The chill of late UC 0078 clung to the space colonies, a subtle tremor beneath the enforced calm. For the von Zehrtfeld twins, Lelouch and Tanya, the vast expanse between Side 3 and Side 1 felt less like distance and more like an ever-widening chasm. Their only bridge: heavily censored letters, arriving with the infrequent, erratic mail runs, each envelope a testament to the war's voracious appetite for information.
Tanya's letters, addressed from the fortress asteroid Solomon, always arrived smeared with Zeon Imperial Army stamps, their contents a patchwork of blacked-out lines. Yet, even through the redactions, Lelouch could read the exhaustion, the relentless pressure. Tanya wrote of endless drills, simulated combat, and the searing heat of re-entry simulations that left the cockpit of her Zaku II boiling. "The pressure here is… constant," one line read, eerily untouched by the censors, "like being in a permanent dive, waiting for the abyss."
Another letter, arriving towards the end of December, carried a hint of grudging pride, almost hidden beneath an official-looking stamp about "exemplary service." "The pilots here," Tanya penned, her handwriting sharper than usual, "have started calling me 'Red Knife.' Apparently, it's because of how I cut through their formations during mock battles. Or maybe it's the paint job on my Zaku." Lelouch could almost hear the dry amusement in her voice, a flicker of the sister he knew, even as the moniker sent a shiver down his spine. Red Knife. It spoke of efficiency, brutality, and a chilling effectiveness that only a true ace could possess. Solomon was forging her into something dangerous, something necessary for war, but something that might also consume her.
From Zum City, the heart of Side 3 and the Zabi dominion, Lelouch's replies were equally circuitous, each word chosen with surgical precision. He wrote of his studies, of the political currents he navigated daily, the oppressive weight of Gihren Zabi's rhetoric. When Tanya mentioned the "Red Knife," Lelouch considered his response carefully. He knew she understood double meanings, the unspoken language of their shared intellect. He spoke of the "weather," of "storm fronts gathering on the horizon." Then, with a deliberate hand, he penned the lines that would hopefully penetrate the veil:
"The war drums beat too quietly now, Tanya. That's when empires commit crimes."
He sealed the letter, the words hanging in the recycled air of his quarters, a silent warning cast into the void. He didn't know if it would reach her, or if the censors would deem it too philosophical, too dangerous. But he hoped. He hoped she'd read between the lines and prepare.
Miles away, aboard the Valkyrie, a hospital ship on the fringe of Side 6, Selene von Zehrtfeld fretted. Her younger sibling were out there, on opposite sides of a brewing storm. The official channels were useless. Her letters were either returned or simply vanished into the bureaucratic maw. Desperate, she employed a black-market comms specialist, a grizzled old timer who promised a direct, untraceable burst transmission.
"Just a short message, please," Selene pleaded, her voice tight with suppressed panic. "Tell them… tell them I love them. Tell them to be careful, that I miss them both, terribly."
The specialist, a man named Jax with weary eyes, nodded, typing rapidly. The signal was boosted, then compressed into a tight burst, aimed for the vague coordinates of Solomon and Zum City. For a moment, Selene felt a surge of hope, a warmth spreading through her chest. It was a lifeline, a whisper across the void.
But the void whispered back.
Within minutes, the Valkyrie's comms array registered a sudden, sharp spike. Not their signal transmitting, but a powerful, focused beam lancing at them. Jax cursed, his fingers flying across the console. "Jamming! They're tracing it!" The screen flickered, showing a rapidly resolving trajectory. "Federation Intelligence, ma'am! They've got a lock on our position!"
Selene's hope shattered. The message, brief as it was, had been intercepted. A direct transmission from a private vessel to two military zones was always a risk, but in the escalating build-up to war, it was an unforgivable offense. The Valkyrie had to immediately cut power, go silent, and drift, hoping to disappear into the vastness of space before a Federation patrol could converge on their coordinates.
As she passed through one of the lower decks, Selene spotted a sealed container flanked by guards in civilian uniforms. Medical cargo, they said. But the way they held their weapons… it wasn't medicine they feared losing.
