GENERAL STAFF HEADQUARTERS, FORMATION SECTION
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An office with a sign that reads "GENERAL STAFF OFFICE, SERVICE CORPS, FORMATION SECTION, 601ST FORMATION COMMITTEE" has been set up in a corner of the General Staff Office to deal with the creation of a new unit. And the office's primary occupant, Captain Tanya von Degurechaff, is confronted with the mysteries of the world, truly at wit's end.
The cause of this is the mountain of application forms that greeted her when she sat down in her made-to-order chair and looked at her desk. The huge volume might make some sense if she were recruiting fresh graduates; the General Staff paid well, so if an open call went out for new alums, even she would have considered applying.
But that isn't what this is. Although she sometimes senses that her feelings don't quite match up with other people's, this came completely out of left field. Figuring there must have been some mistake, she picks up the guidelines that were distributed to all the regional armies and goes over it word by word, but there are no errors anywhere.
We guide him always, abandon him never, go where there is no path, never yielding, forever on the battlefield. Everything we do, we do for victory. We seek mages for the worst battlefields, the smallest rewards, days darkened by a forest of swords and hails of bullets, and constant danger with no guarantee of survival. To those who return go the glory and the honor.
They will be constantly thrown onto the front lines, and the last to fall back in a retreat. It's a declaration of a perpetual battlefield where they will have to force their way into the enemy lines even when it seems impossible, with neither surrender nor retreat as options. And for taking on the toughest battles, she wrote honestly, there would be minimal reward. Surely, she had more than fulfilled her duty of explanation. She even wrote about forests of swords and hails of bullets—the fact that if applicants let down their guard for even one second, they would be dead. The notice did say that those who survived would be granted medals or whatnot, but that's practically the same as saying they would get nothing at all.
No matter how she looks at it, it's as good as saying, Please join me on a one-way tour of Hell, thank you very much. Common sense told her that no one would respond to such a call.
She certainly wouldn't have answered it, and she was sure most soldiers wouldn't, either. That way, she could have stalled for time on the grounds that there weren't enough volunteers. Just a few days earlier, she was marveling that the Service Corps had allowed such an outrageous call for applicants to go out at all.
Mages enjoy top treatment as elites; there was no way they would respond to these ridiculous requirements. It was like sending a want ad to Wall Street that read, "Must work uncompensated overtime; no workers' comp; must be able to work weekends and holidays; low pay; no health insurance. Upon business success, employees are guaranteed a sense of satisfaction and fulfillment. (Chances of success are extremely slim.)" No one would expect any economists or traders to respond to that.
When Tanya sent out the brutal job description, she had counted on killing at least three months gathering volunteers. And yet here she is, confronted with massive piles of papers that tell her there are enthusiastic applicants from every regional army. It hasn't even been a week yet.
"Why did this happen…?" she groans to herself, burying her head in her hands on top of her desk. When she established this office, she requested minimal help from the Service Corps on the naive assumption that the number of volunteers would be small enough that she could handle everything herself—a move she now deeply regrets.
It's disappointing that her plan hasn't worked out, but the bigger problem is the mountain of applications so large that no one could possibly deal with it alone. She fancies herself adept at paperwork, but even she has limits. Unfortunately, it won't be a simple matter to obtain the additional personnel she needs.
In a sense, it's a failure of strategy. Improving the situation with makeshift tricks will not be easy. Part of her wants to know what in the world happened to common sense, but regardless, she has to admit that her assumption was seriously flawed. Yes, Mage Captain Tanya von Degurechaff, formation officer of the General Staff Office's 601st Formation Unit, confronted harsh reality and lost.
To begin with, being entrusted with the General Staff Office's far-reaching plan for the experimental creation of a quick reaction mage battalion was unexpected. For Tanya's part, she had simply hoped to gain some insider knowledge by showing her talent to Brigadier General von Zettour by reporting her reading of the situation. Now she's suddenly found the brass giving her a battalion to do with as she liked.
There were many times she nearly screamed, I don't understand! She had murmured the empty words: As a soldier, nothing could make me happier than to be a part of this, but deep down, the situation made no sense to her.
The magnitude of what the organization did for her, this powerful backing, is incredible. This situation is like those unbelievable sights that make people doubt their eyes. It's so unsettling, she has the urge to put a rifle to someone's head and pull the trigger just to check if this is reality.
After all, even if her permission to ignore the army's hierarchy to form her unit is only nominal, she has a practically free hand. And the unit she's forming is an augmented battalion. To top it all off, she can set her own deadline.
Tanya is at wit's end, mulling anxiously over all of it, when she catches sight of the phone on her desk and remembers something the busy-ness drove clear out of her head: She has an adjutant. Yes, she's pretty sure she was given an adjutant. Finally recalling that fact, she has an epiphany—can't I use an adjutant as a secretary?—and picks up the phone.
"Adjutant, adjutant!"
A week has passed since the little office was established in a corner of the General Staff Office. The moment Tanya remembers her adjutant, she picks up the phone and calls for the officer. Her head is completely occupied with thoughts of how badly she needs more people to help work through the mountain of paperwork. If possible, she wants a dozen of those commissioned military police officers, the nagging ones who never miss a detail.
"You called, Captain?"
Hmm? It's the voice of a young woman, one she remembers.
It makes her pause, but her brain is completely devoted to paperwork. She responds to the voice from the door half-heartedly, without even looking up. But this lady is reporting in for the first time. I should at least look her in the eye. When she raises her head and sees a familiar face looking back at her, she realizes her own features are cramping into a startled expression, like a pigeon hit by a peashooter. It's not part of her usual repertoire.
"It's been a long time, Captain von Degurechaff. Second Lieutenant Viktoriya Ivanova Serebryakov, reporting for duty."
The woman snapping off a perfect salute in front of her was one of the first subordinates Tanya ever had. As she returns the gesture, Tanya checks the rank insignia on Serebryakov's shoulder and sees she is indeed a second lieutenant. She must have completed the accelerated officer training program and been promoted. After reaching this conclusion, Tanya finally lowers her arm.
"It sure has, Lieutenant Serebryakov. Oh, belated congratulations on your promotion." "Thank you, Captain."
It's a mild surprise to meet such an unexpected person in such an unexpected place. "So you're my adjutant?"
"Yes, ma'am."
I see, so the higher-ups are being awfully considerate. Assigning an adjutant of the same gender was already quite thoughtful. She isn't planning on having her handle any personal matters anyhow, but she appreciates the thought that a woman would make things easier on her, even if the gesture is somewhat unnecessary.
In any event, Tanya was merely hoping for a competent adjutant. She's more than happy to have miscalculated. With an adjutant who is not only competent but also warrants a measure of trust, work will go much smoother. She's capable, so luckily I can work her hard.
"Okay, Lieutenant. I'm sorry for the trouble, but I need you to go tell the commander of the guard that I want to borrow a few MPs."
Really, she wants a phone line directly to the military police office, but for some reason phones that can reach outside lines aren't allowed at personal desks in the Army General Staff Office. Maybe it is about maintaining secrecy, but it's tiresome; maybe they just don't want to bother putting in a switchboard. "Understood, Captain. How many MPs should I ask for?"
