Under the bruised sky, the base exhaled. For a moment the world felt absurdly calm — a lull after the storm — and from that fragile quiet came the sound of celebration: ragged, relieved, a little guilty. They had won. The wrecked ramparts still smoked, the dead lay where they had fallen, but the living laughed anyway, the sound like metal ringing.
"They cheered around the base as if it could drown out the memory of the flames," Oscar thought, but he didn't scold them. He felt it too — the strange weightlessness after death spares the survivors.
"Captain, the Empire is retreating — we won," someone shouted. Cheers rose, muffled and hoarse, like people rediscovering their voices. "Hey Oscar, you can land your ship now. I want to organize a big party for this triumph." Stefan, still grinning where a grin could be afforded, nudged at the old rituals. "Come on, Stefan — you still do those things?" Oscar teased. "That's what keeps morale high." Said Stefan with his grin still on.
Oscar let a laugh crack free. Yet the memory of loss tugged him back. "Why did I even ask? Let's go then. Wait — we also need to get Youri. Said Halley " The crack of worry returned. "Shit! I totally forgot he was down there." Said Oscar raising his hands to his head. Bjorn's hands were steady at the controls. "Bjorn, let's land the ship." "Roger, Captain."
They filed out onto the scarred earth, boots stirring the dust, and handshakes were exchanged with the raw, sacred civility of warriors. "Nice to meet you in person, Captain Meilton. Said captain Barry as he came close to Oscar. Captain Barry, thank you for what you did out there." Said Oscar feeling grateful to him, "Don't mention it — it was our duty." Salutes clicked in the air like small, bright knives. "Well, since we're here, let's enjoy what's left of the kitchen. Said captain Barry in a laughing tone. Lead the way." Said Oscar as he points his hand at the kitchen.
In a corner Youri uncorked a bottle and the sound somehow felt sacramental. "Damn Miller — he finally kicked the bucket. You were a bit of a dick but mostly a warrior." A champagne pop cut the air. "To a brave warrior of the galaxy — may you rest in peace." Glass flashed; men drank with the thin smile of those who had lost a common enemy and now had to face the fact of human cost.
Then a familiar, stumbling voice cut through the laughter. "Here you are! Where were you all this time? I was worried you were dead under some rubble. Said Oscar worried. " Youri stepped out from where he'd been — half-sleep and half-stolen peace. "Come on, Os — you write me off that easily? Don't worry. I was looking around and found this liquor cellar. Alcohol did its thing; I was asleep up until a few minutes ago." Oscar let the exasperation fall from him like an old jacket. "I don't know what to do with you!" Youri only smiled, sheepish. "You can't do anything with me. Oh — I also just found out I can't taste these things, but their effect still works on me." Oscar shook his head. "You are still an anomaly to me, Youri. Anyways, I'm glad you're okay."
The talk warmed into quieter, dangerous territory. They traded small gossip, cigarette embers, and the hush of those who had seen too much. "They did lose a lot of men in the end — the spoils of war, or so they say. Let's just hope their souls move on and find peace." Youri's voice was blunt and soft at once. "Hope… Oscar, if God really exists, do you think this war is a punishment for us?" Oscar looked toward the sky where the smoke still made patterns of memory. "I know one thing, Youri: God works in mysterious ways. Like it or not, we can't decide what He will do. When I walk to His palace one day, maybe then He will answer me." Youri snorted and gave a half-laugh: "Keep dreaming, bro — I don't think we're headed that way." Laughter rippled, brittle but genuine. "You do have a point." Oscar said laughing.
Far away, in the marble corridors of Fansilia, news traveled differently — not by cheers but by ceremony. "That's very unfortunate news. May his soul rest in peace. Thank you for your report, Captain More. You will be acting commander until your return to the capital." "Thank you, Minister." Pages and bows, the cold calculus of crowns.
Orders were made with the sort of ink that invited prayers. "Alia, send our condolences to the Miller estate, and tell them we will hold a proper royal funeral for Norda here at the palace. Tell everyone to be present. All commanding personnel, in and out of campaign, are to be summoned to the royal palace. Said minister Alan with a heavy tone. I'll go speak with the Emperor myself." "It's going to be sad news for His Highness, but war claims souls — good ones and bad ones." Alia proceeded to lead the way to the throne room. "His Highness is on the throne, room Minister." "Thank you, Alia."
When Minister Alan delivered the news it landed like a tribunal. "My Emperor — with a heavy heart I bear bad news." "What is it, Minister Alan?" the Emperor asked quietly. "At the Battle of Aleta earlier today, led by Marquis Miller, we lost him." The emperor stilled. "Minister — Marquis Miller is dead?!" "Yes, Your Highness. Did he at least fight valiantly until the end?" asked the empror "I was told so. He used the cannon as a last resort to take the enemy with him, but was shot from behind and perished in the explosion." The Emperor's face folded, a mask tempering into memory. "I see. So they shot him from behind. Who was responsible for Marquis's death?" Minister Alan's pressurized voice carried an indictment. "By the reports from soldiers present, it was the Tartarusios that did the damage, Your Highness." A thin order dropped like a guillotine. "Minister Alan — I hear you. Now I give you an order: do anything necessary to capture these criminals. They are going to pay for what they did to my friend. Tell everyone: those who bring them to me will get ten million zells — foe or ally."
The proclamation meant the horizon would never be peaceful again. Even amid the toasts and the mess-hall laughter, the crew heard the echo of the Emperor's edict — a price on their heads, a drumbeat for another hunt. They drank. They celebrated. They mended what could be mended. But beneath the pop of corks and the rough jokes, there was the low hum of inevitability: the war had been won this day, but its cost had multiplied; the chase would continue, and the world had just grown a little darker.