... April ... 1949 ...
... North Africa ...
... Bizerte ...
Following the Siren invasion, events in Africa were pushed to the background—too many forces were required to protect the colonies and territories of the vast continent. The enormous coastline and distance from the major naval bases of the great powers allowed the Siren fleets to roam freely in African waters. The only territories of the Black Continent that were of interest to the Azur Lane coalition, which it could realistically defend, were North Africa, the coastlines of the Mediterranean and Red Seas, and the parts of North Africa adjacent to the Atlantic Ocean.
The battle for the Suez Canal, also known as the Egyptian Campaign, ended in a victory for the coalition, and the passage to the Red Sea was cleared of the outsiders. Now, forces were gathering there for a breakthrough through the Bab-el-Mandeb Strait, through the "Gates of Tears." To avoid the mistakes made during the Suez operation, preparations were thorough and very lengthy.
Simultaneously, the second-largest battle for Gibraltar was raging. It had begun almost on the first day of the war and had continued with short breaks for a year and a half now. Heavy fighting would flare up and then, just as suddenly, die down. Siren fleets continued to launch assaults on the fortifications of the united fleet.
It was here that the star of a long-forgotten flagship flared to life. When the flagship of the French squadron, Bretagne, was heavily damaged, Warspite, during one of the night attacks by Siren submarines and torpedo boats, took four torpedoes and nearly capsized, and King George V was forced to return to England for repairs, command of the united fleet was temporarily assumed by Espana—the lead ship of her class, the only one built for Spain. Under her leadership, the Sirens began to suffer more tangible defeats. Raids into Mirror Seas commenced, but even this proved insufficient to finally drive the Sirens out of Gibraltar.
Besides this, the entire Mediterranean was ablaze. Cyprus, the Adriatic, the Aegean, and the Marmara Seas—battles erupted everywhere. And only one place continued to hide under an illusion of well-being. The port in the north of Tunisia—Bizerte. Bizerte was a strange place—being part of French Tunisia, it had remained on the sidelines during the past war. It wasn't stormed by the Italians and Germans, nor by the British. And the French themselves—both Vichy and Free France—tried not to stir up this city too much.
However, this small town in northern Tunisia became the last refuge of the "White Squadron." This naval force, consisting of just over thirty ships, had arrived here in the early twenties and settled in. People also arrived in the city on these ships. They had left their homes for the unknown, leaving behind centuries of history, hoping to save their lives. In total, there were about ten thousand of them, and it so happened that even now, more than a quarter of a century later, they made up almost a quarter of Bizerte's population.
One might think they were merely parasites, living off the France that had taken them in, but that wasn't entirely true either. The squadron's commanders—Commander Kedrov, Rear Admiral Berens, who in his time had been a wing adjutant to Emperor Nicholas II himself, and Baron Wrangel—were wealthy enough men who, for a time, maintained the remaining ships at their own expense.
A significant part in the financial support of the squadron was played by the support of Olga Alexandrovna, who throughout this time helped in maintaining the fleet. This played its role, and soon other White emigres joined in, happy to support the last bastion of the old empire that never lowered the St. Andrew's flag.
When the Second World War began, Italians and British descended upon Bizerte, trying to win over the Kansen stationed there to their side, but they failed to get an affirmative answer from them. In the end, this town on the Mediterranean coast remained peaceful. Even when the Sirens invaded, the lives of its inhabitants hardly changed, as the new enemies seemed to have no interest in Bizerte at all.
This lasted until the fourth of April, nineteen forty-nine, when alien ships appeared in the roadstead of Bizerte.
******
Early in the morning, with the first rays of the sun, silhouettes of ships of various shapes and sizes appeared on the horizon. A veritable armada approached the city, in the center of which sailed three massive catamarans—Siren aircraft carriers, their black hulls covered in strange crimson-rust symbols. They were surrounded by a significant number of similarly black, but much more modestly sized trimarans—destroyers of the "Pawn" class—the main combat units of the Siren fleet.
