In the end, while many soldiers choose to imbibe simply as the only way to power through, getting drunk changes nothing. As I mark various notes on the Federation-made map in our operation center, the reality is painfully clear: Even with repeated sorties and grueling battles, we have barely made a dent in the colossus that is the Federation Army.
Fly, shoot, fly, shoot. Every meal is eaten with a gun in one hand.
Our air control is thorough, ensuring the enemy regrets underestimating the Empire’s experience in large-scale aerial mage battles. Yet this is only the beginning of the enemy’s counterattack.
“Elimination of enemy mage units from all areas is complete. Damage to our own units is limited.”
Beyond joy or sympathy, even the controller’s calm, level voice—tinged with fatigue as they report these results—is filled with profound relief at finally being able to take a nap.
“It looks like we can finally take a short rest…,” my adjutant mutters in a hollow voice as she flies by my side. “Yes, even if it is only temporary.”
First things first, it’s time for a break. The weary mages need their rest if they are to be ready to exploit the next battle. The distant future has no meaning in this here and now; no one knows if they will survive the next fight. On the battlefield, a victory is a victory, even if it is Pyrrhic.
Which is why I want my mages to sleep, and why any half-decent army will do all it can to prevent the enemy from sleeping.
During the night, when everyone off-duty should be sleeping like the dead, the sound of artillery bombards us from all sides—loud enough to make the veil of darkness tremble. Baruch Bridge is supposedly a valuable civilian asset for the Federation, yet the Federation’s people seem to have a predilection for vandalism.
“A nighttime bombardment… I can’t believe they’re using up this much ammunition purely for harassment,” I mutter softly in my dugout as I pull a thin blanket over my head once more.
Few foes are as annoying as a commie army that refuses to drown in its own ideology. Such a good and patriotic collective—efficient and purposeful, capable of setting aside ideological schisms to serve necessity—is an enemy that is frustrating beyond belief.
Professional soldiers, disguising themselves in communist clothing: a sheep in wolf’s clothing is nothing to fear, but a whole herd of wolves in sheep’s clothing? Forget the big-game rifle; this calls for a machine gun.
Tomorrow is sure to be another hard day at war. “Ugh… I don’t see why civilized people like us should be forced to put up with this barbarism. It is completely unreasonable…,” I mutter as I close my eyes in a feeble act of resistance, indulging in sleep for the brief span until I am woken again.
To sleep when you are tired—the most human of cravings.
JANUARY 26, UNIFIED YEAR 1928, BARUCH BRIDGE SIEGE CAMP
The dreamers, being bombarded with heavy artillery fire from all directions, were not the only residents on the battlefield. Without someone on the other side to rain down this ludicrous fire, the shells would just materialize from nowhere. But uniformed soldiers are not the only ones party to such gatherings. That is just the way of the world.
For instance, there might be a frowning, unidentified, tea-swilling fellow or two, hailing from a country terminally addicted to its caffeinated leaves—specifically, a few absolutely pleasant chaps who were there in their official capacity to represent the Commonwealth’s Foreign Office, but who were, in fact, secretly connected to that nation’s intelligence agency.
Due to the necessities of his work, Mr. John now found himself flagrantly engaged as a battlefield observer. He held back a sigh at his own misfortune.
“Oh, we’re shaking again…”
A faint ripple spread across the surface of Mr. John’s tea, filling him, of course, with fear. It was perhaps a one or two on the seismic scale, but even that felt quite alarming from Mr. John’s point of view.
The earth had no business shaking, as far as he was concerned. No—the only thing that ought to rock back and forth is a boat. The experience is pleasant enough on the open waves, but entirely different on land.
Of course, those used to earthquakes would probably laugh and say such a little tremble is no big deal. To which Mr. John would suggest they experience that little tremble on the battlefield instead, if they so wished. It would be an experience they would be none too keen on repeating, he imagined. These epicenters were man-made, after all.
“Well…”
The volume of steel was astounding. The sight of the Federation pouring so much hardware into their captured supply dumps was strangely unsettling. They showed an astonishing lack of reserve.
Almost as soon as the Federation Army commenced its strategic offensive—or whatever it was—Mr. John had been dispatched as part of an observation team by the Commonwealth’s intelligence department, which had already sniffed out what was occurring.
The truth was that the Commonwealth had been worried the Federation might win too decisively and had sent in the team to ascertain the situation on the ground—or, in the worst-case scenario, even suggest moving up the formation of a second front by the mainland. Imagine their surprise, then.
Once Rising Dawn began, the Imperial Army’s main force—the one the Federation had hoped to annihilate—began to nimbly retreat instead. And just as the Federation Army began to pursue, the Empire deployed an impressive airborne force into the Federation’s rear.
The situation, therefore, had taken a drastic turn in just a few days.
On the 14th, the Commonwealth had feared the Federation would win by too wide a margin. By the 20th, they worried that the Empire’s counterattack might prove too effective.
And now, as of the 26th, they watched, hands clenched in suspense, wondering why on earth the Federation Army still hadn’t managed to clear out those airborne troops.
“…The Imperial Army mages are a thing to be feared,” Mr. John muttered, led around the battlefield by his own nose. The Empire had cut off the Federation’s communication lines by air-dropping in three mage divisions. By knocking out the Federation Army’s logistics, they had ironically induced the colossal Federation force to begin rotting precisely because of its size. Naturally, the Federation, reeling from this blow, had thrown all pretense to the wind and was desperately pouring everything into the enemy in an acute need to recapture their bases.
“Well, the Empire has certainly outdone itself this time,” Mr. John sighed softly as he surveyed the battlefield.
Artillery fire. Fierce, overwhelming artillery fire. Probing shells aimed at their mana signatures. In the end, the Federation even deployed early prototype anti-mage guided projectiles provided by the Commonwealth. They were giving those mages no rest.
Which was all well and good, but with all these attacks directed at their own supply dumps—even if they succeeded at restoring their communication lines—what would be the cost? They were destroying their supplies with their own hands. The impact would be significant, at the very least.
Regardless, Mr. John made a mental note: that was something for the Federation to worry about, not him. His job was to confirm the effectiveness of the trial products they had brought along. And those trial products—anti-mage projectiles, howitzer shells with incorporated anti-mage proximity fuses—had proven extremely effective.