge crew looked on in borderline disgust.

  “Your machine is damaged and only a prototype. It might not be able for ‘all that,” the first mate replied rather politically.

  Seth frowned, looking very dismayed, “I see; then keep up our pursuit; they are going the same way as us anyway. The sad failure of the cruiser led to my machine’s damaging. How woeful it is for one ship's actions to put both the Cabal and my beautiful Casnel out of commission!”

  Silence followed this. It was not the usually awkward reply to Seth’s style of speech, but something colder. Apahte could see almost treasonous looks on the men’s faces; ‘The cruiser's fault? Who was it demanded the enemy ace be let through for a duel? Who was it lost that duel using his blade like a club!’ he could almost hear them thinking.

  Those were extremely foolish thoughts. A soldier should never question his master's orders.

  From Apahte’s point of view, it was unfortunate. He felt deep shame for his failing to teach his lord fencing. He could have asked the fifth-ranked to help; it had escaped his mind and was thus his fault. As for the tactical logic of the duel, that was not for him to comment on.

  Even Kings had to be born as babes, and failure was a greater teacher than any other. Apahte had no doubt today would be one such turning point in Seth’s day rise to regal rulership.

  He was not blind to why the atmosphere of the bridge was so dour. Their actions had compromised the entire plan; only one meteorite had been sent to aide Admiral Agatite and the first-ranked in their final battle - but no reason could ever be valid to turn on one’s lord.

  Apathe clapped his boots together and saluted harshly, “Aye, my Lord.”

  It was enough. The moment snapped. He wondered if a few more seconds really would of led to outright mutiny.

  “R-right, you are, Sir. Maintain course and distance from the enemy flotilla,” the first mate added.

  “Heh-heh,” Seth smiled smugly, seemingly unaware of how dire his men’s morale was. Apathe would perhaps have to consider that some more. For now, he was focused more on what to say to Lord Kigen. If necessary, Apathe would offer his own head in penance. He just hoped Kiyo Kigen yet lived to claim it…

  ****

  Scarlet half stumbled along the hangar floor of a ship not her own. Mechanics had stopped working; most stood clustered around the open doorway she’d come through. A glass screen lowered to repressurise the hangar; no more survivors would be coming through. The men were watching with tears in their eyes, some outright wailing in anguish - as the rear guard made its kamikaze.

  Frustration was killing the ace inside. She daren’t turn to look behind her. “Damn it all to hell!” she shouted, tossing her pilot’s helmet hard against the unrelenting metal floor beneath.

  A handsome young man managed to tear his eyes away from the vista and come to the ace’s side; "You alright, ma'am?"

  "I'm fine, plenty fine,” she scowled. Her wounds, especially a nasty new scar on her arm, ached. Kigen’s transmission was fresh on her mind. Scarlet could hardly bring herself to look back out upon what she was being excluded from. Looking at the boy instead, she recognised him, “Hey, aren’t you Sesha's kid?"

  The young man, with his long hair and youthful face, looked sad at the mention, "Her student, you mean, yes. Is it true?"

  "....Ya kid, ‘am real sorry. Whoever is in charge of this ship, get the life pod I brought in open pronto and make sure they check for any further damages on the Casnels. All I could do for her in the end, was drag her machine home. They're too damaged to both be repaired, but combined, one Chevalier might fly again, and I want it to be yours."

  The Scarlet Scourge, soon to be first-ranked among the Five Great Aces, said to the future fifth-ranked.

  ****

  "Move into effective range and cover the retreating force before the kamikaze force is spent. Rear-Admiral Yoist’s forces won’t be enough of a deterrent. TSU will feel even less inclined to pursue if they see reinforcements," Oames Agitate bellowed, striding onto the bridge of the heavy cruiser-class Palladium.

  The bridge crew looked concerned while the captain turned to face her, "Excuse me, cadet? Who gave you permisio--"

  A slap rang out as Oames shut the captain up in an instant, "Was I unclear? Move to defend our remaining forces. Now."

  Still hesitant, the crew moved to do just that, radioing the rest of the flotilla to follow suit.

  The Captain, a hand to her cheek, stared at Oames, who in turn kept her steady gaze level, "Now is the time for action, not mourning," the fallen Admiral's daughter announced simply.