Furthermore, several heavier, squat ships with lone gun turrets had arrived. These were the so-called "Bombardier" ships, or simply Siren monitors, nicknamed "Fortress." Previously, these ships had only been spotted in the Adriatic and the Gulf of Mexico, and were therefore considered quite rare "beasts" among the invader fleets. Also in the armada were a little over half a dozen ships of completely ordinary, human architecture. Following the arrival of the ships, the roar of jet engines was heard from the sky—the angular black silhouettes of alien aircraft began patrolling the air above the city.
And so, at the moment when the city was preparing to defend itself against a superior enemy, an unexpected message in English came from the Siren fleet:
"Inhabitants of the city of Bizerte. My name is Terror, and at this moment, I am not interested in causing harm to you or your city. At this time, I merely wish to negotiate peace and support with you and with those who live among you. Within two hours, I and my retinue intend to come to you to conduct negotiations with the White Squadron. I hope for your prudence."
This stunned everyone. Yet, the city's leadership decided to accept Terror's proposal, as they lacked the strength, and most importantly, the time, to prepare the city for defense. First, a return radio message was sent accepting the terms stated by Terror, after which a group of five Siren emissaries arrived at the city port. They approached in their rigging, but upon stepping onto land, they transformed it back into their hulls, which took up positions at the piers on the outer side of the sea bay. The remaining ships stayed at sea, protecting the aircraft carriers.
The emissaries were led by a short girl who, unlike almost all her companions, did not try to hide her face under a hood. She had quite short silver-white hair, gathered into a long braid at the back. On the back of her head, above the ears, two shiny silver horns peeked out from under her hair. From under her bangs, a pair of shining crimson eyes were visible, which were clearly slightly larger than normal for a girl of her height.
Her clothing was a simple, black-and-grey dress that reached about mid-thigh in the front, while at the sides it met a long half-skirt, falling well below the knee.
"I didn't think they would actually allow us to set foot on this land," said a girl behind her in a quiet, rumbling voice, who also walked without her mantle covering her. "Is everything going according to plan, Lady Terror?"
"They are not as overconfident as it might seem, Powerful," replied Terror META to her faithful subordinate and protector, who always followed her.
Powerful—the largest protected cruiser ever built in history—was quite stately. Her height was almost a head and a half taller than Terror, and at least half a head taller than the others. She had rather short dark chestnut hair, with golden-red single strands visible, shining in the sun. She had almost no bangs, and beneath them, she concealed amethyst-blue, slightly glowing eyes.
Her uniform, unlike that of other light cruisers—if that designation even applied to her—of the Royal Navy, resembled a tunic more than the servant's attire common in the fleet during the Second World War. It had long since lost its bright scarlet color, becoming almost black, and only upon closer look could one see a dark crimson hue.
The others walked wrapped in cloaks that hid their figures, uniforms, and faces. They were met by a company of soldiers. All were armed with rifles and old-model light machine guns, and their faces wore grim and wary expressions. Silently, like escorts, they led the five METAs to a strange building constructed on the outskirts of the city. Its appearance sharply contrasted with its surroundings. Its white, marble-like walls, erected in the neoclassical style, gave it the appearance of a nineteenth-century palace, torn from another place and moved here.
"Wow... they didn't waste any time," snorted Powerful, glancing almost imperceptibly at one of the companions who, like herself, walked directly behind Terror, but on her right shoulder.
"Power," said Terror with a slight chuckle in her voice, without turning her head to her faithful protector, "our potential allies are, apparently, well-off people."
"Let's see about their combat skills, Madame Terror," declared the cruiser. "If they are so valuable to us, it would be good if they haven't lost them."
"We've arrived," the Major who had been leading the company of soldiers said dryly.
Like an honor guard, they lined up, cordoning off the facade of the building, resting their rifles and machine guns on their shoulders, waiting for their uninvited guests to proceed further. Terror looked up at the man. Despite her height, her gaze held a certain contempt.
"Thank you," she nodded, before slowly stepping onto the marble steps of the house. The other METAs followed her. The massive wooden doors in steel frames swung open, admitting the emissaries. The soldiers locked the doors behind them, leaving them alone.
