IMPERIAL CAPITAL, IMPERIAL ARMY GENERAL STAFF OFFICE
Zettour knew he had to create a complete and total mask with the appearance of victory, but inside, he felt only profound relief.
“The young are terrifying… This must be what it feels like to grow old and useless. It’s so easy to become the thing you don’t wish to be.”
Inside his room at the offices of the General Staff, Zettour smiled uncomfortably, glad that no one else was there to see him. The more he learned about Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff’s actions, the more dreadful they seemed. It was the kind of arbitrary decision he could never have pulled off himself.
For a lone field officer to misrepresent her position, fabricate orders from a superior, and, on top of everything else, unilaterally instruct the engaged Eastern troops to abandon their strongpoints—any single one of those offenses should have been the nail in the coffin. Even under extenuating circumstances, any one ought to have been inexcusable. To sanction them was an outrage of self-destructive proportions for any organization.
But in this situation, it was the right thing to do.
From a strategic viewpoint, those on the ground could see that the field armies would have been tied down and crushed if they did not retreat. Thus, the decision to have the main force pull back was, though arbitrary, a stroke of divine grace.
In terms of pure military rationality, the choice had obviously been correct; there was no other way to parry the brunt of the enemy’s attack. A single moment’s hesitation would have been fatal, and with the chain of command in disarray, the only option was to act alone.
That said, Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff had maintained enough leeway to allow the bare minimum of room for argument. After the missed opportunity with the François fleet, it seemed she had learned the proper way to break the rules.
It was truly an impressive showing.
Both Zettour and Rudersdorf had mentioned the title of Eastern Chief Inspector. A ridiculous example of literalism, but formally, Lieutenant Colonel Degurechaff had taken their intentions into account while maintaining appearances. She must have known that her actions were merely expedient, yet how many field officers could arrange for such an excuse to exercise control under an emergency? And besides, the one man at Eastern Army Command who could have insisted he had never heard of any of this, General Laudon, was already dead. All that remained to ensure no one pursued the matter further was to insist that a communications mix-up had occurred due to the tragic events that had befallen Colonel Laudon.
Laudon had, in a grim twist of fate, chosen excellent timing to die.
Zettour suddenly felt a pang of disgust at himself.
“I owe my mentor, poor Laudon, an apology. He gets no more rest in death from me than he did in life.”
Laudon had been his predecessor—the man who had guided him when Laudon was a major and Zettour was still green behind the ears. And now, even in death, Laudon was coming to his aid. How could Zettour ever face Laudon’s memory?
This only gave him further cause for thought. It was Degurechaff, truly, who had saved them—the army, the Empire, perhaps even the very illusion that was Zettour. Thus, one might say…
Rising to his feet and cloaking himself in a veneer of etiquette, Zettour abandoned his personal goodness and, as ringleader of the General Staff, adjusted his mask as a wicked cog in the machine. He left his room, once again forced to be mindful of the eyes of others.
Walking slowly but firmly, he headed toward the court—the place that made this city the Imperial Capital. The aged general, a sly old man, was en route to a shameless performance. He was going to present, with a straight face, the idea that they had encountered a few difficulties, yet had managed to twist the situation around into a skillful counteroffensive.
This was a form of deference to the court, which was still apprehensive about the state of the war; a form of lip service to the cabinet and a necessary move for the future. Zettour addressed the Emperor himself.
“The Imperial Army has already cut off enemy lines of communication by way of airborne attacks. While I am embarrassed to say we are rehashing the tactics used against the François Republic, now that the enemy’s communications are severed, we are preparing for a large-scale counterattack. As this is the same approach that worked so well during Operation Iron Hammer, the likelihood of repeated success is high. Unfortunately, with the muddy season now approaching, it is all a race against time…”
This was not the army deceiving the government and the court, per se. Rather, it was humble embellishment. Needless to say, none of the military officials who had commiserated with Zettour or been involved in drafting this regal overture considered themselves to be “lying.”
The fact remained that the Imperial Army had, in response to a large-scale offensive by the Federation Army, used several mage divisions to successfully sever enemy lines of communication. Even the Emperor’s daughter, Her Highness Alexandra, who had fussed about wanting to visit the front lines, would have found nothing amiss in such a report.
Nothing had been written but the truth.
Furthermore, there was nothing objectively untrue in the expository facts laid out about Operation Iron Hammer after the enemy’s communications were cut. Zettour was confident that if quizzed a thousand times by the most skilled interrogators in a court of law, he would never let this cat out of the bag.
He had spoken the truth. Nothing more and nothing less.
But depending on how you word it, the truth can be misleading. Naturally, Zettour had merely detoured slightly from the answer most readily suggested by the facts.