Deus lo Vult

by Carlo Zen

  The artillery opened fire. I thought I was ready, but part of me couldn’t help wondering how I’d gotten here.

  “O Lord, protect thy servants. Show us thy glory and power.”

  Except for the captain, who had deployed an almost divinely powerful defensive shell, everyone was tripping over themselves to repel the incoming rounds. Judging by the distance, we had several minutes to intercept them. We had to observe carefully to find the shells on trajectories we could shoot down, and then knock them out of the sky. Easy enough to say, but horribly draining to do.

  I think there were seventy-two trainees in total. That was two battalions’ worth, but when it came to making observations and setting up a dense shield, we weren’t very good at dealing with artillery. And anything we let through would mean immediate, major losses.

  The pounding was so relentless it seemed like every battery in the area had been mobilized. If we hadn’t realized we needed to pick out the live rounds mixed in with the training ones, we really would all have been killed. The shelling continued intermittently throughout the night, driving us to despair with our exhaustion and limited vision. The worst thing was that even if you did your own job, if your teammate failed to do theirs, you could be blown away along with them. And yet, if you focused only on strengthening your own defenses, someone else could get killed. All we could do was trust our teammates, and those who failed were mercilessly culled. We’d been thrown into an extreme situation that was just like the front lines. In the end, we barely slept at all.

  When the thirty-six hours were finally up, the captain pointed to the radio, looking apologetic. “The artillery says they still have more ammo.”

  The next moment, we heard the familiar sound of something flying through the air toward us. It was very simple: The artillery had begun another salvo. But it came at a moment when we had relaxed slightly. We’d been hanging on by the skin of our teeth, and now we were shaken. My instincts screamed self-preservation, but the price was too high to pay.

  We saw once again how happily the captain did what she said she would do. In the end, the barrage didn’t last very long, but by that point the number of candidates had dropped to sixty. We set off for the third location on the map. The terms were relatively straightforward: Just go. There were no conditions besides the time limit. In other words, we had as good as no information at all.

  “Move carefully.”

  With only that advice to go on, I imagined the worst. On the lookout because who knew what might happen, we marched on, trembling in fear. Once in a while, an armed bomber company would fly a search overhead, but all we had to do was stay out of sight. For some reason, we spotted military Dobermans roaming around, but we just had to avoid them, too. Of course, everything was avoidable.

  Her warning left us paranoid; there had to be something. But as if to mock us, we never encountered any malicious traps. It really was just a march. Of course, the time limit was enough to make us wonder if a bunch of exhausted mages could make it, even at full tilt.

  When we reached the third waypoint, utterly spent, Captain von Degurechaff was there waiting for us with a grin on her face. It was time for resistance to interrogation training.

  And then, after we had survived interrogation, we were thrown into the Alpen Mountains. It was a nightmare I wish I could forget. I was crying out in a voice no young woman should ever have to make, convinced I was going to die, while the captain marched beside me unfazed. Was she an agent of the devil or of God? It had to be one or the other.

  Ahh, I can’t believe I have an ally more horrible than the enemy. She’s not human. I would bet my life on it. Me and a few others saw it once. During training, one of our teammates dropped like he was dead. The captain gave him a good kick, and before we knew it, he was back on his feet. I had been staring into the abyss of death myself.

  But I saw something else, splat on the ground with a broken leg after an avalanche in the Alpen Mountains at 7,200 feet. I’m sure no one would believe me if I told them, but I saw it.

  “You amateur. How does it feel to be a moron who slows down her team because she can’t even dodge an avalanche?”

  The captain heaped abuse on me. But I know. I saw it: She charged into the avalanche to save me.

  Even after my friends told me that she tossed my busted body aside like a used rag, I believe. She is definitely a good commander, even if I’m not sure about her as a human being. Of course, we all laugh and bad-mouth her.

  I think we’ve all gone crazy. Perhaps the captain’s madness is contagious. But God gave me a revelation that we would save the Empire. Be a leader among the apostles who will protect this holy nation.