Immediately upon entry, it was clear the mansion was built with skill. The vast interior space was decorated, albeit quite modestly. Ornate dark blue carpets were spread on the floors, and all visible walls and staircases were as if made of marble. Massive, yet at the same time quite modest chandeliers hung from the ceilings. Now they served only as decorations, as the light from the windows was quite sufficient to illuminate the rooms.
Passing through the main hall, the METAs ascended the main staircase, which was directly in front of the passage. It led to a new, painted door. Opening it, the five girls found themselves in a small corridor. Its walls were adorned with old paintings. They all depicted different things: still lifes here, a portrait of some man there, and so on. They were quite simple, yet of good quality.
Before the five could walk through the corridor, the door at its end swung open, and a woman emerged from it. She was slightly taller than Powerful, who herself could easily rival the height of many battleships.
Her hair, of a light cream color, was long and straight. It cascaded down her back, completely covering it. In the front, at the temples and bangs, it was short, carefully combed back. She was dressed in a long, dark blue, almost black, naval tunic of a female pattern, with a long skirt and guardsman's leg guards.
On her chest, apart from a few golden buttons, there was almost nothing. Her waist was cinched by a wide belt, embroidered with golden threads, with a golden eagle embroidered in the center. On her feet were high boots that reached up to the knee, just like the skirt, so almost no parts of the body were exposed. On her head was a rather simple peaked cap, matching the color of the rest of the tunic, also embroidered with golden threads.
As soon as she stopped by the door, her weapon thudded to the ground. In her hands, setting it on the floor, she held a rather long handle of a massive two-handed axe, whose head resembled a regular axe, albeit somewhat larger than the battle-axes of the Middle Ages.
Her piercing gaze from her slightly dull, brown eyes never left the newcomers, causing some of the METAs to sway slightly in place from a light tremble.
The quiet, rumbling voice of the guard echoed through the corridor:
"So you have come after all..." she said, then slowly, like a statue shaking off stone, turned around, opening the final door. "Proceed," she said, slipping into the hall.
Terror META quickly glanced over her companions, then stepped forward into the throne room. It was truly luxurious. A high ceiling, almost six meters high, rose above them; large, stained-glass windows almost the full height of the walls ended in rounded arches. Beyond the windows stretched large verandas, where various flowers and other exotic plants bloomed. Only one chandelier hung from the ceiling, which was many times richer than those seen before.
However, along with all this luxury and grandeur, there was also a sense of despair. All this grandeur paled in comparison to what it once was. The ceiling, though clean, bore no luxury. There were no frills; everything was beautiful, but... simple, too simple for a place that looked so majestic.
In the far corner from the entrance, there was a raised platform, reached by steps covered with a crimson carpet, and at the highest point stood a majestic, but lonely chair. No, it wasn't a chair—it was a throne. A throne for the Sovereign. It was luxurious, upholstered in red velvet and seemingly with precious parts. On the seat of the chair lay a rather simple, yet beautiful, silver tiara, encrusted with precious stones. It lay there, on the throne, and only one thing was missing—its owner. The throne was empty. There was no Emperor, no Empress—no one.
The gazes of the entering METAs were fixed on the vacant throne, causing them not to immediately notice the girls standing below, at the foot of the stairs. There were about three dozen of them in total. They stood quite clustered, discussing something among themselves. They varied quite a bit from each other. Almost every girl was of a different height, with her own peculiarities in clothing and other aspects, but three girls stood out among them.
The first was not much shorter than the one who had met them, and who had now joined this crowd. She stood half-turned to everyone, which allowed a view of her face. Her hair, which peeked out from under a black top hat, was long, falling just short of the floor, of a silver-white color. A rather large bang opened the view to piercingly green eyes. Her outfit was quite peculiar—a long black coat, with several brown and white straps crossing almost her entire body. On her belt was a girdle from which hung several bags and some vials. Her trousers were quite tight and smoothly transitioned into black boots. The inner part of the coat, barely visible from this angle, was bright red. However, the strangest element of her clothing was a closed white mask, which should have covered her face, now resting on her shoulder. It was very specific. One might think it was a gas mask if not for the long beak beneath two glass lenses.
