The Saga of Tanya The Evil, Vol. 8: In Omnia Paratus

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The Saga of Tanya The Evil, Vol. 8: In Omnia Paratus Page 3

by Carlo Zen


  “The ultimate goal is to retake the land of the people. Our main objective will be to drive out the invaders, who are none other than the Imperial Army.”

  As far as I can tell, after peeling back all the overwrought phrasing, it seems like a straightforward plan. They want to contain the Imperial Army, establish a bridgehead, and secure a path that would be a prelude to future operations.

  “That is all. Are there any questions?”

  Allowing time for Q and A seems rather progressive for the Federation. Would posing critical questions to a political officer be considered a breach of etiquette? …I feel conflicted in spite of myself, but for better or worse, my ambitious colleagues seem unconcerned.

  One brave soul thrusts a hand up.

  “I’m with East-West News. I heard that the Imperial Army is gathering in the south. I’d like to hear the Federation Army’s thoughts on that situation.”

  “As you pointed out, the Imperial Army is threatening cities to the south, but we’re already digging in for a defensive battle. While keeping imperial forces pinned down there, we’ll counterattack here. Imperial lines should be pushed back substantially as a result.”

  A faint sigh escapes the press corps. It’s the sound of disappointment at hearing an answer that seems proper at first glance but actually says nothing. What everyone wants to know is whether the Federation thinks they can defend the cities or not.

  Are people in the Federation just not very eager to please? The political officer onstage got us all excited but then refuses to give a straight answer.

  Having apparently abandoned the customary restraint when questioning women, the insistent East-West News correspondent looses a second shot.

  “How likely is the defense to succeed? The imperial units are massing rapidly, so is there any truth to the rumors that the southern lines are in trouble?”

  “I’m unfortunately not at liberty to discuss the movements of our forces in detail due to operational security concerns, as per the colonel’s earlier statements.”

  She adds the bit about quoting the colonel at the end of her reply as if it was a complete afterthought. This Lieutenant Tanechka could have at least pretended to confirm that with him…but the colonel simply had a blank look on his face. Does he even understand the Q and A proceedings?

  Perhaps only God knows for certain, but the entire press corps is already treating it as all but confirmed.

  “I’d like to hear directly from the colonel, if that’s all right. If you don’t mind, could you give even a general answer?”

  “A​p​o​l​o​g​i​e​s​, b​u​t t​h​e c​o​l​o​n​e​l d​o​e​s​n’t s​p​e​a​k t​h​e l​a​n​g​u​a​g​e o​f t​h​e C​o​m​m​o​n​w​e​a​l​t​h.”

  She requests that he hold back any similar questions in a tone that’s mild while also being a firm nonresponse. Even though she could have just as easily checked with the colonel.

  What’s going on? Right as I start worrying, a man puts his hand up.

  “I’m with the Times. Would it still be an issue if I speak the Federation’s language?” The moment after the nice chap says that, he fluently belts out a stream of words that must be Federation language—a brilliant blow.

  Judging from the political officer’s face, which looks like a pigeon that’s been shot by a peashooter, our hosts didn’t think any of us reporters could speak their language.

  She can’t very well claim that a colonel in the Federation Army can’t understand the Federation’s official language.

  Her expression definitely went stiff for a second there, but she quickly regains her composure.

  She strides over to the colonel, leans toward his ear, pretends to ask him something, and then calmly quibbles appropriately. “…Comrade Colonel says that without a trained linguist, he fears there could be an unintended misunderstanding…”

  “So you mean…?”

  “Since your mother tongue isn’t the Federation language, it’s best that we continue the press conference in your native language.”

  It’s an utterly garbage excuse, but from her attitude, it’s clear that she has no intention of backing down. The venue fills with sighs once more.

  “All right, all right. I understand. In that case, I have a different question.” When the political officer gestures for the man from the Times to go ahead, he asks, “Why is it we aren’t authorized to cover the southern lines?”

  “It’s mainly a matter of your safety.”

  “Come on now. We’re embedded reporters. As long as we’re on the front lines, anywhere we go is pretty much—”

  Before he could finish saying the same, the political officer cuts him off. “Please understand that security and safety measures are a necessity. I truly regret having to insist on such restrictive precautions, but the fact of the matter is, we’re at war. That being said…” She goes on to tell a joke with a straight face. If she intended to kill us with laughter, then it’s a smashing success. “While the Communist Party would ideally always strive to facilitate open and transparent news coverage, we’d like you to understand that we can’t always follow through on that principle during these extraordinary circumstances.”

  The true difficulty of this moment is trying to suppress our laughter.

  Apparently, there are as many Communists who love freedom of the press as there are gentlemen who hate tea.

  Lieutenant Tanechka’s remark belongs in the liar hall of fame. The only reason us journalists are allowed to enter the country at all is thanks to the extraordinary circumstances known as war. That’s the real deviation from the norm.

  I guess the atmosphere finally gets to me, because my hand goes up after all.

  “…Can I ask something else?”

  The offer must have been music to her ears. The political officer nods happily, looking overjoyed to be free of the previous pain in the neck.

