Youjo Senki - Volume 13 - Chapter 3.1

JANUARY 6, UNIFIED YEAR 1928, SKY ABOVE THE EASTERN FRONT

“Ridiculous…”

Tanya von Degurechaff grits her teeth at the absurdity of the world, embracing reality and summing up the current situation with a faint sense of pride, rather than disgust.

“They’ve certainly got it easy over here in the east.”

The Ildoan front had been exceedingly political, with a need to decipher General Zettour’s intentions, and even military pragmatism was subordinated to the greater strategy. The anxiety Tanya felt on that battlefield was far beyond any demands put on her from above.

The eastern front, however, is an entirely different beast.

“This is supposed to be a main area of operations,” I mutter, shrugging before rubbing my eyes. The beautiful reality, however, still remains.

The eastern front, the main battlefield upon which the Empire and the Federation have bet the fate of their nations. War may be an extension of politics, but when war drags on for too long, it can become an end in and of itself in extreme cases. In that sense, the east is a battlefield. Even political bargaining here is for the sake of war, a phenomenon similar to—but quite different from—the idea of war being a tool of politics.

It is the extremity of absolute war.

A totally futile battlefield. But that means what must be done is evident. Fight and win. That, or be at the mercy of war’s fortunes. A simplified world, where no other options need be considered.

That also means, however, that there is less room for the side that is inferior in strength to play any tricks.

Regarding whether or not we can win.

If there was a good job to be had, then maybe the Imperial Army could make ends meet by virtue of pure strength. But a good patriot of the Empire would probably do better to despair, as the limits to what can be accomplished under the current situation are almost entirely limited to prolonging defeat as far as possible, rather than achieving decisive victory for the Empire.

I, however, do not fall into the category. I shrug internally as I turn my attention to the sky. On that point, at least, I don’t believe I must share the state’s fate.

Our altitude is nine thousand feet. We’re conducting reconnaissance and patrol in pairs.

Other than my adjutant, no one else is within hearing distance. We are quiet as we fly. Aside from an occasional complaint or navigational remarks, the world is silent. As the peaceful eastern sky stretches onward, I begin to grow strangely philosophical.

The sky is almost too pleasant to just be an afterthought. Even the stinging air is bracing. When not accelerating for combat, the Type 97 flies much like an elite sports car. Although the phrase assault orb sounds bombastic and awe-inspiring, it also conceals a capacity for exceptionally smooth and stable flight.

An unruly steed, but incredibly faithful if one can tame it. Computation orbs are perfect works of craftsmanship that never betray expectation so long as the user has sufficient skill.

“Lieutenant Serebryakov, this Type 97 is a profound work of art. Though, I think the designers could better spend their time developing weapons.”

“They seem like practical enough tools of war in our hands.”

“You are not wrong, but that is exactly the issue.”

The Type 97 Assault Computation Orb. A masterpiece created by Chief Engineer Schugel at the Elinium Arms Factory. The dual-core orb is, of course, both a technological marvel and a complete nightmare from the viewpoint of military affairs.

First, the atrocious manufacturing costs. I have heard that even competitive race cars are easier to produce than Type 97 Assault Computation Orbs. And while the number of defective orbs produced is maddening, even the slightest relaxation in standards would definitely result in the cores blowing out during acceleration in combat. Not maybe, not possibly, but definitely.

When the instructor squad tried to make use of the defective orbs, there were even instances of veteran mages—precious commodities of the Empire who were worth more than their weight in gold—dying in the line of duty as a result.

The finished products, meanwhile, can only be described as unruly steeds. In the end, at least eight hundred hours of solo flight experience was set as the minimum requirement before a mage could officially operate a Type 97. One thousand six hundred flight hours and four hundred hours of orb-specific training if you wanted to play it safe.

These were the instructor squad’s desired standards, but they have never been taken seriously. Hence why there have been so many accidental deaths among promising new recruits when using Type 97 Assault Computation Orbs. Valuable human resources—who only just finally completed their minimum training—lost along with their expensive machinery. A great blood tax paid by citizens of the Empire to the earth.