She was arguing about something with the second girl, who was noticeably shorter, with almost black hair that lightened at the tips, revealing their true, deep blue color. Her eyes were black, like doll's beads. She was dressed in a rather simple white cloak-mantle that almost completely hid her figure and the clothes underneath, but nevertheless, a naval tunic of a rather strange style could be glimpsed beneath it. She continued to argue with the first girl, actively waving her hands and saying something, occasionally turning to the third standing girl, who, for the most part, silently listened to what they were saying.
This was a girl clad in a black tunic that barely showed from under a black mantle. Her hair seemed to be cut off at about shoulder-blade length, had a silver-white color, but most of the time, most of it was hidden under a white fur cap-kiwer, with a golden eagle on the front. It was she who was the last flagship of the White Fleet, the protected cruiser of the first rank, of the "Bogatyr" class—Ochakov. In theory, she should have taken the place on the throne, but she considered herself unworthy of it.
The guard who had met the METAs approached the others, saying something quietly, after which they all turned to the newcomers. A tense, chilling pause hung in the air as everyone looked at each other with an evaluating gaze. Finally, Terror spoke, breaking the silence, stepping forward:
"I am glad to finally meet you," she said, bowing slightly, theatrically, greeting the Kansen of the White Fleet.
"For what purpose have you come here?" asked the girl in the black coat, slightly raising her head, looking down somewhat condescendingly, thumping what looked like either a cane or a blade on the floor.
"Kronshtadt," Ochakov said quietly, calming her charge with a hand gesture, then quietly continued, "It's not worth it."
The Kansen to whom Ochakov had spoken shared only a name with the cruiser from the Soviet Fleet. She herself was a repair ship, responsible for maintaining the equipment of her comrades from the Imperial Fleet. Responsible for rear services, she held the same weight as Alexander III and Tulyen—the heads of the heavy surface fleet, the last battleship of the Black Sea Fleet, and the leader of the submarine forces, the most successful submarine of the Russian Empire in the First World War.
"Alright," said Kronshtadt, stepping back a little.
Ochakov watched her with her gaze for a few moments before turning her head back to the METAs:
"And yet, I am also concerned with the question: why have you come here, at such a difficult time?" she asked, raising an eyebrow questioningly, looking at Terror.
The monitor's face, etched with old scars and hardened welts, broke into a satisfied smile as she spoke:
"Isn't it obvious? We have come here to speak of friendship and peace with you, Your Majesty!" Terror announced with a dark, deceptively friendly smile, looking straight into Ochakov's eyes.
Upon hearing this, the cruiser flinched, blushed, and sharply declared:
"Do not address me like that!" she exclaimed, waving her hand as if brushing it off. For a moment, Ochakov turned, casting a brief glance over her shoulder at the lonely, vacant throne, before turning back to Terror. "I will repeat the question again. Why. Have. You. Come?"
Terror snorted:
"Amusing. As I said, I came here, and I stand now before you, to extend my hand for peace between us!" she said with a wide smile on her face.
"Peace?!" coldly chuckled the girl standing slightly behind everyone.
She was slightly taller than many others, allowing her to look over the heads of the Kansen in front of her. Her silver-white hair was cut short, but a few thin strands were tied into braids that barely reached her shoulders. Her eyes bore into the five emissaries like gun sights:
"Peace, you say? What you and your kind are doing all over the earth right now, and you come to us with 'Peace'?!" her voice thundered loudly as her lips curved into an expression full of anger and contempt.
"Pobedonosets!.." whispered the girl in the white cloak quietly, simultaneously elbowing the taller girl.
"Tulyen!.." Pobedonosets cut herself off, abruptly ending her speech.
Instead, the girl who had met the METAs at the entrance to the hall spoke:
"You are not welcome here," she declared in a cold tone, shifting the axe from one hand to the other as if it were made of aluminum, and continued. "Leave peacefully."