"However many are available, but I'd like a dozen if possible." "Got it. I'll contact them right away."
The interaction went so smoothly that Tanya feels a smile tug at her cheeks. She's annoyed by the amount of work she has to do, but having a useful subordinate will reduce her burden quite a bit. Of course, she can't really say that until they have assembled some manpower. In any case, she has to deal with the fact that there are too many volunteers.
She takes a breath and gives the list a determined second look. Closer inspection reveals that, for some reason, it includes applicants from the western and northern armies, even though she was instructed to choose applicants from forces that are not currently engaged. Given the work involved in sorting through all these applications, it's probably an administrative error. Thinking along those lines, she hits on the idea that the way to fix the problem is to reissue the call for volunteers.
Her plan is to consider all the applications void on bureaucratic grounds, and put out a new notice.
"Right, I'll have to go see the brigadier general right away."
She starts counting her chickens, thinking how just protesting the number of administrative mistakes will buy her plenty of time. But she only gets halfway to her feet before she realizes she is being too hasty.
Wait, wait. You haven't thought this through.
She originally put the call out on the assumption that no one would respond. The urgent demand for combat potential and strict requirements would mean she had to scrutinize those few applications, which was supposed to buy her time. But then a huge number of people applied. There is a real danger of being accused of taking too much time on the mountain of paperwork if she gets too picky.
So Tanya reconsiders. It would be smarter to form the unit as soon as possible, and then try to drag out their training as long as I can to turn them into a sturdy human shield. For her own safety, the more time she has to prepare the subordinates who will protect her the better. I'll just pretend I didn't see the applications from the west and north. At the end of my "strict screening," I'll decide to let them off this time—lucky them! They were probably forced to volunteer, anyway; they would be just as happy getting passed over and not sent to vicious battlefields where no one in their right mind would want to go. In other words, the best outcome they could hope for was not to be chosen. Overlooking them would surely count as secret good deeds.
I can actually take advantage of the fact that there are so many applicants. She'll put up hurdles to ensure she creates the best possible unit. It'll end up taking a while to form but still retain a high level of quality. If she's lucky, she can waste all sorts of time. At worst, she can expect those who survive the selection process to make reliable shields. This isn't half bad.
Yes. Having come this far, I should focus on damage control. I want to avoid making any stupid Concorde-esque decisions.
Damage control means reducing losses—in other words, not rocking the boat. If she can just do that, there will be no problems. I'll set the standards so high that they'll send even evil deities fleeing.
That's the sort of idea that occurs to someone who's in a bit of a panic.
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IMPERIAL ARMY GENERAL STAFF AFFILIATED AGENCY, RECEPTION ROOM 7
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"First Lieutenant Aisha Schulbertz, reporting for duty." "First Lieutenant Crane Barhalm, reporting for duty."
Two young officers arrived at the capital, summoned from the eastern army. The 601st Formation Committee base had been set up in the suburbs of the city, and they arrived at eleven o'clock sharp, just as instructed. A new elite mage unit was being formed. The applicants had been told to introduce themselves, and the ambitious pair, eager to do their duty, announced their names and ranks with spirit.
"Thank you for coming. I'm Colonel Gregorio von Turner, head of the 601st Formation Committee."
He eyed them over the desk in front of him as if he could see through to their souls, and his battle-hardened aura made the two first lieutenants straighten up unconsciously.
The colonel's gaze froze them in place, but then he nodded as if in acceptance.
"I'm sure you've both been informed of the day's schedule, but there's been a last- minute change of plans."
Even in the academy, changes in schedules and objectives were commonplace.
No doubt they're looking for flexibility. After reaching that conclusion, the two lieutenants focused their full attention on the colonel so as not to miss a word.
"Scrap what you were told about reporting to Training Ground Seven by 1400 today. The two of you should head for the Sixth Aerial Combat Unit's headquarters on the double."
On the double. They figured that was the important part. It had to be a test of how quickly they could respond to urgent orders.
"Furthermore, this goes without saying, but you're both required to maintain confidentiality with regard to the selection process."
A duty of confidentiality, that makes sense, they thought. They began reconsidering how they could travel given they had to maintain secrecy. The city limits were a no-fly zone, but they could probably use regular transportation. Basically, that meant a military vehicle—ideally, one associated with Command or the military police.
"I warn you, if there is any question about your ability to maintain secrecy, you'll find yourselves returned instantly to your original unit with a note on your record."
"Sir!" they both replied.
He had hardly needed to warn them. They quickly withdrew and began conferring with each other.
"The Sixth Aerial Combat Unit's headquarters? Sorry, but do you know where that is?" "Yeah, no problem. I'm pretty sure they're stationed at the Auksburg air base."
Barhalm had never heard of the unit or its headquarters, but luckily, Schulbertz knew it. Auksburg air base was located on the outskirts of the imperial capital. As she recalled, it was home to a transport unit capable of handling a large-scale mission. No doubt an elite unit would want some connection with the air force. And a base on the outskirts of the city would make the most sense from the perspective of maintaining secrecy.
"So it's on the outskirts, then? How are we going to get out there? I wonder if we can requisition a military vehicle somewhere."
The reasoning was simple to understand, even for a couple of young first lieutenants. But that left them with the challenge of how to obtain a military vehicle. Sadly, they were currently attached to the eastern army. They had absolutely no authority to give orders to other units, leaving them with limited transportation options. And given the confidentiality stipulation, if they showed up at the base in a civilian taxi or the like, they would no doubt be turned away.
"The MP unit attached to General Staff should have vehicles. Maybe they can lend us an extra." Thinking quickly, Schulbertz came up with the idea when she saw an approaching MP salute at them. She trotted over, confirming the officer was with the unit attached to the General Staff. She was sure they would have a vehicle of some kind, and since it would come from the General Staff, there would be no issues with secrecy, either.
"Sergeant, could I trouble you for a vehicle?" "Of course, Lieutenant. No trouble at all."
The response came just as soon as she asked. Pleased with the efficiency, the pair said their thanks. The MPs saw them off with proper salutes, but the moment the car was out of sight, they all sighed in disappointment.
Their assignment was to see off those who had been tricked and would be flown back to their bases—but there were just so many of them.
"What's this, the fourteenth pair?" he mused. Man, that's a lot.
"How many more are there today? I think I heard five."
They had already been asked for a vehicle fourteen times—and that was just that day.
Their superiors had ordered them to march around in a visible way. If there were only one or two, they could have chalked it up to bad luck, but with this many, the intentions of the examiner were showing.
"Oh man. I thought at least four pairs would pass."
Could they really not notice they were being tricked and sent back to their units? Those two earnest young officers would undoubtedly be put on a transport departing Auksburg and heading back east.
"Looks like Third Platoon was right."
Third Platoon had bet that no one would pass. First Platoon had bet on four pairs passing. Incidentally, Second Platoon, which had banked on at least half passing, was already out of the running. Please, somebody pass…
Thinking of the bottles they stood to lose, the MPs prayed fervently for the applicants' success. They weren't terribly religious, but they felt like leaning on God. No disciple is so pious as a gambler.
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IMPERIAL ARMY GENERAL STAFF AFFILIATED AGENCY, RECEPTION ROOM 7, TWO DAYS LATER
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"You're saying that V601 was just propaganda all along?!"