With that in mind, I flash a cynical smile.

“What do you think would have happened to the Type 97s if we hadn’t been able to use them effectively, Visha?” I ask casually.

In response, First Lieutenant Serebryakov crosses her arms and thinks for a moment. With a look of realization, she laughs.

“I’m sure we would have been told to figure it out. We are their favorite fixers, after all.”

“What about these new toys, all specs and no bang? Do you think they’ll get put to actual use?”

I certainly hope not, I think privately with a laugh. Worse, First Lieutenant Serebryakov is probably right on the money. The Empire truly is a sweatshop.

Results at the time the orbs were first sent out were underwhelming. The higher-ups are probably desperate to see real-life performance live up to specs.

“As mages, we are adherents of modern science. Not some one-stop shop capable of miracles or deux ex machinas…”

“You do seem to play the hand of God from time to time, though, Colonel.”

I immediately correct my adjutant’s misconception.

“No, I am a person. Not a god.”

The last thing I want is to fall into the same category as someone like Being X. I’d rather be good and peaceful, a citizen with a lowercase c, a lover of free and open markets. That is Tanya to the core.

Speaking of which, I’m hardly the type to get sentimental. Nevertheless, this pleasant exchange and beautiful sky seem to have made me turn over a new leaf. Sometimes, flight patrol isn’t so bad.

It’s nice, the way that jogging can be nice. Maybe it is no time for such thoughts, seeing as we’re at war, but the current flight is so picturesque that it seems like it should be captioned.

But it’s not perfect. As time passes, my pleasure begins to dissipate. The east is cold, after all. Hostile, not only physically, but conceptually as well.

“We’ve come this far, and still no sign of enemy hides…”

“Neither hide nor hair.”

“Yes, neither hide nor hair,” I repeat, agreeing with First Lieutenant Serebryakov. “Visha, have you picked up any radio transmissions?”

“It’s completely quiet; all I’m getting is the occasional friendly signal.”

“Do you think the enemy is using cables? Or are the field engineers who lay our own cables just overworked?”

“Can’t it be both?”

“That’s possible. Between the partisans and regular wear and tear, they could also just be cut off…”

Which would necessitate communicating by other means, even if it meant creating detectable radio signals. In any case, any large-scale attack or aerial deployment would be preceded by plenty of chatter. That means silence is golden.

I stare down at the snow-covered earth, remembering how quickly sounds dissipate in that sea of white. Part of me wishes the snow would just melt and bring the mud season already.

If, as General Zettour expects, there is no significant movement on the front before then, we’ll be relatively safe for a time. But the trusty mud season is still a ways away.

A respite as we wait in hope for the mud season. There is no sign of the enemy on the ground below, which is wrapped in a blanket of snow. The sky, from all corners, is quiet.

“Still, it seems odd that there’s absolutely no sign of them. This doesn’t sit right.” I have a bad feeling about this, but hopefully, I’m wrong. “I don’t know why, but I just don’t like it.”

“You too, Colonel?”

“You feel the same way?”

“Yes,” First Lieutenant Serebryakov says. She is a trustworthy adjutant. With Serebryakov as my wingman, we should be able to cut through any number of intercepting enemies we happen to encounter. But as we proceed closer to the enemy’s sphere of influence, it would be best to heed our intuitions.

“An eerie silence, so to speak.”

I can’t help but grow tense. I hope my misgivings will turn out to be nothing, but I know better. On the battlefield, such wishful thinking is a luxury.

And yet as we continue to peer around cautiously, nothing seems to change. All clear, at least as far as the eye can see.

Not just clear, but desolate. The sky above the eastern front, which has donned an uncharacteristically peaceful form, is almost entirely uncharted. After a moment of hesitation, however, I rouse myself.

“Let’s increase our altitude and see if we can lure them out.”

“Understood, Colonel.”

We purposely reveal our mana signals as a lure. However…

“No response,” First Lieutenant Serebryakov says.