  What an absolutely insane world. If the captain is an apostle of God, then only the devil can possibly exist. No, we can sense that the mythical gods are beings who have their own circumstances. Doctrine is for the gods. It’s not like the gods exist for our sake.

  Even so, we don’t know everything.

  It isn’t possible to create elites in just a month. Yeah, all you need is a little common sense to know that.

  But I said I would do it in front of a group of high-ranking officers. There’s no taking it back.

  Under normal circumstances, failure would be a major problem. It would damage my career, maybe even lead to a punitive posting to the front lines. But if I can lead them to the conclusion that the candidates were such low quality that even I couldn’t teach them anything, the reverse will be true.

  I’m guessing they would want to cover things up, try to pretend none of it ever happened. The Service Corps has authorized me to go to extremes. If I train them as mercilessly as I can, push them to their absolute limits, they will surely give up.

  Then this will end with everyone else getting called gutless quitters. I’ll come through unscathed.

  Hence, I’ll borrow training methods from every special unit known to military history. The American-style stuff includes water acclimation training, but we’ll do even harder altitude acclimation training. I’ll make them give me all they have.

  When that phase is over, next will be the infamous Hell Week. A total of four hours of sleep in four days. It’s a cruel method, but when you push people to the breaking point, you find out what they’re made of. Mages are capable of compartmentalizing, but there are limits. I’m doing this for a just cause, purging any fools who value themselves over their comrades.

  I’m not eager to abuse my subordinates, of course. I’m not so weak-minded as to take pleasure in meaningless violence. Every vicious act will have meaning and a rationale, or I won’t commit it.

  That’s why I welcome dropping out at any time. In fact, I wish they would hurry up and quit! I’m sure they want to escape this pressure, so they should choose to leave! Anyone who makes it through Hell Week goes straight into a week of SERE. It’ll be a packed schedule of resistance to interrogation and survival training.

  After that they’ll have nearly gone insane, so I’m sure they’ll give up, but I have a perfect plan for any war-crazy nuts who manage to hang in there.

  They’ll be dead from Hell Week and SERE, but I’ll throw them out on a long-distance, no-magic march through the Alpen Mountains for a week.

  Of course, only the absolute minimum sleep and rest will be allowed. I’m basing it on the worst battle conditions on record. How about half water rations? They won’t be allowed to carry food, of course. And using their computation orbs will be an instant fail. They’ll only be allowed to use a knife—one for every two people.

  Perhaps it makes sense if I explain it as a General Staff trip, only harder and more elaborate. Anyone who can’t cross the steep Alpen Mountains in seven days is out. And that’s quite a challenge even for someone who is in good health and properly outfitted.

  If anyone makes it under these conditions, I must be cursed. But all I have to do is mercilessly fail anyone who makes the slightest error. Then things should turn out more or less the way I want.

  And just
in case they don’t, I’ve prepared foolproof insurance.

  Let me be clear: I don’t want to have to resort to this. It’s not my intention. There’s just no other way that’s quite so certain.

  So, yes, I overcame my anguish and put this insurance in place.

  I’ve made the new mass-production prototype developed by the mad scientist at Elinium Arms standard-issue equipment. Yes, that walking disaster, Chief Engineer Adelheid von Schugel. It’s an early mass-production version of the Elinium Arms Type 97 Assault Computation Orb he’s been working on.

  I’m confident that we can expect accountability problems from that infuriating man.

  Yes, there was a time I thought all that. So why, then? Is life just cursed? Or are the possibilities for humanity just endless? Maybe it’s important to have faith.

  But please remember, we must completely divest ourselves of wishful thinking. An experiential approach is always instructive.

  Please remember. Many of your failures are your own fault. And often, by the time you realize it, it’s too late.

  Suddenly, I find myself standing on a raised platform. Maybe I’m half-asleep, because just as I’m thinking maybe I should curse my own morning-hating body and its unexpectedly low blood pressure, another irresistible wave of sleepiness assaults Tanya. But then her ears catch snatches of what her mouth is saying.