A young second lieutenant was shouting in protest, spittle flying at this outrage. His clenched fist looked ready to pound the desk any moment. He had rushed there in hopes of helping the Western Army Group, which were still hard-pressed, only to discover that the eastern army was being given a propaganda assignment?
Everything about his body language made it clear that he thought this was ridiculous.
"Calm down, Lieutenant. Believe me, I wish I could tell you otherwise." The major facing him bowed his head apologetically. Yes, a major was effectively apologizing to a second lieutenant. He was equally concerned about the situation. But even if he couldn't say the words I'm sorry to the second lieutenant, he could express it sincerely through his attitude.
"…So you're telling me to just keep my mouth shut and go home?"
"Unfortunately. I'm thrilled at your eagerness. If there's ever an opportunity, I hope you'll volunteer."
The major sounded genuinely sympathetic. Maybe something in his voice reached the young officer, because he relaxed his fist, gave a perfect salute, and bowed upon exiting.
"By your leave, sir."
No sooner had the lieutenant closed the door than the image of the major wavered and then disappeared. At the same time, chairs that had been concealed with optical formulas appeared. The young second lieutenant never had the slightest idea that he was being watched while he was saying his impassioned piece. And that was why the observers were heaving deep, defeated sighs.
"This really makes me want us to work out optical formula countermeasures already," spat a commissioned officer bitterly. He was one of several who had appeared where there was only a wall a moment before. They had been watching the same monotonous third-rate production all day, and they weren't happy about it.
In the test they were observing, morons prattled on without noticing the deception, unfortunately. Their frustration was understandable.
The whole thing hinged on a simple gimmick: the creation of a false 3-D image using optical types. They would project the image of a nonexistent person behind a desk in a corner of the room, then just fix up the rest of the room with camouflage and optical formulas to hide any weirdness. It was merely a matter of finagling the interior design to conceal the strange placement of the desk in the corner.
Once that was done, it looked like the desk was in the center of the room, although it did make the room seem rather small. In the remaining hidden space sat the high- ranking officers, watching everything with obvious displeasure. The second lieutenant had been so sincere, only to have his ambitions betrayed. He had been putting on a one-man show for the distinguished panel of assessors.
Their conclusion was that being a mage didn't guarantee cognitive ability, even on a more fundamental level than common sense. The lieutenant had provided a vivid demonstration of this shortcoming and served as an apt example of the eastern army's lack of battle experience. That would be well and good if the subject of the test were the enemy army, but no general staff would be pleased to see how inept their own forces were.
"Right? Although you can hardly blame them for having tunnel vision."
Captain von Degurechaff shrugged. The members of the eastern army had been openly angered by her annoyed look until just days before, but now their faces were pale.
This was the test to select the members of her elite unit. The fact that almost no one from the east had managed to pass was whipping up a storm of anger.
She said exactly what she thought: "Incompetent, pitiful, lazy, arrogant, unprepared, mentally disabled, inattentive, no powers of observation—the worst kind of freeloader." And her conclusion was "all mages of the Eastern Army Group require reeducation"?
This was no laughing matter, at least not according to the staffers who came in high dudgeon from the eastern army to the General Staff Office. And yet what they found when they arrived was this pitiful spectacle.
"Rather than tell you about it, I think it would be quicker if I showed you," Captain von Degurechaff had said, cordially inviting officers who sympathized with the complainers to be proctors. The test was simple: If the subject could see through the basic optical trick, they passed. If not, they didn't.
The image projected in front of the applicants had no physical form. That could be concealed somewhat by placing it behind a desk, but after watching it all day even the non-mages began to notice something was off. First and foremost, the 3-D image was only pretending to move its mouth when it spoke.
Its synthetic voice, created by Captain von Degurechaff, was spouting fictitious nonsense from the side. If one listened very closely, it was possible to tell that the sound wasn't coming from the front.
Once the trick was revealed, it was irritatingly simple, but almost everyone was taken in by it. The majority of the applicants went to the air force base as they were told and were shipped right back to their units.
By all appearances, the eastern army was not likely to get off without an admonition.
In fact, it was quite certain. The ranking officers from the regional field armies who had come to protest ended up bearing the brunt of the General Staff members' critical glares.
"I see now. We came to investigate when you kept failing people, but now we understand."
When Brigadier General von Zettour, deputy director of the Service Corps, turned to the men from the eastern army, his eyes were cold. What the hell have you been doing over there? they seemed to demand.
Deception using optical formulas was hardly new. It was even listed in mage textbooks as being especially effective against the Republican Army's disciplined fire. Not only that, but since the Republican Army often used optical formulas on the battlefield, countering them was considered a basic part of every mage's skill set. The fact that the candidates in this test failed to demonstrate even this elementary ability said something about the level of their training.
"Didn't only about half the troops from Central figure it out, even though they've got combat experience?"
"The problem is that almost none of the troops from the east could."
As the brass whispered their criticisms, one member of the eastern contingent felt compelled to defend his army and cautiously spoke up.
"If you'll excuse me, might this not be a question of skill rather than experience?"
His indirect question was whether the situation had been brought about by Captain von Degurechaff's extraordinary abilities. At the very least, the eastern army was aware that mages with the Silver Wings Assault Badge were a tiny minority. Hence, it was possible to wonder if the gulf was one of not combat experience but prowess.
"It's a simple illusion created with an optical formula. Such formulas are frequently used as decoys on the battlefield."
But Captain von Degurechaff's matter-of-fact answer said it all. This statement was coming from someone who had survived an entire company's fire discipline using optical deception. It carried an immense weight. And there was no changing the fact that nearly half the troops from Central who had previously seen action on the western front didn't get tricked.
"You just saw them getting manipulated like puppets by something that doesn't exist, a little bent light. Surely you understand why I don't want them in my unit."
"So what are the overall results for the eastern army?"
"Twenty-seven out of twenty-nine pairs were tricked by the illusion and returned to their units."
A nearby assistant read the report dispassionately, and even though they had spent all day watching this comedy of errors, the observers sighed.
Staff from the Service Corps were already fretting about the fact that they might actually need to reeducate the regional armies. Serious doubts had arisen as to whether they could fight a war if the troops were so easily deceived.
"Even with the five pairs out of ten from the central army that passed, that's still only enough for a company."
A mere twelve people passed the initial screening, which was conducted in pairs. Even if she took every one of them, she would only have enough for a company. Just 25 percent of her goal.
"At the moment, I'm hoping for better from the remaining sixty-five pairs in the eastern and southern armies."
Her tone wasn't entirely pessimistic, but her eyes said she didn't expect much. "Well, this pass ratio won't do."
The verdict negated any optimism. It was as bad for those who heard it as for the one who said it. The commissioned officers from the eastern army slumped in resignation. None of them would have hoped that his unit would be branded inept, but reality was harsh. The mages of the Eastern Army Group could look forward to some cold treatment for the foreseeable future.
"Could you lower your admission standards…?"
"I would have to at least get people who could be useful after retraining. It would take time to assemble."
The openly despairing officers from the Service Corps suggested reevaluating the schedule. More than a few people were glaring at the easterners, silently asking how the hell they had been training. In any event, loosening the standards for admission would inevitably entail more time to set up the unit.