I nod reluctantly, looking stupefied.

“Apparently so.”

Climbing causes signatures to be detectable from a greater distance. In other words, this increase in altitude should have triggered a response from the enemy. In the parlance of the east, it was a blatant provocation. And yet nothing.

After being sent careening back to the east by Colonel Uger’s pitching arm, I expected a few chance encounters while out on patrol. Now that there haven’t been any, I can’t help but feel unsettled.

It is almost more frightening than spotting the enemy.

“It’s just like we were told…,” I mutter as I scan the area again together with my adjutant. “When they told us how peaceful it is out here, I wasn’t really listening, but…”

For it to be this quiet? I’m amazed. My adjutant nods in agreement.

“Honestly, I find it hard to believe this is really the east.”

What the two remember about the east is its biting sky. The air literally thick with the stench of war. Scrambling to intercept enemy air attacks. Ground control raising the alarm. Transmissions from the air defense net. Enemy radio transmissions.

But this?!

Where is the stink? I furrow my eyebrows. To a veteran like me, this clean air smells fishier than anything.

A sense of danger is important. Such instincts shouldn’t be underestimated. Normalcy bias can blindside people into an early grave. As a result, when Eastern Command briefed us that “the front is all quiet,” I simply nodded and smiled. “We’ll see about that,” I grumbled. They even suggested holding a welcome party. I nearly screamed but managed to keep my composure.

General Johan von Laudon was appointed by General Zettour. I eagerly look forward to the day he whips the other senior officers at Eastern Command into shape. For now, there’s no way I could take that briefing with anything but a pinch of salt.

After playing nice with Eastern Command for a little while and returning to our roost, I decided to set out on an urgent recon mission together with Visha. We’d barely unpacked our things.

“All that trouble for this?”

“There are no signs of the enemy. At least nothing obvious, Colonel.”

“We’re still in regular contact with HQ… Nothing to report from forward outposts, either. Air intercept control seems fine as well. It’s rather early in the year to be made the fool. This all seems too good to be true.”

Crossing her arms in midair, I cock my head in confusion at this strange, almost off-putting peace that has descended on the front.

“Colonel. Look at the ground.”

“Hmm?”

“They’re friendly forces. A ground unit is waving their caps at us.”

Isn’t that nice? I think as I let my face relax.

“Let’s bank at them.”

Although dressed in white winter camouflage for the snow, the human shapes on the ground below have removed their caps and are now waving them cheerfully in our direction. In response, Tanya and Visha pay their respects with a nicely executed aerial maneuver.

After saluting the troops on the ground, we continue our flight, but there are no signs of anything unusual. The area is so clear that we even have time to check out friendly bases.

“Maybe General Zettour’s predictions were right.”

Maybe the Federation Army really is suffering from terrible attrition. I furrow my brow as the cold sends a shiver up my spine. I’ve gotten far too accustomed to the warmth in Ildoa.

To be transferred from that world of color, culture, and for better or worse, saturated brightness, to this, the eastern front! I may be accustomed to the east, but I can still feel the cold in my bones.

I am an officer, however. The cold is no excuse. In fact, it is precisely times such as this when it is incumbent I step out in front.

“This is what it means to take the initiative, set an example, and lead.”

It is in times of difficulty, more than any other time, when people begin to question leadership. This is a universal truth in every day and age when it comes to human organizations.

The eyes of subordinates are always on the boss. Higher-ups can say whatever they like, but if action doesn’t follow suit, their words are meaningless. And when it comes to soldiers, who risk their life in their line of work, they expect impeccable behavior from their commanders as a matter of course.

Tanya lacks the slightest intention of ever dying for her troops, but she knows that her soldiers are her best meat shield and does not hesitate to worry over, sympathize with, and when necessary, even do right by them out of pure self-interest. That’s precisely why she is currently patrolling herself.

“Truly, neither hide nor hair… Maybe they really are hunkering down for the winter,” I say, after readying her binoculars once more. I only half believe what I say. “I feel like we’re falling for a poor excuse of a scam.”