The silence that followed felt colder, more absolute than before. Selene knew, with a mother's grim certainty, that her message hadn't reached them. And now, she too was on someone's radar.
At Solomon, the pressure intensified with the turn of the new year, UC 0079. The hum of industrial machinery became constant, the orbital shipyards never dark. Tanya, pushing through another exhaustive combat simulation, stripped off her flight suit afterward, her muscles aching, but her mind sharp. As she walked through the hangar towards the mess hall, a heated argument between two senior engineers caught her ear. They stood hunched over a holoscreen depicting complex structural schematics.
"—the reinforcement frames for Colony 26. We can't just 'weld it on' like some glorified patch job! This is structural integrity we're talking about!" one engineer, his face flushed, jabbed a finger at the screen.
"Orders from Command, Joren! Side 2 insists on the modifications. They're fitting it onto every available model they can get their hands on. Something about 'increased gravitational stability' for 'rapid deployment'," the other retorted, exasperated.
Tanya paused, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. Colony reinforcement frames? Side 2? Why reinforce a civilian colony, especially for "rapid deployment"? Colonies were for habitation, not combat. Unless…
She continued walking, but the words echoed in her mind. It didn't make sense. Not unless they weren't reinforcing a colony for standard use. That night, sleep came poorly. She dreamed of colonies falling from the stars, like anvils, smashing the Earth below.
Later that evening, Tanya found Mila in the ready room, polishing a beam saber with meticulous care. Mila, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, was one of the few pilots Tanya tolerated. She was quiet, observant, and possessed a pragmatism that Tanya appreciated.
"Something's off, Mila," Tanya said, leaning against the doorframe, watching her. "I overheard some engineers talking. They're fitting reinforcement frames onto colonies at Side 2. 'Rapid deployment,' they said."
Mila paused her work, her eyes meeting Tanya's. "Colonies? Not ships?"
"No, colonies. And they were arguing about the stress it would put on the structure. Like they're building something for an impact. Or a different kind of payload." Tanya narrowed her eyes. "It feels… wrong. Like a piece of a puzzle I don't have the picture for."
Mila shrugged, resuming her polishing. "Command doesn't tell us much, does it? Just fly, fight, win."
"Exactly," Tanya scoffed. "And that's the problem. They're being even more secretive than usual about this particular project. Dozle hasn't even mentioned it in any of his briefings, and he usually has a hand in everything. If they don't want us there," Tanya added, a steely glint entering her eyes, "it's because they know we'd ask the wrong questions."
At Zum City, Lelouch felt a similar undercurrent of unease. The routine of the Zabi household was fractured, replaced by an air of hushed urgency. Gihren Zabi, omnipresent and increasingly tyrannical, held closed-door meetings with his inner circle, the discussions punctuated by curt commands and cold laughter.
Lelouch, ever the phantom in the gilded halls, moved through the palace's less-guarded corridors, his ears always open. One afternoon, passing a rarely used antechamber, he heard voices – Gihren's aides, deep in conversation, their words muffled but distinct enough for Lelouch's keen hearing.
"—the decisive blow, gentlemen. Operation British. It will break them," a voice, cold and triumphant, declared. "End their spirit before it can even ignite."
"The Federation will buckle. They won't stand a chance," another chimed in, almost giddy. "Their supply lines, their morale… crippled in a single stroke."
Lelouch's blood ran cold. Decisive blow? End their spirit? The phrases were chillingly vague, yet terrifyingly absolute. He forced himself to walk on, his expression placid, but his mind raced. Operation British. He'd never heard of it. It sounded like something on an unprecedented scale.
What truly sent a jolt of dread through him was the realization: neither Dozle nor Garma had been present at any of the recent strategy sessions, nor had their names been mentioned in connection with this "Operation British." Their exclusion was not just odd; it was profoundly suspicious.
Lelouch leaned against a frescoed wall, outwardly calm, inwardly a maelstrom of deductions. Tanya's subtle warning in her last letter echoed in his mind: "The war drums beat too quietly now. That's when empires commit crimes." He now understood the terrifying implications of those words. The silence wasn't an absence of war; it was the eerie stillness before the storm.
A colony would fall. And the stars would burn red.