The unit's training period, which was the trickiest part, would have to lengthen dramatically. Calm acceptance of the fact would have been unusual. Bringing veterans together was one thing; training fresh recruits from square one was something else entirely. If the disparity between the members' abilities was too great, it could hinder their operations. Everyone in a unit had to be brought to a uniform level.
In other words, even if they founded the unit on the company Captain von Degurechaff had picked out so far, molding it into a real fighting force would take time.
"How much time, exactly?" "About a month."
Ironically, it was a word from Captain von Degurechaff that saved the eastern army personnel from their predicament. When she said "a month," all attention suddenly gathered on her, the easterners completely forgotten. Selecting and retraining a unit normally took a terribly long time.
Yet she made this bold claim in front of an assembly of high-ranking officers as if it were no big deal.
She was saying that given a month, she could whip even these useless bumblers into shape.
If any other captain had said such a thing, people would think he was either a liar or an idiot. It took two years to train new recruits. No matter how experienced she was as a mage, it was madness to say this would take only a month.
The words on the tips of everyone's tongues were: Impossible! It can't be done. Totally unrealistic.
But the air around Captain von Degurechaff prevented anyone from giving voice to those thoughts. Just watch me, she seemed to say. If she hadn't already demonstrated the ability to back it up, the amount of self-confidence she was showing would have been conceited.
Each of the officers there found themselves completely overawed by a girl young enough to be their granddaughter. So powerful and authoritative was her presence that the issue of grilling the Eastern Army Group was temporarily shelved.
"Go right ahead, then. Reeducate them—and be a little rough if you have to."
General von Zettour might have been the only person in the room to have anticipated this scenario. He smirked. A little rough. That was his way of saying she could do whatever she wanted as long as no one died.
"Sir."
Captain von Degurechaff was wearing a smile much like that of her superior. It was a savage expression, like that of a vampire with its prey in its grasp—or of a cat playing with a mouse.
"Send today's minutes to the instructor unit as well. I want to have them retrain the southern and eastern armies."
And they were efficient. General von Zettour gave the command almost as an afterthought, but it indicated he had no intention of letting the matter of regional army quality rest. Rather, he intended to thoroughly correct the problem.
"This does not bode well. Going forward, we need to make sure everyone is on the same page with regard to training."
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IMPERIAL TERRITORY, ALPEN MOUNTAINS, ZUGSPITZE TRAINING GROUNDS
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"O Lord, show me the way to guide my sheep."
Eight thousand feet. A height that shatters everything we thought we knew about being aerial mages. The voice that rings out is serious. Anyone who had the slightest thought of resisting has had it trained out of them. Now we are like obedient sheep, driving our half-dead bodies to fly onward. No, we are forced to. I'm partly focused on the tightness in my lungs as I gasp for oxygen, but I still retain just enough concentration to control my orb. This all started—if my fuzzy, rather unreliable sense of time is correct—something like five days ago.
"I'm going to give you all a choice. Either shoot me down, or enjoy your training."
Our bodies exhausted, we were sleeping like the dead. At least we had beds, which was better than my time on the Rhine lines. I thought maybe this was a kinder side of Captain von Degurechaff, but after I let down my guard and went to sleep, I was woken up by a magical assault that blew the entire barracks away. We immediately grabbed our orbs and trowels and put up our defensive shells. When we crawled out of the wreckage, we were met with Captain von Degurechaff's fierce grin. I had gotten used to that smile on the Rhine battle lines, but to encounter it first thing upon waking up was worse for my heart than one of Elya's pranks.
The bayonet of the captain's rifle looked as happy as a vampire on the hunt. It seemed to be waiting impatiently for some mage to carelessly pass out in front of her; despite the darkness of the night, it glimmered in the moonlight. She fully intended to attack when she saw an opening, if the vast amount of magical energy in the computation orb she wore was any indication.
"Have I got your attention? For the next week, all of you will be conducting mobility exercises here on training ground B-113."
Three points were marked on the maps we had been given. According to the outline of the exercise, as soon as it began, we would move as quickly as possible to the first point. The time limit was forty-eight hours.
It didn't matter how we got there—what mattered was that we not fail. Marching was basic; we did plenty of drilling in the Cadet Corps. I could have done without the observer-assisted shelling and magically guided fire bombarding us whenever our mana signals were detected.
It was extremely difficult to march while concealing the signal a mage produced. I was no exception, even though I had gained some experience with it on the Rhine lines. After all, our barracks had been blown to smithereens. Our only remaining possessions were whatever we had on us when we hastily used our defensive formulas. We barely even had any water. And now we had to march without relying on magic? An actual battle would have been easier. It made me want to cry.
But when we somehow made it to the second waypoint, we received orders to begin an optical interception. Word was the artillery had too much free time on their hands, so the training program was being changed.
"Everyone, I'm quite happy to see that not one of you has dropped out."
The moment we saw the captain with a rare ear-to-ear smile, we all felt a mysterious chill run down our spines. I knew that smile meant something even worse was coming and cursed God in spite of myself. No, c'mon!
Her expression said something like, You haven't had enough yet? I didn't realize you were such a tough bunch, or Seems like I can make this a bit harder. Curse you, God.
We had no choice but to come to terms with the fact that she would be "kind" enough to step up the training regimen according to our ability.
"You're all so good at this, you've left the artillery with ammunition to spare."
The rest goes without saying. The captain, still grinning, hurled me and all her other subordinates into a pit of despair.
"You wouldn't want them to feel left out, would you? I think you should play with the artillery." She immediately shot an infrared beam using a formula. A training round flew down the line of fire, straight for us—an attack from the artillery against our assembly point.
It was an artillery barrage against a fixed point. An attack so simple it couldn't not hit.
You're all so very capable. Even I'm proud of you. How could she say such things…?
"Really quite splendid. Granted, this is training, but you've still done well evading the artillery's guided fire. As pleased as I am, it won't do for you to go without some anti- artillery training, will it? Training means being ready for anything. So as part of this joint exercise between you and the guns, you're going to defend this foothold as practice. This is a defensive battle. You have fifteen minutes to prepare your position. Oh, don't look so worried. They don't have too many training rounds. I assume they'll run out after firing for about thirty-six hours."
She was as terrifying as she was adorable. Her tone was so sunny, it sounded like she was announcing picnic plans. An instant later, I was rushing to prepare an entrenchment, practically crying. I never dreamed there might be a day a trowel would seem so important to me.
"All right, everyone. If you don't want to die, intercept. Additionally, if you wander off the route, I will personally conduct a magical bombardment against you."
That was when I started to think I really was going to die. Looking back on it now, it shouldn't have surprised me to find that there were reduced-load rounds to "wake us up" mixed in with the training shells. This was Captain von Degurechaff, after all. She was true to her word. If you don't want to die was no idle threat.
The artillery opened fire. I thought I was ready, but part of me couldn't help wondering how I'd gotten here.
"O Lord, protect thy servants. Show us thy glory and power."
Except for the captain, who had deployed an almost divinely powerful defensive shell, everyone was tripping over themselves to repel the incoming rounds. Judging by the distance, we had several minutes to intercept them. We had to observe carefully to find the shells on trajectories we could shoot down, and then knock them out of the sky. Easy enough to say, but horribly draining to do.