  In the years to come, those who witnessed this would report it as the first order given by the one-day first-ranked pilot and second Supreme Commander of Remembrance.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The atmosphere aboard the Curadh as it fled the forces of the third and fourth-ranked was sombre. Once Moncha had found and destroyed the Cabal before using the booster to rush back, the remaining rogue fleet ran, too. Fighting the small Remembrance fleet had no real purpose.

  Word had come of victory but also of Defence Platform 1 and the Grand Admiral's loss.

  None felt it so keenly as Head Captain Synapse himself. Not just the loss of a good friend, but something more - he realised it meant a terrible shift in the world - as if the last embers of peace in their lifetime had been quenched - that's what his gut told him.

  All he and Columbae’s fears of more radical occupation, authoritarian laws and mistreatment of people - who would stand in its way now? Synapse knew alone he didn’t even factor into that equation; he was just one ship’s captain. He felt so incredibly small.

  He wondered what he could have done differently, if there had been a way, if one action could have saved them just enough time to prevent that one meteorite, but such lamentation amounted to nothing. Perhaps he should have just retired when the last war ended. Always going the extra mile, always obeying his ‘duty’, where had that led them?

  Synapse was not wrong. The Curadh would go on to fight in many more battles for years to come, but not with the head captain to lead it.

  A transmission absolving the rogue unit of all guilt was sent by Columbae, but it would be 'lost' and, as part of publicity efforts to restore trust, Captain Fred Synapse was executed as a prime scapegoat - the radicals claiming it was the rogue actions of people like him that had slowed TSU’s responses to the Remembrance guerilla war - that it was Synapse’s ‘kind’ that had made TSU weak and vulnerable to terrorists.

  This execution would not go unchecked. People would rise against what it represented, and Synapse would live on as a martyr. But at that moment, at the end of The Remembrance Incident, the elderly captain could do nothing but apologise to all those he’d failed.

  ****

  A scruffy middle-aged MBT Mk2 pilot sighed with relief as a flare appeared, announcing the end of the battle. His bland mech was thoroughly battered, and he'd lost track of his squadmates, but it seemed, at significant cost, that they had won yet again.

  "To all combatants, this is Vice-Admiral Louise," a voice called over the radio, playing on all channels it seemed; "Our enemy is routed, but our losses today have been immense. I regret to inform you all of the loss of Grand Admiral Columbae ."

  The middle-aged man, Kolme Nilas, shivered. He'd guessed it was possible when he'd seen the Defence Platform sink, but it was still shocking news. The Vice-Admiral’s voice struck him as strange. Perhaps he was just tired or it was the quality of the transmission, but the man didn’t sound like an officer purely mourning for a superior. Kolme almost wondered if the Vice-Admiral also felt sympathy for their enemy. But of course not, right?

  Yet as Kolme himself looked out to where the dreadnought had sunk, along with the other suicide forces, he realised one fight was still ongoing. A Casnel with features like a knight of some sort and a long, slightly curving sword. Waves of enemies were flooding towards the lone fighter. It must have been encircled by a hundred mechs with a thousand more in waiting, Kolme included - yet still it was standing against them, not allowing a single one past.

  For just a minute, the TSU pilot felt genuine empathy for this lonely enemy.

  "My flagship shall handle the reorganisation of our forces. We will not pursue the remnant lest they have any other traps in wait,” the transmission added. It lacked TSU’s normal comprehensiveness but Kolme could hardly disagree. It felt wrong somehow to run down that tiny fleeing force.

  Their enemy had been terrible. They had slain civilians, sunk the Defence Platforms and even killed a respected Grand Admiral - and yet…

  Honour? Kolme was just a rank-and-file nobody, but that word seemed to come to him and perhaps everyone else watching in the Home Fleet. How else could you describe the solitary knight's unrelenting final stand?

  ****

  Commander Donald Moncha heard the Vice-Admiral's transmission, too, but paid it little attention. He had finally caught up to Chas Collins: Far too late. A sparking mass of burnt-out wires and frayed metal was all that remained of the G-type’s chest.

  "You damn fool, kid. I really thought, just maybe..."

  Words failed the storied warrior. As one G-Type cradled another, floating blindingly close to the smouldering white light of what had once been the Defence Platform.

  Had they failed, him and Chas? But this was surely a ‘victory’. They had ‘won’; the handful of enemy fighters was fleeing even now, utterly bested. Was this what winning always had to look like? Moncha wondered. The boy had shone so brightly and could have shone so much more with time to grow. So then, why was he dead when his legend had only been getting started?

