11. The Red Glow of Lebensraum (1)
Three days. In just three days, 80% of Forge's industrial zones had fallen into the hands of the workers.
Governor Grayburn had barricaded himself in the governor's mansion, sending desperate transmissions to the Imperial Center requesting suppression forces, but whether they'd send any was anyone's guess. For those few weeks, the only troops he could muster were about 200,000 planetary guards—and against a population of 8 billion rising up, 200,000 meant nothing.
"We won't fight!"
"What? You want us to kill our own families?!"
"My dad's over there!!"
Half the guards dropped their weapons. They were workers' sons, daughters, parents—family too.
"Tell the rich bastards to abandon everything and strip naked!"
"Here's a medal for you—a noose!"
"Kill the governor! The governor is my enemy!"
The other half, spooked by the momentum, retreated to the governor's mansion.
And Erisa Karan hadn't slept a wink in those three days. There was just too much to do—no time for rest.
Her single gunshot had shaken the entire planet, and amid that chaos, someone had to grab the helm. Erisa hadn't wanted it—no, maybe she had—but she became that someone.
Representatives from the 14th Industrial Zone workers and other zones came to her.
"You're the one who fired the first shot. You have to lead us."
That was their logic.
Erisa led. First, she formed an organization. The Workers' National Salvation Committee—grand name, simple structure. A council of elected reps from each industrial zone. Full planetary votes for 8 billion were impossible, so hand-vote reps per zone, and they formed the committee. Not perfect democracy. But better than 40 years of dictatorship. Everyone accepted it. The revolution was too damn delicious.
Her shoulders soared, laden with every title: committee chair, Forge Labor Party leader, secretary-general, interim governor. No one opposed her rise. The spark was lit, the only distant focal point was His Majesty the Emperor—and on-site, it made sense for the one who pulled the trigger first to take command.
Thus was born the 22-year-old welder, the new leader of Forge, who cried "For His Majesty the Emperor!" and fired the first shot.
Erisa's first act: a declaration. Broadcast planetwide via hologram under the Workers' National Salvation Committee.
'Ah... I'm nervous.'
Erisa stood at the podium—a cargo container in the central square of the 14th Industrial Zone, a shabby stage incomparable to the emperor's edict hall. But the eyes of the tens of thousands of workers below burned hotter than any audience there.
"Comrades."
Her voice boomed through the speakers.
"As you all know, our true leader is His Majesty the Emperor alone."
Cheers erupted.
"The old governor and power-holders failed us. They weren't loyal. They ignored His Majesty's will, trampled us, and stuffed their own bellies—for 40 years!"
Angry cries echoed beyond the speakers. The rage built over generations burned so hot, only the emperor could quench it.
"But His Majesty didn't forget us. He said, 'I believe in you.' That we can judge and act for ourselves—like humans!"
Tears welled in Erisa's eyes.
"We acted. And we will act. We will realize His Majesty's will here on this planet with our own hands! We are not slaves—we are workers loyal to the rightful Empire, citizens who believe in His Majesty the Emperor!"
That night, in her cramped dorm room, Erisa began writing.
This book by Erisa wasn't some political theory tome. She'd never studied political science properly. So it was truth straight from experience: 22 years on Forge—what she'd seen and felt, watching her father’s lungs eaten by dust, ignoring a colleague shocked by an electric prod, the hope from the emperor's speech, the despair when it was crushed, and the hope reborn. Like a diary.
And at its core, one image: a young emperor buried in papers, sleepless, reading letters from the fringes one by one.
The image Habsburg described pierced every line. The emperor isn't a god or superhuman. He's human. With a human face, human hands reading letters, human eyes that weep—human.
'But... how can a god proclaim himself one? Jesus called himself the son, never God.'
Then what is he?
'Perhaps...'
No. Impossible. But he descended with a human face, didn't he? If that human forsakes sleep for 890 trillion souls, thinking what we must do—then yes, he's superhuman.
"We must act."
This text spread across Forge: data pads, printouts, mouth to mouth. Illiterate workers had comrades read aloud—and those readers' voices often trembled.
But she'd overlooked something...
"If we do not burn, who will drive out the darkness here?"
"The rebels claim we oppose loyalty to the Empire."
"I ask you, comrades: do you want total war?"
She'd written it too well.
Even hearsay was tasty; reading it firsthand ignited long-suppressed 'freedom' in their hearts. The revolutionary fervor blazed.
MEGA took on new meaning on Forge. Not the capital politicians' slogan, but one soaked in blood, sweat, and dust. Born on the fringe, the fringe's MEGA.
By revolution's eighth day, Forge's skies remained red. The eternal twilight from fumes and heavy metals persisted, but today, faces beneath were different: expectation for the future over fear, resolve over despair, hope in those charging toward it.