I think there were seventy-two trainees in total. That was two battalions' worth, but when it came to making observations and setting up a dense shield, we weren't very good at dealing with artillery. And anything we let through would mean immediate, major losses.
The pounding was so relentless it seemed like every battery in the area had been mobilized. If we hadn't realized we needed to pick out the live rounds mixed in with the training ones, we really would all have been killed. The shelling continued intermittently throughout the night, driving us to despair with our exhaustion and limited vision. The worst thing was that even if you did your own job, if your teammate failed to do theirs, you could be blown away along with them. And yet, if you focused only on strengthening your own defenses, someone else could get killed. All we could do was trust our teammates, and those who failed were mercilessly culled. We'd been thrown into an extreme situation that was just like the front lines. In the end, we barely slept at all.
When the thirty-six hours were finally up, the captain pointed to the radio, looking apologetic. "The artillery says they still have more ammo."
The next moment, we heard the familiar sound of something flying through the air toward us. It was very simple: The artillery had begun another salvo. But it came at a moment when we had relaxed slightly. We'd been hanging on by the skin of our teeth, and now we were shaken. My instincts screamed self-preservation, but the price was too high to pay.
We saw once again how happily the captain did what she said she would do. In the end, the barrage didn't last very long, but by that point the number of candidates had dropped to sixty. We set off for the third location on the map. The terms were relatively straightforward: Just go. There were no conditions besides the time limit. In other words, we had as good as no information at all.
"Move carefully."
With only that advice to go on, I imagined the worst. On the lookout because who knew what might happen, we marched on, trembling in fear. Once in a while, an armed bomber company would fly a search overhead, but all we had to do was stay out of sight. For some reason, we spotted military Dobermans roaming around, but we just had to avoid them, too. Of course, everything was avoidable.
Her warning left us paranoid; there had to be something. But as if to mock us, we never encountered any malicious traps. It really was just a march. Of course, the time limit was enough to make us wonder if a bunch of exhausted mages could make it, even at full tilt.
When we reached the third waypoint, utterly spent, Captain von Degurechaff was there waiting for us with a grin on her face. It was time for resistance to interrogation training.
And then, after we had survived interrogation, we were thrown into the Alpen Mountains. It was a nightmare I wish I could forget. I was crying out in a voice no young woman should ever have to make, convinced I was going to die, while the captain marched beside me unfazed. Was she an agent of the devil or of God? It had to be one or the other.
Ahh, I can't believe I have an ally more horrible than the enemy. She's not human. I would bet my life on it. Me and a few others saw it once. During training, one of our teammates dropped like he was dead. The captain gave him a good kick, and before we knew it, he was back on his feet. I had been staring into the abyss of death myself.
But I saw something else, splat on the ground with a broken leg after an avalanche in the Alpen Mountains at 7,200 feet. I'm sure no one would believe me if I told them, but I saw it.
"You amateur. How does it feel to be a moron who slows down her team because she can't even dodge an avalanche?"
The captain heaped abuse on me. But I know. I saw it: She charged into the avalanche to save me.
Even after my friends told me that she tossed my busted body aside like a used rag, I believe. She is definitely a good commander, even if I'm not sure about her as a human being. Of course, we all laugh and bad-mouth her.
I think we've all gone crazy. Perhaps the captain's madness is contagious. But God gave me a revelation that we would save the Empire. Be a leader among the apostles who will protect this holy nation.
What an absolutely insane world. If the captain is an apostle of God, then only the devil can possibly exist. No, we can sense that the mythical gods are beings who have their own circumstances. Doctrine is for the gods. It's not like the gods exist for our sake.
Even so, we don't know everything.
It isn't possible to create elites in just a month. Yeah, all you need is a little common sense to know that.
But I said I would do it in front of a group of high-ranking officers. There's no taking it back.
Under normal circumstances, failure would be a major problem. It would damage my career, maybe even lead to a punitive posting to the front lines. But if I can lead them to the conclusion that the candidates were such low quality that even I couldn't teach them anything, the reverse will be true.
I'm guessing they would want to cover things up, try to pretend none of it ever happened. The Service Corps has authorized me to go to extremes. If I train them as mercilessly as I can, push them to their absolute limits, they will surely give up.
Then this will end with everyone else getting called gutless quitters. I'll come through unscathed.
Hence, I'll borrow training methods from every special unit known to military history. The American-style stuff includes water acclimation training, but we'll do even harder altitude acclimation training. I'll make them give me all they have.
When that phase is over, next will be the infamous Hell Week. A total of four hours of sleep in four days. It's a cruel method, but when you push people to the breaking point, you find out what they're made of. Mages are capable of compartmentalizing, but there are limits. I'm doing this for a just cause, purging any fools who value themselves over their comrades.
I'm not eager to abuse my subordinates, of course. I'm not so weak-minded as to take pleasure in meaningless violence. Every vicious act will have meaning and a rationale, or I won't commit it.
That's why I welcome dropping out at any time. In fact, I wish they would hurry up and quit! I'm sure they want to escape this pressure, so they should choose to leave! Anyone who makes it through Hell Week goes straight into a week of SERE. It'll be a packed schedule of resistance to interrogation and survival training.
After that they'll have nearly gone insane, so I'm sure they'll give up, but I have a perfect plan for any war-crazy nuts who manage to hang in there.
They'll be dead from Hell Week and SERE, but I'll throw them out on a long-distance, no-magic march through the Alpen Mountains for a week.
Of course, only the absolute minimum sleep and rest will be allowed. I'm basing it on the worst battle conditions on record. How about half water rations? They won't be allowed to carry food, of course. And using their computation orbs will be an instant fail. They'll only be allowed to use a knife—one for every two people.
Perhaps it makes sense if I explain it as a General Staff trip, only harder and more elaborate. Anyone who can't cross the steep Alpen Mountains in seven days is out. And that's quite a challenge even for someone who is in good health and properly outfitted.
If anyone makes it under these conditions, I must be cursed. But all I have to do is mercilessly fail anyone who makes the slightest error. Then things should turn out more or less the way I want.
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[Image]
.
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And just in case they don't, I've prepared foolproof insurance.
Let me be clear: I don't want to have to resort to this. It's not my intention. There's just no other way that's quite so certain.
So, yes, I overcame my anguish and put this insurance in place.
I've made the new mass-production prototype developed by the mad scientist at Elinium Arms standard-issue equipment. Yes, that walking disaster, Chief Engineer Adelheid von Schugel. It's an early mass-production version of the Elinium Arms Type 97 Assault Computation Orb he's been working on.
I'm confident that we can expect accountability problems from that infuriating man.
Yes, there was a time I thought all that. So why, then? Is life just cursed? Or are the possibilities for humanity just endless? Maybe it's important to have faith.
But please remember, we must completely divest ourselves of wishful thinking. An experiential approach is always instructive.
Please remember. Many of your failures are your own fault. And often, by the time you realize it, it's too late.
Suddenly, I find myself standing on a raised platform. Maybe I'm half-asleep, because just as I'm thinking maybe I should curse my own morning-hating body and its unexpectedly low blood pressure, another irresistible wave of sleepiness assaults Tanya. But then her ears catch snatches of what her mouth is saying.
