January 4, 1312 PE

  Novy Mosgrad, Novayarsk

  President of the People’s Republic of Novayarsk, Konstantin Akasichi, sat at the head of the long obsidian conference table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. The Cabinet chamber was cavernous and deliberately austere, its marble walls adorned only with faded banners from wars long past—victories whose meanings had been hollowed out by time and propaganda alike.

  Behind him, the old grandfather clock ticked with merciless regularity.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Each second felt heavier than the last.

  The President’s gaze moved slowly from face to face. Ministers. Secretaries. Generals. Party loyalists. Opportunists. Every last one of them avoided his eyes, save for a few who stared back with thinly veiled impatience. They had already made up their minds long before this meeting began. This was all ceremony now—a performance meant to give the illusion of deliberation.

  Konstantin finally broke the silence.

  “Attack the Sollies?” he said, his voice sharp, incredulous. “Are you serious?”

  Several heads shifted uncomfortably. No one answered immediately.

  “That’s political suicide,” he continued, rising slightly from his chair. “Military suicide. Economic suicide—all wrapped into one neat little package.” He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to keep his temper in check. “If we were going to gamble the future of this nation, couldn’t we have chosen an easier target? Duma. Stj?rnor. Anyone.”

  He gestured sharply at the tactical holomap hovering above the table.

  “If we had the audacity to attack the Sollies, then we might as well attack Stj?rnor too. They’d fold under sanctions alone. Their navy is a joke—barely more than a nuisance. A cockroach compared to ours.” His finger stabbed toward the projection. “But the Sollies? They field *ten times* that strength. And their naval power rivals our own.”

  For a moment, the ticking clock was the only response.

  Then War Secretary Warner Alvarez leaned forward, folding his hands as though delivering a lecture to a classroom of slow students.

  “Well, Mr. President,” Alvarez said calmly, “we do actually possess a decisive advantage—one that would allow us to defeat the Sollies.”

  Konstantin’s jaw tightened.

  “Besides,” Alvarez continued, unbothered, “an attack on Stj?rnor would have inevitably drawn Solly intervention anyway. Along with ‘volunteers’ from half the international community. The same would happen if we merely threatened them.”

  Alvarez’s lips curled into something resembling a smile.

  “But if we defeat the Sollies outright,” he said, “we gain everything. Their industrial base. Their population. Their prestige. Their territory. Earth itself. All in one stroke.”

  The President clenched his fists beneath the table.

  “Yes,” Alvarez conceded smoothly, “we would be exhausted for a few decades. But afterwards? We recover. Quickly. Stronger than before.”

  Oh, how Konstantin hated that tone.

  The certainty. The smug, rehearsed confidence. The way Alvarez presented speculation as inevitability, disaster as mere inconvenience. He knew better. Everyone in the room knew better. And yet the man spoke as if the outcome were already written.

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  Worse still, Konstantin couldn’t remove him. The Party had blocked the attempt before it even reached the Assembly floor. Alvarez had been “essential,” they said. “A stabilizing force.” In truth, he was simply too well-connected, too useful to too many people who profited from war.

  The President forced himself to sit back down, inhaling deeply before responding.

  “And what about the others?” he snapped. “The Havreans? Those opportunistic vultures?”

  He leaned forward now, voice low.

  “They’ve withdrawn from galactic diplomacy ever since our little cold war with the Sollies began. You really think they won’t strike when they see blood in the water?” He shook his head. “They’ll wait until both sides are exhausted—then swoop in and take whatever’s left.”

  Alvarez barely blinked.

  “With all due respect, sir,” he replied, and Konstantin noted that there was no respect in his tone whatsoever, “we can’t sit here doing nothing while the nation crumbles.”

  A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.

  “You’ve let protests spiral out of control,” Alvarez continued. “You’ve allowed dissidents to chant about ‘democratic rights’ and other Solly propaganda for a decade straight. The economy is failing. Scandals pile up. Faith in the state erodes daily.”

  He spread his hands.

  “We need an external crisis. Something to unify the people. A war would distract the public from internal failures—and yes, it would stimulate the economy in the short term. That buys us time to implement long-term solutions.”

  Konstantin looked around the table.

  “I suppose everyone else agrees?”

  One by one, heads nodded.

  Damned idiots, he thought. Every last one of them. They didn’t care about Novayarsk—only their careers, their shares in ‘state-owned’ military corporations, their future seats on advisory boards. If he refused, they’d find a way to remove him anyway. A quiet vote. A sudden scandal. An “emergency transition.”

  Fine.

  “Very well,” he said coldly. “You get your war.”

  Several faces lit up.

  “But let the record show,” he added, standing, “that I refused.”

  Economic Secretary Warner Ivanov chuckled softly.

  “Don’t worry,” Ivanov said. “If it succeeds—and it will—you won’t get any credit. We’ll take care of that.”

  A few restrained laughs followed.

  “And if it fails,” Ivanov continued casually, “you’ll be blamed by the international community anyway. Then by liberation fronts. Protesters. Dissenters. You’ll be torn apart long before we are.”

  Konstantin didn’t respond. He simply turned and strode toward the exit, his footsteps echoing through the chamber.

  “I’ve had enough of this,” he muttered as the doors slammed shut behind him.

  For a moment, the Cabinet sat in silence.

  “Well,” the Secretary for Internal Affairs finally said with a smirk, “that was dramatic.”

  “He’ll come around,” someone replied. “They always do.”

  Admiral Petro Suvorov, Chief of Naval Operations, rose from his seat.

  “Permission has been granted,” he said briskly. “Notify the fleets. We strike first, then send the declaration.”

  He activated his comm-link.

  “I’m initiating Operation Lightning Strike.”

  One by one, the Cabinet members filtered out, satisfied. Plans had been set in motion. Contracts would be signed. Promotions earned. History rewritten.

  None of them suspected how catastrophically wrong they were.

  ■■■■■

  “We’ve received the authorization, Admiral.”

  Communications Officer Miran stood stiffly at his console aboard the flagship of the Seventh Fleet.

  Admiral Winston McVagen stared at the tactical display, its glowing vectors pointing inexorably toward Solly-controlled space. His expression was grim.

  “I wish the lot of them would burn in hell,” he muttered.

  Miran froze.

  “Whoever devised this plan,” McVagen continued bitterly, “is a brainless idiot. Anyone who seriously considered attacking the Sollies should be shot for even thinking it.”

  He rubbed his temples.

  “Sure, these new doctrines might work—briefly. But I’ve seen how fast the Sollies adapt. Faster than anyone else in the galaxy. They have the most advanced technology, the best logistics, and one of the most competent officer corps in the known galaxy.”

  He laughed humorlessly.

  “Their reputation alone should’ve scared those knuckleheads straight.”

  Then he realized how loudly he’d spoken.

  The bridge fell deathly silent.

  “…You heard none of that,” McVagen said quietly.

  No one responded. No one needed to. Every officer on that bridge shared his thoughts—and every one of them knew better than to voice them.

  StateSec eyes were everywhere.

  The Navigation Officer brought the actuator drives online. The deck hummed beneath their feet.

  “All ships,” the Communications Officer announced, “prepare to translate. Course plotted to system limit.”

  The fleet began to move.

  They would obey orders. They always did.

  All they could do now was hope—hope that the Solly response would be slower than expected, hope that the first blows would land true, hope that they might live long enough to regret surviving.

  As the stars stretched into blinding lines, Admiral McVagen closed his eyes.

  A short, victorious war, they had promised.

  He had heard that lie before.