Ochakov turned to Terror and said loudly and clearly:
"I do not believe you. No one here believes you," after which she raised her hands, pointing towards the window, as if it were a cinema screen. "You and your kind have started another war engulfing the world, and now you've brought it here? We live quietly here and will continue to do so until the second coming, and you want to drag us into this meaningless slaughter? No. Your affairs do not concern us."
"I wouldn't say that," a new voice, from one of Terror META's companions, struck sharply and cuttingly, like a whip.
Instantly, all the girls of the White Squadron fell silent, and a moment later began to whisper among themselves. Ochakov herself, who had spoken so confidently, faltered and took a shocked step back. Her eyes darted to the source of the voice. For her subordinates, it was unnoticeable, but Terror and the others who had come saw clearly that her pupils were trembling slightly.
For a few seconds, as silence descended again, Ochakov tried to regain her voice. Taking a deep breath, she spoke:
"Who?.. Who are you? Show yourself!" she said loudly, looking straight at the speaker.
The figure in the cloak slowly, carefully, brought its hands to the cloak hiding its figure. It wore short, bright blue gloves that could not hide the pale grey, with a hint of flesh-pink, skin. A moment later, the hood was thrown back onto its shoulders, revealing the face of the speaker. As soon as this happened, the blood in Ochakov's veins literally froze. From under a mass of light grey hair, a pair of soft pink, slightly dull eyes looked directly at her. The girl spoke again, and her voice sent a shudder through Ochakov:
"As I said, we are not here to drag you and your charges into the war, but only for peace," she fell silent, literally for a moment, and raised her eyes to Ochakov, looking her straight in the eyes, then added in a confident voice, "I know you will understand me. Sister."
For a moment, everything was silent again, and only the quiet whispers behind Ochakov allowed her to understand that she could still hear. She tried to say something, but the words wouldn't leave her lips. She was looking at Pamyat Merkuria—her sister, who had remained there, in the USSR, while she had led those who left.
But at the same time, it wasn't her. Too many small details, barely noticeable to the ordinary eye, but which instantly caught the eye of her, her own sister.
"Look! What do I see! The Soviets are already fraternizing with the Sirens!" Pobedonosny sneered, baring her teeth in glee.
The girls of the White Fleet began to glance at each other, whispering about something, and only when Ochakov found the strength to finally speak:
"No! This is not her," she said decisively, continuing to look at Pamyat, not taking her eyes off her. "You are not my sister. Not the one I know."
"Correct," Pamyat nodded, "I am not entirely the Pamyat you remember… And yet, I am still your sister."
Silence fell in the throne room. The tension did not subside, and both groups of Kansen continued to drill each other with their eyes.
"And why, then, have you decided to come here?" Ochakov asked in a cold, steel-like, blade-sharp voice.
Pamyat Merkuria META stepped forward, standing shoulder to shoulder with Terror, whom she was about half a head taller than.
"Sister!" Pamyat began joyfully, with enthusiasm and some anticipation in her voice, her face spreading into a happy smile. "I… we want to save you!"
"Save?" the girl wrapped in the white mantle asked, raising an eyebrow questioningly. "Save from what?"
This time, Terror took the lead in the conversation:
"As you said, Ochakov, look at what is happening in the world now. Even without Siren intervention, the world is being torn apart by contradictions. Catastrophes, murders," she made a dramatic pause, cunningly looking everyone over, "civil wars, betrayals! This world is doomed. Its end is predetermined. Even if the Sirens are driven out, what will happen next? What will happen after? The world will die! And all its inhabitants will perish with it in darkness."
Finishing her speech, Terror lowered her gaze to the floor. Pamyat spoke next in a strained tone:
"We want to save at least someone. And I… want to save you."
An oppressive silence fell again as everyone looked at each other. Ochakov turned her head to her subordinates, looking at their faces, trying to understand what they were thinking. Slowly, she ran her gaze over all of them, then turned back to the METAs.
"And if we agree, what will be required of us?" she asked, raising her head menacingly, looking more at Terror META than at Pamyat.