"As of today, you graduate from being worthless maggots. From this day forward, you are imperial mages. Wherever you go, from now until the moment you bite the dust, you will be bound as fellow soldiers—the members of the army are both your brothers and your brothers-in-arms. Next, you'll be heading to the battlefield. Some of you will never return. But remember this: Every imperial soldier dies. We exist to die. But the Empire is eternal. That means you, too, are eternal! And so the Empire expects you to put up a never-ending fight."
…Why do I have to say all this?
I don't remember saying any of that stuff, but something remains in my memory as if I did. Before and after that is fuzzy. Unfortunately, Tanya has to admit that she has lost parts of her memory, perhaps because she activated the Elinium Type 95 during training. That is exactly why she hates it.
Captain Tanya von Degurechaff, who isn't getting any taller even though she should be growing and has trouble with equipment sizes, can't avoid feeling conscious of her height issue—especially when she is surrounded by battle-hardened women mages (rare as they were) with great bodies.
Good grief. I may be a knowledge worker, but my white-collar job required a certain amount of physical strength. I do pay attention to my diet, knowing that healthy work begins with a wholesome lifestyle, but nothing seems to come of it. Well, not that I would expect to get taller eating K-Brot.
In other words, if as an individual I want to avoid wasting my efforts, I have to grow up. That's what brought me to the military doctor, to find out why I wasn't growing even though I should have been. It's true: Before I knew it, I was even asking the doctor what I should do to get taller.
The military doctor advised me that my growth was stunted because of balance issues between my muscles and training. If I addressed that, got plenty of sleep, and ate well, I would grow, she said. The smile she gave me left me suspicious.
Immediately after, I was seized by an impulse to take my rifle and blow my head off to get rid of those memories.
She was an awfully chubby doctor, for a woman. May disaster befall the General Staff, who choose the worst times to be considerate. Was this woman showing me, me of all people, sympathy as a fellow woman? Irritatingly, all of this started when I was accused of resisting the form of oppression known as faith because I was a man. I didn't think it was possible, but was I brainwashed to want to mature as a woman?
No, it's very dangerous to come to conclusions based solely on circumstantial evidence. It's true that I suffered much unpleasantness because of the Elinium Type 95, but I'm pretty sure the thought control is limited to when it's active.
Looking at my records, I can't verify any ongoing manipulation of my thinking. But I do have the sense that something very unpleasant is developing. Devils! Do you—all of you—mean to trifle with my identity as a freedom-loving individual?
…The next thing I know, there's a rosary I have no memory of around my neck.
The Holy Mother? Yes, like you see in churches. I understand. I've often seen the sisters handing them out. But I only ever watched.
…Stop fleeing and face reality.
Why do I have this unfamiliar rosary? For that matter, when did I start losing my memory?
This is bad. I really can't trust my memories. For something I got from a church, this thing looks awfully well used. You could say it has a sense of history around it, a presence.
To be blunt, it seems like the sort of thing that—in my world—the church would keep as a holy relic. To the point where I want it as far away from me as soon as possible. If I had my wish, I would donate it somewhere. Anywhere.
…This kind of thing starts to get terribly heavy hanging around your neck.
I know I trained those candidates. It's also true that I intended to pass no one at all on the pretext of a difficult selection process. My memories of that month are clear. But something—something is wrong.
"Maybe my mistake was unconsciously activating it at eight thousand feet."
Yes, my critical error was activating the Elinium Type 95 to go higher. Maybe I should consider the possibility that spiritual corruption can build up. Rather than just manipulating my mouth for a short time, maybe it accumulates in the body like lead does.
"Get tested for spiritual corruption? But on what grounds?"
The military facility that performs our physicals is researching the effects of magic technology on thought. If I can trust them, they announced at a meeting of the Society for RTI Technology that they could tell if someone was having their thoughts influenced. Maybe I should get tested now, while I can still make sane judgments.
But the problem is finding a reason. If I'm seen as a commander with mental problems, it will threaten not only my future career but also my entire life. Women administrators are not uncommon, but in the Empire where gender equality still has a ways to go, their qualifications are always questioned. Any sort of apparent problem would not be good for someone who wants to do white-collar work.
My fretful agonizing is interrupted by a deferential knock at the door. It's Visha, who's starting to get used to being my adjutant, and from the look on her face I smell trouble. I immediately abandon my less urgent thoughts and switch gears to focus on work.
"Captain, a message from the General Staff Office." "Thanks. Do they need a response in a hurry?"
If it's some pointless errand, I want to take my time with it, if possible. "Yes, ma'am. There's someone waiting for you."
"What?"
After taking a glance, I snatch up a pen and read the military telegram more closely.
It's from the General Staff. I'm being ordered to finish assembling my unit and deploy immediately to a base in the southeast. Top priority.
"Captain von Degurechaff? Is something the matter?"
"…It's too soon. It's still way too soon. Lieutenant, get the General Staff Office on the phone."
I order the uncertain second lieutenant to ring the General Staff. But at that moment, as if they expected me to do that, a high-ranking staff officer appears. No, they definitely knew, which is why they sent him from the General Staff Office to talk to a mere captain like me.
"That won't be necessary, Major von Degurechaff." "Er, Colonel von Lergen. I didn't know you were here."
It's my acquaintance, Lieutenant Colonel von Lergen. He's sensible and a good soldier who is against sending children to the front lines.
"Yes. Congratulations on your promotion, Major. I've come as an envoy. I expect you have a lot of questions."
The lieutenant colonel delivers this unofficial announcement as though it is already settled. I'm not unhappy to know I've been promoted, but I smell trouble. A high- ranking official would normally never come from the General Staff Office just to deliver the promotion papers for a simple battalion commander.
"…Thank you for your concern. Lieutenant, leave us." "Yes, ma'am. Excuse me."
I immediately dismiss all third parties, including my adjutant. I want the room to be as private as possible when we get down to business. My promotion… I suspect the battalion would intuit what it means. To put it another way, the battalion has to get ready for combat. Can I buy some time by saying the unit lacks discipline or hasn't gelled yet?
"Okay, Colonel. What's going on here?"
After I completed initial formation of the unit at Central, the plan was deployment to a base in the southeast. I know that depending on the state of the war, there's a nonzero possibility of going north or west, but these orders are to immediately move to the southeast.
Standard operating procedure is to give at least six months for the creation of a unit. It's altogether unclear to me why they should think my unit would be ready so much sooner.
"You've got your forty-eight people. The brass considers the unit formed." "Yes, it's 'formed,' but it isn't a unit yet."
Amateurs often fail to realize that finalizing the members and becoming a unit aren't the same thing. To make an effective fighting force, you have to take a certain amount of time to establish a chain of command and ensure everyone can work together; otherwise, it's only a unit in numerical terms. Politician-soldiers aside, this is the General Staff's job, so I would expect them to understand.
That only makes it all the more terrifying. I have to wonder what would make them feel they have to force this, when they understand how unrealistic it is.
"Troops, equipment, no problem. The General Staff is very pleased with how efficient you've been."
"Very funny, Colonel. We're practically a training battalion—we're still working on unit solidarity, practical training, and basic consensus among commanders."