“Or maybe it’s just harder to relax when the enemy is gone than when they’re here where you can see them, Colonel.”

I’m tempted to wax philosophical about how much I hate those filthy Commies, but instead, I just shrug.

“I’m hardly pining for an enemy. But we know what they are.”

“You mean Commies.”

Exactly. I nod.

“Neither hide nor hair, when we know they should be here. Who could relax? What do they call it again? Maskiróvka?”

“It’s scary to not know what the enemy is really thinking. But Eastern Command believes this lull is just the result of both sides trying to build their forces back.”

“Yes… Maybe that does make the most sense.”

I nod, half out of momentum, and fold my arms.

These days, even in the Empire proper, a flight so uneventful that you have time to scan the ground at your leisure is unusual. And yet here we are, carrying on a full conversation as we casually fly.

“It doesn’t seem entirely impossible, but still…”

Winter sky or not, the only mages within detection range at the moment are myself and First Lieutenant Serebryakov. Despite being the commander, I have slightly more leeway to speak what is on my chest at the moment. I can likely be forgiven for a few small complaints.

“If it makes so much sense and things are this peaceful, then I would have rather we spent at least the holidays in the capital. There was no need to cancel our leave. I’d like to give them an earful about that.”

“Agreed… The new year just hit, and they’ve already got us running around like chickens with our heads cut off.”

“Exactly,” I agree with a sour look on my face. I keep the rest of my complaints to myself, but the General Staff seems to be getting a little too attached to the concept of discretionary labor. Not that I could talk. I canceled their three days of New Year’s leave to carry out a proof-of-concept experiment, but it had been Major Weiss’s idea, so let’s just say the buck stops with him.

Either way, this applies to our sudden eastern deployment as well. One wave of the hand by General Zettour and off you go. Plus, what about Colonel Lergen’s strange request? I know Lergen was worried I might get caught up in a bureaucratic pissing contest over here, so instead, I’m just expected to handle myself in the deep end and somehow display ingenuity and autonomy on the battlefield. It doesn’t get much more exploitative than that.

What I wouldn’t do for some labor standards.

“Actually…”

Labor standards are no more than a fight for worker rights based in law, but the power of the state is capable of constantly contorting that law. Or to put it another way, reason is contorted for the sake of war.

It all boils down to the same thing.

“War is awful.”

“Colonel?”

“It’s nothing. Being back in the east after so long has probably just left me a little discombobulated. For some reason, I keep imagining the worst.”

My adjutant sighs, half in understanding, half in confusion. She smiles uncomfortably.

“The gap between reality and instinct is frightening, isn’t it?”

“You said it. Still…better paranoid than addled by peace. Too much vigilance may be a problem as well, but at least it’s a problem you can laugh off later.”

Which is why, as commander, it is probably best to push ahead a little farther with this aerial recon while my reliable adjutant continues to cover my back. Of course, what is best ultimately depends on the time and place, as I am well aware.

“Either way, it looks like our fears were for nothing this time.”

It had been hard and long work. And not particularly fun, even as war goes.

“With how quickly General Staff rushed to redeploy us, I may have allowed myself to get a little too worked up… Do you think they really canceled our New Year’s leave just so we can jump at shadows out here?”

“They’re probably thinking the same thing over there, though, Colonel.”

“‘They’? You mean the Federation?”

“Yes. I’m sure they would have much preferred we spend our time enjoying ourselves back in the capital.”

I laugh as I put away my binoculars. Visha got me there.

“We’ve got so much to agree on.”

“Naturally.”

I nod in agreement.

“Definitely. Now then, since the enemy still hasn’t shown their faces yet, shall we advance a little farther?”

“Recon in force?”

“Precisely,” I say, smiling at my adjutant. “Not to be flamboyant, but while we’re here, we may as well knock on their door and wish them a happy holiday. It would be rude to not at least say hello!”

“Roger that! Let’s go wish those Commies a happy New Year!”