Going For Broke

[Omi]

LeBlanc's mood was grim. The others had already been summoned to convene with her aboard the Chant, although her message hadn't specified why. They might have been able to guess halfway, at least - even the lower ranks had noticed the changes in patrol schedules. The Royal Navy rarely sent more than a few reconnaissance flights a week up past Tau-37 and out into Omicron-80, and almost never through the Lorraine passage itself. Now, however, more and more wings were finding themselves assigned to the region, and even the Directorate's forces had been directly deployed in the region. The rumours had been spreading for days now, but so far the exact specifics had been disclosed to no-one. Obviously, it had something to do with the Outcasts, but beyond that the rest was speculation. Were the High Command expecting an offensive, or planning one of their own? Bets were already being taken and made, despite efforts to discourage the practice.

The glass of wine she held was one of her best. One of Blouis' finest vintages, well over a century old. Those who were closest to the Grande Maréchale would have recognised this as a serious warning sign - Lucie was not partial to breaking out the dearest parts of her collection without good cause. She hadn't even lit up a cigar yet, but the cravings were already there. The stress of leadership, perilously heavy even at the best of times, had gone exponential in the past few days. God, this was a disaster. How the hell had this happened?

Her call with New Paris two days ago had been brief but chilling. The King himself had not spoken to her - a small relief, at least - but the spokesperson had made her position quite clear. Failure was not an option. The DeFrance dynasty had lost enough to this war already - if they lost one more, then the consequences for her were all too clear. The specifics of what had happened were unclear, as the Calliope's black box recorder had been stolen with the rest of the ship, but the 'debriefing' of the recovered pilots and the last transmissions received painted a chilling picture. The crown princess, the heir apparent had fallen into Maltese hands.

In the wake of the Tau-44 fiasco, this was the last thing she needed. It was entirely unclear whether the Outcasts even knew who they'd captured, given the light size of their assault team. It had looked more like a raiding party than a serious boarding attempt. The chance was slim, and getting slimmer every day, but while it might still exist it ruled out all attempts at negotiations. The idea was almost unthinkable anyway - the Crown could not seriously bring itself to consider the slave state as an equal, let alone to organise some kind of ransom to be paid. No, this would have to be done the old way - that, at least, LeBlanc and the King had both agreed on.

She checked the time again, the tension in her frame clearly visible. The Grande Maréchale was not an imposing figure in any conventional sense, but it was her dress and poise that spoke to most people. Her uniform was as immaculate as ever, and her blue eyes were like twin shards of glacier ice. When she was in her element, she had a commanding presence that almost hushed rooms by itself, and her piercing gaze seemed to bore straight through tactical situations and quivering young Capitaines alike. Her characteristic frown was there today, as it was most days - but there were more lines in her face than ever. In the past few months, she had been feeling older than ever. Commanding such a vast military force was a herculean effort, and every day she could feel it eat away another piece of her. For every sector and system she led forces to victory in, another would suffer from the ineptitude of her subordinates. Despite her best efforts, the Royal Navy's chain of command was as rotten through with nepotism and blustering nobles as ever. She had been acutely aware of this fact when planning this latest, hurried operation, each sleepless night she took more critical than the next as she covered map after map in lines.

The Chant du Cygne's conference room rarely saw any use these days, but the ornate chambers were always kept ready. Only one other person was really needed, though she had sent out the summons to three. If Lebeau's gross carcass never stumbled through the doors, however, it was no great loss - the scouting reports from his men had come through anyway, and their findings corroborated perfectly with those she'd had Pelletier and his Directorate goons dig out. It was Général Marie who she most needed to speak to, and Commandant Avignon would have been useful to have around. Marie herself would be integral in the planning and execution phases, and Avignon's battlegroup under the Valenciennes had been an impressive part of her recent campaigns. The rotten wood had already been carved out of her plans - an operation like this required only the best. The assault had to come soon, before their intelligence began to age. The window of opportunity was wide open - all they had to do was advance. She had already taken steps to reinforce the Tau garrison, with the Chant itself leading the reinforcements now attached to Battlegroup Guillestre. There was little time to delay, after all, with every hour more crucial than the last.

LeBlanc refilled her glass once more, trying not to let her agitation show, even though she was alone. Where in God's name were they?

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