"So you're saying your unit has some operational limitations?" "Of course. I'd need at least half a year to bring them together."
It's a given, but turning an organization into an organism takes time. Getting everyone to know one another and building the requisite relationships demands at least six months. Even if that weren't a concern, these troops absolutely need remedial combat training.
"You completed initial training in just a month. The higher-ups think they can put your unit on the front lines tomorrow."
"May I inquire if they're out of their minds? A unit that has been formed and a unit that can fight are two completely different things."
Two fully manned units may look identical on paper, but one may be fresh out of basic, while the other has combat experience and all the supplies and rest they need. The difference would be enormous. To create a well-trained, coherent organization, time is essential.
"Even if training proceeds quickly after formation, it takes time to get troops disciplined. Everyone knows that."
"So we can't send them into battle the minute they're assembled? You know, the higher-ups only think they can do this because you're commanding."
That's no answer. It doesn't even make sense.
"They're more than welcome to send me into battle alone." I can say that because I know they won't do it. It's unthinkable to reassign a commander in the middle of creating a unit, so I don't hesitate to come on strong. "If they want the battalion to display its power in battle, that's a different matter, as I believe they well know."
It is absolutely ridiculous for them to treat what amounts to a bunch of fresh graduates like they can be instantly combat ready. It's as if they are admitting that not only can we not spare the time to train the unit but also that there are no usable veterans. In other words, the disease has been revealed as terminal.
"…Major. The Imperial Army is under a lot of pressure."
"So you're going to throw an unprepared mage battalion into combat?"
"Most of the Great Army's mages were drawn off to the west, so the north is in a precarious position."
Currently, most of our mages are deployed to the west, precisely because a large number of the Great Army's mages were transferred there. Still, more than a few remain in the other regional forces. The Entente Alliance is in its death throes, anyway. The Northern Army Group can easily handle it alone.
Which is precisely why I want to know what's so urgent in the southeast, far from the front lines. Accelerating our timetable just to stick us in the back seems as foolish as ruining a bottle of wine that would increase in value with age or failing to properly store cheese.
"That's why I don't understand, sir. Why the southeast?"
If they said the north needed reinforcements, I would understand it was because they were shorthanded. Things would be crystal clear. But now they're saying they're shorthanded, yet they're sending us in the opposite direction of the fighting. It doesn't make much sense to me.
"It's what the General Staff decided." "May I ask why?"
"There are military secrets involved. Work on your combat capability in the southeast until you receive further orders."
So he's not going to explain the politics behind the decision. In that case, all I can do is guess, but it's probably a waste of time. I can only bear in mind the bottom line, which is that a unit under the direct control of General Staff has to be sent to the southeast for some reason.
"If it's combat capability you want, sir, I suggest you use a fully trained unit."
"I presume you're already above average."
"Colonel von Lergen, I feel compelled by the duties of my office to inform you that it is too soon to deploy this unit and that doing so could hinder their preparations to fight in a useful way."
My remark is also an attempt to probe. Any battalion commander worth their salt will naturally complain about being deprived of the necessary time to get their unit ready.
"Your warning is duly noted, but don't expect this decision to be overturned."
What I get back from him is a bureaucratic response. If the hard edge in his voice speaks to the higher-ups' resolve, it unquestionably indicates that the decision is set in stone.
"Understood, sir."
So I stand down. But they could have handled this with some paperwork or written orders. Why go so far as to send someone? I can't shake the question. I find the answer in a murmur from Colonel von Lergen, almost to himself, as he starts to pack up his belongings now that his work as an envoy is apparently done.
"Oh, take this as a word of advice from someone who has lived a little bit longer than you: Since you'll be going to the southeast anyway, why not take the time to learn Dacian?"
"Huh? Dacian, sir?"
"There's never anything to lose by learning a new language, especially for us soldiers."
That is true as far as it goes. But why Dacian specifically? There are two possibilities: Dacia is becoming either an ally or an enemy. If the Dacians are going to join us, we'll have to be able to communicate with them. And if they are going to fight us, it will be useful in gathering intelligence.
"If I can find the time, I'll try picking it up. Thank you for the advice, sir."
"Not at all. Congratulations again on your promotion, Battalion Commander von Degurechaff."
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SEPTEMBER 24, UNIFIED YEAR 1924, RANSYLVANIA REGION, TURAO COUNTY, IMPERIAL ARMY FIELD MANEUVER AREA
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Only a few days after the battalion is ordered to their new base, they undergo the inspection that will conclude the initial selection phase.
Due to the tense war situation, the deployment plan was bulldozed through, which pushed the inspection up. The high-ranking General Staff officers are concerned about unit discipline because of how hastily the members were thrown together, but their expectations are betrayed in the best possible way. That day, a sight they never could have imagined leaves them gaping in amazement.
"You numbskulls. Get your asses in gear and go higher!"
"It's only eight thousand feet! You wimps. Can't you hear me?"
For some time now, an even, emotionless voice has been coming over the radio. It's hard to believe, but it's the voice of a child—a little girl. The glow of her mana blinks ominously, showing her willingness to mercilessly shoot down anyone who dared to fly lower.
"You can't? Fine. Then die. Die right this minute. If you die, the resources we're wasting on you can go to your fellow soldiers."
If anyone dared to complain, they would be the target of a serious barrage formula. Anyone who lowered their altitude without either blacking out or using up their mana first would surely be shot out of the sky. It's an absurd pronouncement, and the mages don't expect her to follow through, but they soon learn that seeing is believing.
"Okay, be a sport and either die or go higher." Today is another day that defies precedent.
The Republican Army mages can reach eight thousand, so we should aim for ten.
So murmurs Major von Degurechaff before ordering her unit to "immediately" ascend at full speed while the inspectors look on. Normally, trying to fight anywhere over six thousand feet is considered suicidal. But she nonchalantly orders her unit up to eight thousand.
It seems crazy, but she was serious when she said she would turn this band of inept soldiers into elites in just one month. She wasn't exaggerating. She did it. She whipped them till they bled, but they were elite.
"What do you think, Colonel von Lergen?"
When Lieutenant Colonel von Lergen had expressed his desire to inspect the 601st Formation Unit, Major von Degurechaff had agreed quite readily, as if to say it was no problem at all.
And indeed, there are no problems. At least, no one has died in training so far. And the mage battalion they see before them is, as promised, quite powerful.
"It's superb."
Truly, superb is all there was to say. Taking the troops to their absolute limits was a stroke of genius. She kept them hovering between life and death, squeezing every last drop of ability out of them.
The inspectors heard that her program involved dramatically increasing soldiers' capabilities via what amounted to fear of imminent death. And it certainly made sense that spending an entire month hounded by a simulated terror of the great beyond would lead to a jump in ability, though you couldn't help feeling bad for the tormented soldiers.
"How can they go above eight thousand without oxygen tanks?"
The technology officers in attendance are shocked for a different reason. Granted, this is training, but they make the approach to eight thousand so calmly. It has to be Major von Degurechaff. They wouldn't be surprised to see her flying at twelve thousand feet. But it is significant that she's able to get her troops to fly so high.
"Oh, it's quite simple." This confident answer comes from the military police officer who is their guide. He sounds like he's chatting over a cup of tea. "I heard they're continually using a formula that generates pure oxygen."
