“Commodore Ehrenfried.”
Willem understood with bitter clarity that during the third large-scale offensive, the Federacy military completely lost its function as an organization. The Federacy, its military, and its soldiers all broke apart out of terror, splintering into factions.
The nobility, which once ruled over the people by monopolizing might and violence and kept their vested interests in place through bonds of blood, had been abolished in the revolution. This meant the only thing remaining that kept the Federacy united—the people’s perception of other citizens as their comrades—had been shattered by the citizens themselves.
By now, the Federacy was only a wreckage, a country in name only. A large mass of people that didn’t coalesce into a nation. People who only found fault with one another’s differences, too occupied with scorn, enmity, and suspicion to cooperate—an unsightly aggregate of small, powerless groups.
And the same could be said of the military. It had fractured into groups that hated and saw one another as enemies. Federacy soldiers and volunteer soldiers; Vargus and citizens; former nobles and former commoners; territory folk and city folk; veterans and reservists.
“Commodore, this is my decision. My order, my responsibility, and my crime.”
And with that knowledge in mind, the lieutenant general who commanded the entire western front’s army gave his order. He issued the order to Willem, who’d been relieved of his position as chief of staff earlier and was unable to make that order himself.
It was to ensure that the Federacy soldiers who could not be expected to cooperate, to unite, or to even fight in the same trenches at this point would still carry out their duty to defend the nation.
An order to ensure that they would be able to stave off the Legion invasion in the future, even if just barely.
“Understood? You were not involved in this decision. You objected to your cruel superior and was relieved of your post as a result. Only one commander made the wrong choice in the face of this predicament, and no fault lies with the western front’s army as a whole.”
…And yet Willem thought that was just escapism dressed up as self-sacrifice. Idleness masked as coldheartedness. Resorting to cruelty was the easy way out, and stooping to thinking like this wasn’t something nobles and commanders like them were allowed to do.
“You think this is escapism, don’t you, Commodore?” the lieutenant general asked sharply.
Willem peered back at his superior unintentionally, surprised that he’d read into his thoughts so clearly. The lieutenant general stared directly at him, his crimson eyes burning.
“And that is exactly what it is. This is escapism, an unforgivable act of idleness. Which is why you must fight on.”
The burning, crimson eyes of a Pyrope—a Pyrope to oppose Willem, an Onyx.
“Mock me as lazy and idle, a pathetic old dog who fled his responsibilities. Earn enough merit to do that… I don’t have enough time left, but you still do. Enough time to fight off the escapism, the idleness, the intolerance ruling over this country.”
You, who can recognize foolish escapism for what it is.
Willem closed his eyes, displaying his consent and respect to this old general.
“Yes, sir.”
✦ ✦ ✦
“No,” Lena replied coldly. “That’s not all there is to it, is there, Second Lieutenant? If anything, this is the real reason.”
✦ ✦ ✦
An Eighty-Six shooting a civilian, and a young girl at that.
The moment he saw that, that armored infantryman instantly fired on the Eighty-Six. This was the natural reaction of a proud soldier, obligated to defend the weak civilians. He almost felt bad he couldn’t use his heavy assault rifle, since it was dysfunctional after long combat, and had to resort to his spare assault rifle. The 12.7 mm rounds were more than enough to blow the Eighty-Six away, though.
But when the girl’s body exploded the next moment, the armored infantryman realized his mistake. And though he understood what he did wrong, there was no reversing what happened. The Eighty-Six had fired on an Actaeon, which meant he’d only been trying to defend civilians from a self-destructing weapon…and the armored infantryman shot him dead for his efforts.
He killed him, and there was no undoing that. He was a killer, and worse yet, this wasn’t just murder—it was fragging, killing a fellow soldier. And the army hated fraggers above all else.
The soldier couldn’t accept that.
As they pinned him down and blamed him for his actions, he refused to admit anything. I am not a killer, he said. It wasn’t fragging. That Eighty-Six killed a defenseless girl. She just happened to be an Actaeon, and maybe he was only trying to make it seem like she was a threat to justify her death.
So I may have killed him, but it wasn’t a murder, and it wasn’t fragging.
And so before he was handed over to the MPs, the soldier found a chance to give the footage to one reckless war photographer who’d sneaked onto the battlefield. To tell the public that he did nothing wrong.
To tell them all that I saw what I saw, so it only made sense for me to shoot.
✦ ✦ ✦
The people’s families were taken away, and they were once again placed under a regime of bayonets and military boots. And the reason for that were two defeats in quick succession. The Federacy was, by now, fully surrounded by the murder machines, and they were creeping closer moment by moment, with no one to stave them off. The situation was sheer terror.
And that was why the Actaeon hunts would not die down.
The real Actaeon girls were all dead already, but once someone pointed at another, saying they were infected, no one could stop the people from moving in to expel that person. The government repeatedly announced that there were no new self-propelled mine models or suicide-bombing viruses, but the attacks on evacuees, minorities, families of soldiers, and injured soldiers didn’t stop.
It wasn’t just that excising the rumors was difficult; it was because the idea of a new self-propelled mine or a suicide-bomb virus gave people a justified reason to drive undesirables away. It was a convenient tool for venting their anger in the guise of justice.
A Celena girl whose brother enlisted and died in battle was driven out of school. Families that adopted Actaeon or wiretap children were subjected to verbal abuse and harassment, forcing them to leave town. Minorities lost their homes to arson, and hotels that housed evacuees were subjected to so much harassment that they had to give up and stop running their establishments as evacuation sites.
And that all led to a worsening in the peace, further increasing the citizens’ discontent and anxiety. The Actaeon weren’t enough anymore. The people needed a clearer crime, a more defined evil to pursue. Unforgivable, unsalvageable sinners, a different “other” they could loudly and proudly blame for everything.
Like the Republic, for instance. Or like…
…the elite unit of heroes who’d been saved by the Federacy but failed to prevent this defeat. The ones who hurt people—as wiretaps, as Actaeon, as Legion.
The combat-crazed berserkers born of the Republic, of the Eighty-Sixth Sector.