The curt voice of the datalink chief -
"Uh - ma'am, new tracks in from the Freija - tight group, fast movers, three of them, fourty Ks, Az 9"
Shallow breaths. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Paws gripping the bridge railing. Shit shit fuck. Flanking torpedo bombers, almost certainly.
Close her eyes. Picture the airspace. Great wings against the sky. Fourty Ks Az 9.... The Nove Loje should be in position to picket. A barrage of mad-dog AAMs should at least force them to break off.
She knows the words she has to say. They echo in her mind. "Push the track to the NL - tell 'em to use the Arrows on blind."
But they don't come out of her mouth. She's frozen. Frozen as she looks at her own DL display and watches a little triangle labeled FREIJA CA-067 blink out in the span of a single frame.
No screams. Not from here. Out the port window, only a momentary flash of flame and a falling black-smoke trail barely visible on the horizon. A dirty grey mark of her shame - a brush of charcoal against the blue and white of the Cerulan sky.
Her ears ring. The DL officer says more and she can't her her. Can't hear her. Didn't hear her. Didn't give the order. Didn't save them. Didn't save them. Didn't save them. Killed them. Killed them. Killed the-
Mirébela bolts out of bed, her fur drenched in sweat. Hyperventilating. That dream again. Her Captain's cabin is empty as usual, but for the customary filled electric kettle and pack of instant coffee that Tcusi leaves out every night. She closes her eyes, sitting up in bed. Her mind is cast back again-
"It's not your fault, Miri."
Sammeki's soft voice, the brush of her tail against her leg. The surprising warmth of the shark woman's fine scales.
"I looked at the reports. It was a new, faster, longer ranged torpedo, and they managed to hit the Freija right from the angle of least CIWS coverage. You have to stop blaming yourself."
She was right, and Mirébela knew this. But the pain nonetheless marked her face as she sat at the edge of her lover's bed and looked out on the Noveburca skyline.
"I know that. But... Part of me refuses to accept it."
Two years, a promotion, and a new command later, that doubt still refuses to vanish. She got promoted for that engagement. Fucking promoted to Vice Admiral. In an engagement where she lost a Path-damned heavy cruiser and the one hundred sixty three souls aboard.
The logical part of her mind was fighting back, reminding her that engagement and it's vital destruction of air assets helped stop the Confies from breaking through the mountain valley, holding them back before they could hit the open plains of Harjedia.
She sighed, and her gaze fell upon the pictureframe of her and Sammeki stuck to her end table by magnet. And she remembers, one more time, that soft voice -
"That guilt of yours is a strength, you know."
"... What do you mean?"
"It means you don't throw people away. That you make choices to protect those who depend on you, not to earn more stripes and stars on your shoulder cape."
"And what if... what if I end up choosing my crew over victory?"
"Then you fight another day. Again, and again, and again. And you come back to me. Safe."
Not a quiver of fear in that voice. Not a mark of worry in that sharp-toothed smile.
"You learn in Intel - people are the greatest asset you could ever have on the battlefield. That's the difference - the real difference - between us and the Confies. We don't throw our best and brightest away for a one-day gain."
She leaned in, smelling of lavender.
"And nobody shines brighter than you, Dame Kamepbél. My knight in winged armor."
Mirébela sets down the photo, and rises to make that coffee and get in her uniform.
Sometimes, I wonder which of us is the real commander.