It takes a second for that to sink in. Continually? In other words, the formula is constantly used.
"Two perpetually active formulas…?"
"Yes. It seems that was the absolute minimum required of them."
The MP is not an engineer, so he doesn't realize how revolutionary that is in the field.
The engineers from the General Staff Office, however, are amazed. A furor breaks out among them, some even whispering that it's completely ridiculous. Yes. The simultaneous activation of multiple magical formulas is, in theory, possible.
The researchers have even performed some successful experiments. But the creation of a computation orb that allows for parallel sustained formulas that can also handle combat usage has proven difficult. Where in the world did she get such a thing?
"Where the hell did she get a computation orb that can put up with that kind of stress?"
It hasn't been officially supplied to the military yet. They don't know who made the prototype, but it's clear she has some serious connections. They can only marvel.
Well, she is an exceptionally gifted soldier. It wouldn't be a surprise if some arms manufacturer asked her to test out a new device. And indeed, that's what had happened.
"She commandeered the first of batch of Elinium Arms's mass-production model."
Oh, right—it's a bit anticlimactic. She did work in tech development there at one point. It must have been a connection from those days.
But Elinium Arms is full of secret projects. It wouldn't have been possible for her to get something from them without the implicit consent of the General Staff's Procurement Department or possibly even the Service Corps Division. Otherwise the MP probably would be fighting her to the death.
"I told you not to make your maneuvers too repetitive! Why don't you realize what easy targets you are?!"
The members of the battalion are struggling to maintain stable flight at eight thousand feet. Major von Degurechaff rises above them, still scoffing at them. Her breathtakingly fluid movements make everyone realize what it means to be a Named. Compared to the tortoise-slow trainees, Major von Degurechaff flies swift as a swallow.
"Very good. All that's left is combat." "E-erratic evasive maneuvers! Now!"
"…I don't believe it. They can perform evasive maneuvers even while sustaining formulas in parallel?"
The exercise unfolding before them is basically just the battalion mages darting around. It looks as if they're playing a game of tag, and at first glance, you would wonder if it's possible to even be that pathetic.
But for someone with the right expertise, this is a parade of the incredible. They have already realized the stable activation of parallel formulas, which should have been technically impossible. A computation orb that can handle that and erratic evasive maneuvers—nearly the same thing as combat maneuvers—is like a dream.
But there's more. Several of the mages have proactively deployed optical decoys to evade enemy fire.
"They're making decoys, too!"
In other words, they have enough spare resources to create an optical decoy even during evasive action.
The decoys appear quite deceptive yet rapidly deployable. Several even seem to be taking autonomous action. Truly amazing performance. And all this from something that was standardized for mass production.
"Elinium's new model is beyond anything we imagined."
This has to be the next thing we adopt. No one would say otherwise when presented with this spectacle. At the very least, reliability isn't an issue; this unit is practically conducting the endurance test.
Cost is the only hurdle, but even that would decrease quite a bit once the orb was being mass produced.
"I want the documentation from Elinium Arms." "I'll put in the request, Colonel."
Lergen leaves that to his adjutant and looks up to the trails in the sky. Truly amazing aerial maneuvers. The trails are so beautiful he could practically get lost in them. Sometimes talent and humanity show up in inverse proportions, huh? He's annoyed to find the thought, which reveals his own unkindness, prove his point.
"This is an excellent opportunity. Show the inspectors your worth." "Major von Degurechaff, don't you think you're going a bit far?"
A basic doubt appears in his mind as she spurs her troops on over the radio. They say she hates losses. If that's true, then this exercise is borderline. It's certainly too much in terms of cultivating people who can be used.
"No, we're still well within accepted parameters. Please observe the results of allowing me to pick my people and purge them of their incompetence."
But her answer only deepens his doubt. Why? The ideas of "picking" and "purging" were exactly what she was talking about in her speech at the military academy. She had said, "It is our duty to defend the Imperial Army from the plague called incompetence." She isn't developing her people so much as abandoning those who aren't useful.
"People have limits. I heard half your candidates didn't make it."
Why?
"I was able to secure the numbers for an augmented battalion. I don't have any problems yet in terms of human resources."
"I see. Very well. Continue. Sorry to have bothered you."
Argh, damn it. So that's it. Yes, I see. Resources? Human resources? Is that what you call our soldiers?
Are soldiers just replaceable parts to you?
Now I understand what felt wrong. She's treating people like numbers. That's not so unusual among staffers, but she has unconsciously started counting people as resources. Well then, she's perfectly logical. She's calculating the most efficient use of what is available to her.
"It all makes sense now. Yes, you must have written it."
I was sure I had heard of total war and world war before. The source of it was right beside me. That's why all of this seemed so familiar.
The madness of numbers. The world has succumbed to insanity. Has everything truly gone crazy?
I picked a bad time to become a soldier. This war broke out in an era full of horrible people. If some shitty God even exists, I'm sure he's in league with the devil right now.
"Sheesh, I don't know if it's her who's crazy or the world."
He can't help but think the scene before him says it all. How terrifying to see her true nature laid bare. She is a monster.
The sighs from the General Staff members could be impressed or apprehensive, but their whisperings and ruminations die down in the face of a single report from the border.
"Emergency. An army-sized Dacian unit is violating the border. They appear to be heading for Herelmannstadt."
Dacia, army, border, violate. He doesn't want to think about it, but when the words line up, their meaning is hideously clear. The report that came from the border like a scream meant war—with yet another country.
"The inspection is suspended! Suspended! All troops, reassemble immediately. I say again, all troops, reassemble immediately!" The air was full of shouting commanders' voices.
"The inspection of the 203rd Aerial Mage Battalion is hereby suspended! Put me through to Border Command!"
Staffers are running around shouting into radios and telephones to be connected to this and get information about that. The proceedings are abandoned. Everyone is moving at top speed, not caring about the mud spattering their dress uniforms.
Those who don't have battle stations because they are there as observers head aimlessly back to the Command Post. Lieutenant Colonel von Lergen is among them.
Even moving briskly, surrounded by the cacophony, he finds a chill running up his spine.
"World war. Could something so ridiculous…"
…really happen? he is about to say, when he is interrupted by Major von Degurechaff, who shows up at the Command Post a bit later.
"I absolutely agree, Colonel. Why should the Empire have to take on the entire world?" It seemed she arrived after her own subordinates simply because they had longer legs. As if irritated at her short stature, she stomps her booted feet and fairly spits in indignation, "Those stupid Dacians. I'm sure they're doing it for the sake of world or whatever. They're just dying for us to burn them to the ground. Who knew international cooperation could be so awful?"
She is angry at world war itself. She's furious and assuming that it's coming.
It is absolutely absurd, but Major Tanya von Degurechaff is indignant about the insane future she's envisioning, one in which the Empire will be up against the entire world.
"Fine. Come at us, you pigs. Or perhaps I should say—we'll give you a fight!"
O God… Is this…? Is this what you wanted?
(The Saga of Tanya the Evil, Volume 1: Deus lo Vult, Fin)
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[THE IMPERIAL ARMY INTERIOR LINE STRATEGY]
> Exterior Lines
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>Mapped outline of History
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