She smiled contentedly again:
"To help us," she said, baring her teeth slightly in a predatory smile. "The faster all this ends, the more we can save from what is coming! A-and… the more of the others we can bring back," she said, in a slightly quieter, more intriguing voice.
"Bring back?" muttered the girl behind Ochakov quietly, whom she recognized as Almaz.
The girls of the White Fleet began to glance at each other in silent amazement. All of them had lost many in the past. Kronshtadt's voice interrupted all their thoughts and conversations:
"Hmm. Rumor has it that this coalition… what's it called, 'Azur Lane'… has also learned to bring Kansen back to life," she remarked skeptically, "so what stops us from going to them, promising to help in the fight against you, in exchange for having our lost sisters returned?" asked Kronshtadt, staring intently at the leader of the negotiators.
"And what is the point of saving a life for a sick man, if the house around him is on fire?" Terror asked with a smirk, raising an eyebrow questioningly. She fell silent for a few moments, looking over all the girls in front of her, then continued, "I know you won't tell me right now whether you agree with my proposal or not, but, I believe we have managed to convey to you,"—at this word, Terror looked straight at Ochakov—"the entire… delicacy of the situation, and our intentions. Therefore, I hope that in a week you will be able to give me your answer," she finished with an expression of superiority on her face, then added, "With that, allow us to take our leave. We will return to our squadron."
She turned on her heels and walked calmly and measuredly towards the exit. The two cloaked figures, who had never revealed their identities, and Powerful turned around, following their flagship, and only Pamyat Merkuria META lingered a little longer.
"Sister, I believe you will make the right decision, as you always have," she said, then also turned and followed Terror, simultaneously pulling her hood over her head. Only just before exiting the hall did she stop and whisper quietly, "I cannot bury you again…"
The doors slammed shut with a dull thud, like the gavel of a judge pronouncing a final verdict. For a few seconds, it hung in the air, and then an uneasy silence fell. The entire surroundings, the air, the breathing, even time itself seemed to freeze. No one dared to move or speak. Something held them back, and it was unclear what it was—fear, or something else. Finally, like a saving straw, the muffled voice of Pobedonosets sounded:
"I don't believe a single word they said!" she said in an irritated voice and shook her fist towards the doors. "Those cursed creatures are only tempting us with sweet talk!"
However, others were not so critical. The destroyers from the Novik "family," of which there were seven, were clearly in conflict. When they left war-torn Russia, many sisters were left behind, half of whom had now departed this world.
"Sisters…" one of them muttered, the tallest and, by appearance, the most mature—the destroyer Tserigo.
The destroyers Zharkiy and Zorkiy also exchanged glances, remembering their sisters who had died during the war and those who had remained in the USSR. Their faces expressed pain and concern as they looked at each other.
Kronshtadt's charges—the hydroaviation transports Alexander and Nikolai I, the icebreakers Ilya Muromets, Vsadnik, Dzhigit, and Gaydamak, the dispatch vessel Yakut, the submarine base Dobyicha, the training ship Svoboda, and the minelayer Knyaz Konstantin—quietly exchanged phrases and ultimately came to a consensus that the emissaries should not be trusted.
Tulyen, along with the other three submarines, frowned, quietly discussing something among themselves, but judging by their voices, they were extremely indignant.
Imperator Alexander III, a good friend and protector of Ochakov, stood silently, but her face darkened sharply. Her lips moved as if she were muttering something.
But perhaps the most withdrawn and thoughtful was Almaz, who was deeply immersed in her thoughts, turning away from everyone. She stood in the semi-darkness, half-turned, crossing her arms over her chest and placing one hand on her chin, her head bowed to the floor.
"I hope you don't believe them?" asked Kronshtadt, taking a few steps to stand shoulder to shoulder with Ochakov.
The fleet flagship stood there as if mesmerized, immersed in her thoughts. Her gaze, drilling into the floor, seemed dead, and her eyes—like an old mirror—were dull, barely reflecting light. She ignored the question, continuing to stare at the floor. Then Pobedonosets approached her and poked her in the shoulder, saying:
"Flagship! Snap out of it! Have those guests bewitched you?"