  “I’m Andrew from WTN. We’re authorized to report on this counterattack, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “What kind of restrictions will there be?”

  Lieutenant Colonel Drake and the Federation Army officer exchange glances; after they communicate something with their eyes, the political officer nods with a tired look on her face.

  Is that a sign of some disagreement? Or is there something she isn’t in a position to say?

  Drake takes a step forward and speaks up. “I’ll field this question. To put it plainly, there are three limitations you’ll be under while covering this operation, so please listen closely.” We nod and wait for him to continue. “First, we don’t want you sending any dispatches on the movements of the Federation Army or the multinational unit as they are happening. I’m not so vain that I want my whereabouts broadcasted to the Imperial Army in the news.”

  Just as the laugh he gets warms up the room a bit, he adds, “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t ask this of you, but…”

  He continues with a heavy, grave expression, “There will be censors. This will be necessary for the protection of military secrets.”

  “Will the Federation side be doing the censoring?”

  “Communications inspectors from both the Commonwealth and the Federation will be handling it. Before you ask: No, we will not be using personnel shortages as an excuse to slow things down.”

  They’re endeavoring to make the screening process quick and convenient. In exchange, he asks us to make a compromise—for the safety of all involved.

  “Secondly, and this is related, but…we want you to report from headquarters. I’m sure there are quite a few brave Tommies among you, but neither the people of the Federation nor the government in the home country has any desire to place you boys and girls in the trenches.”

  We reluctantly nod. This means there’ll be a specific zone where we can report from, and we aren’t meant to stray from it. As someone with experience as an embedded reporter, I understand that it’s a reasonable request. Ultimat
ely, there will probably be a nonzero number of journalists who strike deals to be exempt or find other ways to slip away. Soldiers have their way of doing things, and we have ours.

  Up until this point, Drake has been speaking at a good clip, but he explicitly pauses to clear his throat before raising the last point. “Finally, those with cameras and recorders will be accompanied by Federation Army guides and only allowed to record or film when given the okay.”

  Urgh. Surely he knew that we weren’t about to take this last point lying down. Before the predictable objections start flying, he beats us to the punch and reemphasizes his point.

  “The Commonwealth and Federation have agreed to these terms, so…please understand that your press badge hinges on following the rules.”

  You just had to add that last bit, huh? Getting told our permission to report can be taken away is enough to make all of us hesitate, but it’s impossible for any self-respecting journalist to not have strong feelings about these conditions.

  Drake pays our voiceless stares of discontent no mind and flashes a smile. “Well, that’s all from me. Was that to your satisfaction?”

  What the hell? The colonel clearly directed that at the political officer!

  On the surface, the colonel’s attitude seems normal, but can no one from the Federation tell just how incredibly sarcastic he’s being?

  “Yes, there should be no objections to what Comrade Colonel and yourself have said, Lieutenant Colonel Drake.”

  “Very good. Then if you’ll excuse me, Comrade Colonel.”

  Playing out the string to the very end, the officer of the Commonwealth Army presents a formal salute and the empty words Comrade Colonel to the political officer.

  It seems the lieutenant colonel is finding it difficult to hide his distaste for her any longer.

  Even when communicating through an interpreter, common etiquette dictates that you should speak directly to the other party. Anyone with any diplomatic experience would know that.

  That brazen breach of manners must have been an expression of how unamusing the colonel finds these proceedings. He’s the type to make a name for himself in tough situations.

  What a mess…

  I let a small sigh slip out.

  I still owe the man scotch. I’ll have to get it even if I need to beg an esteemed friend and colleague from a different firm for a bottle. It’ll be exorbitantly expensive, I’m sure, but money is no substitute for trust. Hanging by the shreds of my honor, I have no choice but to go crying to my rivals.

  A genuine bottle of scotch from home is unbelievably costly—I end up having to surrender a scoop in exchange—but I secure the goods from East-West News. This isn’t something I can report back to the news desk, so I just have to swallow it as the cost of doing business; not long after, I give the bottle to Drake.

  In the pit of my stomach, I know there’s nothing I can do but try to bounce back from my failure, so I explore the compound in search of stories.

  But stories aren’t so easy to find. After a few days of this, I get so used to it all that I’m basically just leisurely strolling around the base. Still, it isn’t as if there are no crumbs, and in any case, this is more productive than lazing around the whole day.

  As I begin to wither away in a borderline depressive state, a cheery Lieutenant Colonel Drake strikes up a conversation after approaching me.

  “Morning, Andrew. And a belated thanks for the scotch. Can I ask where you got it?”

  “One of the other reporters gave me a bottle. It was terribly expensive…”

  “Ha-ha-ha,” he laughs with a courteous demeanor that’s far removed from the straitlaced attitude he showed at the press conference.

  It’s probably genuine, but frustratingly, he’s also the type who refuses to open up during an interview. He’s already gotten the better of me once, but I still want to drag some sort of story out of him.

  “…Ngh.”

  “Colonel?”

  I ask him what’s wrong, but he just starts scanning the area uneasily with his brow furrowed.

  Could this be a…?