  G-type 002 moved one battered arm up to 001’s head unit, held to its torso by a single trailing cable. Absently, Moncha had his mech's hand trace the scar on Chas’s mech - it wasn’t a real scar, unlike the one on the boy’s actual cheek - just damaged armour he’d asked them not to paint over.

  To anyone looking, the two Casnel’s would have been quite the sight, one with its joints and armour in barely-holding tatters, caressing the cheek of the barely recognisable other. It could have been some avant-garde parody of man and machine.

  Moncha let go of the controls, leaving the Casnel’s hand on the other’s face as it was. His fists trembled but not in anger or rage. His bushy moustache was becoming damp, but he couldn’t bring those trembling fists to wipe the wetness away. It rolled down his face in long, hot streams.

  He’d wondered once if the growing feeling in his chest had been a pride for Chas, something akin to a father’s love. In that moment, Moncha knew what he felt was a Father’s grief.

  Kiyo Kigen was a hero to his people both in life and death. A warrior to his peers, a leader in a doomed rebellion's waning days. What did all that mean in the end? Did he sacrifice himself out of selflessness for his people? Out of pride or hope? Was it a more base, primal force that pushed him and men like him to fight and die for nothing in what some would come to call the never-war?

  The legends would spread, though Kigen had no means of knowing that. As Remembrance struggled to rebuild, its forces would dub new aces, but The Bane of Konpei would receive a special honour in death: The Grand Ace, ranked above even the standing first-rankeds that would come later. That short war might not hold the renown as others in that violent age, but tales would be told for decades to come of The Great Aces, and tantamount of them would be the last stand of Kiyo Kigen, of the warrior who slew a dozen warships and a hundred mechs in his final moments.

  Is that legend the same man who went forth that day? With doubt in his heart, fear for the future and remorse for his sins? Do the emotions of a warrior even matter, for once the tales are told, they cease to be human and become heroes.

  But right then, as a bare thirty Remembrance ships fled back to their arctic home - no one person on those vessels able to take their eyes from windows and transmissions of the last stand unfolding behind them - retreating to rebuild, which they would, to work back up and try yet again and again - in those moments Kigen had no way to know all that. He could not know if he died now because he was simply too weak to go on any longer or if their action really would still have a further meaning when tomorrow came. At that moment, Kiyo Kigen was just one more ordinary man, doing what he believed to be right, like any other.

  “Ha, ha, ha, haa,” the ace panted.

  The mighty armour of Chevalier Unit 001 was finally failing, yet another wave of pilots rose against him. Kigen wondered where it had all gone wrong.

  He shunned that boy, but who else's comrades had ruined their plan if not Chas Collins?

  As his last sword decapitated a Vijiak Special in one swing and pierced the heart of an MBT in the next, he pictured Oames Agitate; now free from her father's shadow, the manipulative ideas she had exposed to him would face no further opposition.

  When his sword buckled, and the first enemy arc staff finally pierced through Kigen - with Benson's floating corpse in his peripheral view, stabbed through so many times, and the wreckage of the Admiral's proud ship, covering the battlefield in scattered metal - it struck Kigen now that perhaps he had slain the wrong child, the wrong future.

  He thought of Scarlet and the battle she would have to rebuild Remembrance again; to keep Oames in check. More than that, he thought of the whole solar system and everything he had stood for within it.

  They had fought so very hard, yet now look at them. Had they achieved anything, he wondered? Was their only accolade the slaying of civilians, the cutting down of people like Chas who might have found a better way forward?

  Regrets? Far too many. He smiled softly and realised with an odd clarity that if warriors really did get some form of afterlife, he would very much like to chat with the young TSU ace there and see what that future might have been.

  He saw that mirage of future faces once more. Could they carry this weight?

  It had been for a mere five years, but finally, history had buckled the Grand Ace. Would those children fare better?

  Such thoughts were pointless, weren't they. The thoughts of a man with nothing more to cling to on his deathbed, in the end, he was just one man, like every other.

  He could not know that his action did matter, that the few lives he chose to save that day at the cost of his own life would go on. That in less than twenty-five years, Abhaile would finally claim its hard-earned independence.

  But that day was not today. That day would not involve Rememberence’s greatest hero, nor would it be brought about by the idealistic lights of the boy he had slain. Kigen, as a man, a warrior and as a hero, had no choice but to hope, to believe one day, that day, would come.

  The cockpit wall breached. White light spilled in, and all turned to dust.

  END