Erisa stood at a window in the old governor's aide office, now committee HQ. All planetary admin except the mansion had transferred to the committee. Grayburn hunkered with remaining loyalists (they called them rebels), but it was only a matter of time.
Yet unease gnawed at Erisa. What if suppression forces came? 8 billion workers with rifles couldn't face Imperial regulars. Habsburg's words echoed: 'He will descend leading angels.'
Angels. Metaphor? Exaggerated hope? She wanted to believe. Without it, she couldn't endure.
Then the committee comms officer rushed in, panting.
"Secretary-General comrade! Reaction from orbit!"
"Reaction?"
"Ships! Multiple capital ships entering our orbit!!"
Erisa dashed to comms. Dots appeared on the ancient sensor screen.
"One, two, three... how many is that?"
Ships multiplied. The officer trembled reading data.
"Two dreadnoughts, twenty cruisers, thirty-plus destroyers... fleet ID code..."
He paused, stunned, then: "Imperial Navy 5th Fleet."
The 5th Fleet. Selene Astraea's "Blade of the Stars."
"Hah..."
Erisa's knees buckled. Beyond the hazy skies of fumes and metals, a massive shadow loomed. The Empire's steel angels had come to descend.
A whisper escaped her: "They really came..."
Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she didn't wipe them. No need. These were tears she couldn't shed weeks ago whispering "Is there hope?", held back shooting the factory owner, swallowed bearing 8 billion souls.
The officer's voice from behind trembled reading sensors.
"S-Secretary-General. Fleet comm incoming. Content..."
Silence.
"...Do it now."
Erisa smiled skyward. For the first time, a star shone in Forge's red sky.
*****
Selene Astraea was in a great mood.
"Kehhehe... I'm a genius."
Her genius had borne fruit. Seated in the bridge command chair, she grinned at the blue warp tunnel streaks on the forward display.
No paperwork, no stamps. Just instrument panels, tactical displays, crew reports. This was her world. Sailing stars, not paper.
'Missed this hunk of metal's smell and gunpowder.'
Dreadnoughts Pandora and Eclipse, 20 cruisers, 30 destroyers—52 ships total—warping toward the Tertius Arm outskirts. Destination: TR-7742 system, aka Forge.
Perfect pretext: military inspection of a reactionary planet rejecting the emperor's policies, backed by MEGA Committee Chair Habsburg's report. Legit everywhere.
Troops griped, "Fuck, stealing our vacation?!" chanting "Our real enemy is officers!"—but they'd scream "Kill the xenos!" at first sight of them. She ignored the bitching. Escaping paperwork hell with this excuse? She was proud.
"Ah... Adjutant. Feeling good today."
"Pardon?"
"Lalala~ naranrara~."
"You've finally lost it. Knew it was coming."
Arrival imminent, she savored the joy.
Then the quantum entanglement comm buzzed. Sender: Senator and MEGA Committee Chair Dominic Habsburg.
"Heh...?"
Selene's brow arched. Direct from him? Unusual—normally Senate to military to fleet chain. Skipping meant off-record or urgent.
"...Hm?"
Selene stared into space. 'Gift? What gift?'
She knew he'd visited Forge—Adjutant Korvel handed over the report. Memorable "reactionary planet" phrasing.
But "made a gift and left"? What?
"Ha... something's off."
A sliver of unease pierced her good mood, breeding anxiety. Politicians saying "gift" rarely meant actual gifts. Usually hot potatoes, traps, or both—sometimes rarely good.
"Tch. Won't know till I see it."
She shelved it, firing up the tactical sim. Pressuring one fringe governor? Child's play for 5th Fleet admiral—no sim needed.
"Exiting warp! 3... 2... 1... arrived—!"
BOOM—!
Ships dropped warp, engines humming fiercely. Selene's face hardened.
"What the fu—"
Super-Terra, 3.2x Earth's size. Already hazy from fumes, but now? Burning.
Infrared fires dotted the surface; orbit-visible blazes at least twelve spots. Factories ablaze. Smoke pillars pierced the upper atmosphere, shrouding the planet in thicker brown fog.
"Hah... calls this a gift? Crank planetary comms intercept. Let's hear what these fuckers are yapping."
Emperor, revolution, slaughter. Words tangled across frequencies unchecked.
Revolutionary cheers and war screams overlapping? Even after countless battlefields, Selene never got used to it.
"Salvation Committee... what the hell. That Earth history thing... communism, Lenin, commie whatever?"
She muttered. Habsburg's "gift" clicked late.
"Haa... that crazy bastard?"
Revolution after his visit. Coincidence? Bullshit. Selene didn't believe in coincidence—commanders who did were dead ones.
Habsburg did something. Planted a seed. It exploded.
"...Politicians make no damn sense."
Curse rolled on her tongue, swallowed. Analyze intent later—grasp the now.
"Fine. Let's play. See who's real ally, who's foe."