  “Warning! Mana detected!”

  The alarm goes off as shouts ring out in the compound, confirming my premonition.

  In the same way that tension shoots through a trench line, the Commonwealth mages grab their gear in a panic and rush out. The moment I see that, I know what’s happening.

  “Andrew, you guys take shelter!” Drake shouts before he races away. I appreciate the thought, but is he joking? I’d be disqualified as an embedded reporter if I ran away to hide during such a perfect opportunity. I gleefully turn my gaze on the commotion.

  Evidently, things look bad.

  “Shit! They’re going to reach us first?!”

  The duty officer’s cry gets answered by another yell. “We have a code match! They’re from the Lergen Kampfgruppe!”

  “Get ready! Send up mages to intercept!”

  “How many are there?!”

  “It’s a company of enemy mages! They’re closing at speed! A company from the Lergen Kampfgruppe!”

  From what I can gather, we’ve been beaten to the punch.

  The besieged enemy has launched a counterattack. These sorts of attacks were a daily event on the Rhine; it’s clear that east or west, the imperials are an industrious lot.

  “Shit! If they’re on the defensive, can’t they just sit tight and defend their positions like they’re supposed to?!”

  “Start putting rounds downrange! Argh, what were the guys on the perimeter doing?!”

  “Round up the translators on the double! The Federation Army’s—shit—does anyone know what they’re saying?!”

  Multinational units are vulnerable to this sort of communication breakdown. Unlike on the Rhine, where it was virtually all Republican soldiers, the chaos is being exacerbated by the mixture of Federation, Commonwealth, former Entente Alliance, Dacian, and even Unified States forces.

  Even against a small number of mages, this is no good.

  They got us right where they want us. I shake my head as I watch the disorganized response. Then I peer up to see what sort of attackers we are dealing with. An enemy mage unit is dancing in the Federation sky. I mostly want to see whether I can get a good look at who the enemy is.

  “Hmm?”

  I only glanced up out of curiosity, but I catch a glimpse of something flying high above us that doesn’t belong there. I have no words.

  Unless my eyes are failing me, there’s definitely a child zipping around up there.

  If anything, it would probably be more accurate to say a child mage.

  The flying figure is only a speck, so it’s possible I misjudged due to the distance, but I can’t help but notice this apparent child is sized very differently compared to nearby combatants.

  The enemy mage looks so small.

  I reach for my camera and instinctually train the lens on this point of interest.

  I can’t get the shot in focus…

  Right as I am struggling to take the picture that would undoubtedly be my biggest scoop, I feel a stern grip on my shoulder.

  “Mister…”

  “What?!”

  As you can see, I’m a little busy!

  “Kindly put your camera away.”

  It’s only then that I finally realize the friendly guides aren’t addressing me in their rough approximation of Queen’s dialect without a reason. Despite the ongoing battle, they’ve surrounded me, and I realize very quickly that they’re saying please only as a formality.

  “…You’re saying I can’t take a picture of that?”

  When I’m met with the stubborn silence of the nodding Federation guides, I sigh faintly. I figure I won’t be getting off with a simple Sorry, I won’t do it again.

  As expected, one of them holds out a hand.

  “May I have your film?”

  “…Okay. But you’ll give me a new roll, right?”

  “Of course.”

  Good-bye,
scoop.

  Good-bye, story that would have covered my debt and then some.

  Ah, these sons of bitches.

  And so my big scoop is torn from my grasp, the film shredded before my very eyes.

  If I get another chance, I’ll have to pay careful attention to my surroundings and shoot more stealthily…but by the time I have that thought, it’s too late. The attacking imperial troops are already withdrawing. The Lergen Kampfgruppe must have been happy just to harass us a little.

  Give me a break.

  All I want is to send the news desk a proper story.

  Acting on problematic impulses doesn’t help in wartime. In a siege that drags on and on without a single interesting development, an embedded reporter like me is worse than helpless. I have no choice but to settle in for the long haul.

  With nothing to do, I wind up with too much time on my hands.

  After all, there’s no leisure to be found in the garrison. Trying to sneak out of the compound in search of a story would only get me stopped by our handlers. Contrary to their courteous demeanors, they aren’t the slightest bit open to any kind of bargaining, so my activities are severely limited.

  Far from devoting myself to stimulating work, I spend most of my time searching out any sort of stimulation I could scrape together from my daily life.

  The logical conclusion of that manifests in all the journalists with nothing better to do regularly coming together for what’s supposed to be a “little drink” after perfunctorily picking at our early dinners in the canteen.

  The thrill of combat that had been so exciting when we first arrived on the eastern front has become just another part of the background noise. Once things settle down, we slip into routine and soon enough find the daily boredom almost intolerable.

  Given the circumstances, the topic of discussion at our gatherings is decided in advance: the war situation and nothing else.

  A reporter from the Times wonders how the siege battle will play out, and everyone chimes in. Opinions vary, but the most widely supported theory is Even if the enemy is bold, as long as we have more fighting power, then…

  “They burned Arene. The Empire won’t hesitate to do whatever it takes, and that probably goes for the Federation, too.”

 

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