Ochakov slowly raised her gaze to the tall Kansen:
"Ah?.." she sighed, as if she hadn't heard the previous words. It took her a moment to understand what was happening around her. Her eyes returned to normal, and she quickly removed the older girl's hands from herself, then spoke:
"I have no illusions about them," she said, looking into Georgiy's face, "but I fear I have no other choice."
"What?!" exclaimed Kronshtadt, literally pushing Georgiy aside and grabbing Ochakov herself. "What do you mean no other choice?! Are you ready to agree with them?! Did you actually believe that… Pamyat?!" she asked unexpectedly, a thin spark of fear flashing in her gaze.
"No!" Ochakov shouted loudly, immediately adding. "I believe her even less than all the others, simply, if by doing this I can save all of you—then yes, I am willing to go for it," she said in a serious tone, looking straight into the eyes of the repair ship.
Ochakov again broke free from the hold and, stepping back a few steps, continued:
"You, those who followed me from Crimea… those I managed to save back then,"—Ochakov fell silent as a grimace of pain twisted her face—"The others did not wish to, remaining there… some of them died, others disappeared," she raised her eyes, and in their corners a barely noticeable gleam of tears was visible. "I do not wish to lose anyone else. I was able to protect you during the last war, and, I hope, I can protect you now," here her gaze shifted to the throne behind them all.
Ochakov sighed heavily, closing her eyes and shaking her head, and declared in a steely tone:
"In any case, they gave us a week, so we have time to make a choice. Whatever choice you make, I will not renounce you."
******
The next few hours passed as if in a fog. The White Squadron could not decide on an answer. In the end, they dispersed—a whole week remained until the allotted deadline, so everyone decided there was still time.
Ochakov headed to the embankment of the port of Bizerte. The city itself was located on the banks of a small, but quite wide, river—if one could call it that—which connected the lake of the same name with the Mediterranean Sea. Geographically, Bizerte was somewhat similar to Saint Petersburg. Not in climate, but in the general atmosphere.
Of the forty thousand inhabitants, a quarter were Russian, about a third French, and only a third Tunisians; the rest were from various countries who had settled here one way or another. And the strangest thing—the atmosphere… it was as if frozen in time. In normal times, the embankments were full of people simply strolling along them, talking about everyday matters, just as the residents of St. Petersburg, Sevastopol, Paris, and Marseille did at the beginning of the century.
Ochakov also loved to do the same. A slow, measured walk along the stone-paved embankment, to the howl of the warm sea breeze, which so reminded her of the cool draft of Sevastopol, and the cries of seagulls, helped the flagship of the White Fleet cool her head on particularly difficult days.
Now it was different. Because of the Siren ships standing within sight, there were far fewer people, but even this did not drive everyone away from the embankment. They, those who were there now, knew Ochakov and her squadron well and believed that if anything happened, they would be informed and protected; moreover, the sight of the strolling flagship gave hope that everything would be alright.
Ochakov walked slowly forward, occasionally glancing around, looking into people's faces, recognizing some of them. With a barely noticeable nod, they greeted each other, then continued on their way. At one point, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a girl, judging by her figure, dressed in brown trousers and a white shirt, over which long, slightly wavy, wheat-colored hair fell, gathered into a long, thick braid. Her face was not visible due to a massive hat with a brim and a high steel feather.
Ochakov stopped for a moment in thought, deciding whether to approach this stranger or not, but a moment before she made a decision, the quiet click of heels behind her made her turn around, and when she looked again—there was no one there.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, frowning, in a steely voice, looking at the approaching girl. It was Pamyat Merkuria META.
She shrugged with some cheerfulness:
"And what? As if I can't be here?"
"You gave us a week to think," Ochakov said sternly, as Pamyat walked past her, turning her back to her.
"Yes, we did," the META agreed, then continued, "Terror really is going to wait a week before hearing your answer, but I'm not here for that," she said, sharply turning around and looking into Ochakov's eyes.
A lone tear glistened in the corner of her eye for a moment, and Pamyat said in a softened tone:
"I wanted to meet and talk with you, sister."