  “As of today, you graduate from being worthless maggots. From this day forward, you are imperial mages. Wherever you go, from now until the moment you bite the dust, you will be bound as fellow soldiers—the members of the army are both your brothers and your brothers-in-arms. Next, you’ll be heading to the battlefield. Some of you will never return. But remember this: Every imperial soldier dies. We exist to die. But the Empire is eternal. That means you, too, are eternal! And so the Empire expects you to put up a never-ending fight.”

  …Why do I have to say all this?

  I don’t remember saying any of that stuff, but something remains in my memory as if I did. Before and after that is fuzzy. Unfortunately, Tanya has to admit that she has lost parts of her memory, perhaps because she activated the Elinium Type 95 during training. That is exactly why she hates it.

  Captain Tanya von Degurechaff, who isn’t getting any taller even though she should be growing and has trouble with equipment sizes, can’t avoid feeling conscious of her height issue—especially when she is surrounded by battle-hardened women mages (rare as they were) with great bodies.

  Good grief. I may be a knowledge worker, but my white-collar job required a certain amount of physical strength. I do pay attention to my diet, knowing that healthy work begins with a wholesome lifestyle, but nothing seems to come of it. Well, not that I would expect to get taller eating K-Brot.

  In other words, if as an individual I want to avoid wasting my efforts, I have to grow up. That’s what brought me to the military doctor, to find out why I wasn’t growing even though I should have been. It’s true: Before I knew it, I was even asking the doctor what I should do to get taller.

  The military doctor advised me that my growth was stunted because of balance issues between my muscles and training. If I addressed that, got plenty of sleep, and ate well, I would grow, she said. The smile she gave me left me suspicious.

  Immediately after, I was seized by an impulse to take my rifle and blow my head off to get rid of those memories.

  She was an awfully chubby doctor, for a woman. May disaster befall the General Staff, who choose the worst times to be considerate. Was this woman showing me, me of all people, sympathy as a fellow woman? Irritatingly, all of this started when I was accused of resisting the form of oppression known as faith because I was a man. I didn’t think it was possible, but was I brainwashed to want to mature as a woman?

  No, it’s very dangerous to come to conclusions based solely on circumstantial evidence. It’s true that I suffered much unpleasantness because of the Elinium Type 95, but I’m pretty sure the thought control is limited to when it’s active.

  Looking at my records, I can’t verify any ongoing manipulation of my thinking. But I do have the sense that something very unpleasant is developing. Devils! Do you—all of you—mean to trifle with my identity as a freedom-loving individual?

  …The next thing I know, there’s a rosary I have no memory of around my neck.

  The Holy Mother? Yes, like you see in churches. I understand. I’ve often seen the sisters handing them out. But I only ever watched.

  …Stop fleeing and face reality.

  Why do I have this unfamiliar rosary? For that matter, when did I start losing my memory?

  This is bad. I really can’t trust my memories. For something I got from a church, this thing looks awfully well used. You could say it has a sense of history around it, a presence.

  To be blunt, it seems like the sort of thing that—in my world—the church would keep as a holy relic. To the point where I want it as far away from me as soon as possible. If I had my wish, I would donate it somewhere. Anywhere.

  …This kind of thing starts to get terribly heavy hanging around your neck.

  I know I trained those candidates. It’s also true that I intended to pass no one at all on the pretext of a difficult selection process. My memories of that month are clear. But something—something is wrong.

  “Maybe my mistake was unconsciously activating it at eight thousand feet.”

  Yes, my critical error was activating the Elinium Type 95 to go higher. Maybe I should consider the possibility that spiritual corruption can build up. Rather than just manipulating my mouth for a short time, maybe it accumulates in the body like lead does.

  “Get tested for spiritual corruption? But on what grounds?”

  The military facility that performs our physicals is researching the effects of magic technology on thought. If I can trust them, they announced at a meeting of the Society for RTI Technology that they could tell if someone was having their thoughts influenced. Maybe I should get tested now, while I can still make sane judgments.

  But the problem is finding a reason. If I’m seen as a commander with mental problems, it will threaten not only my future career but also my entire life. Women administrators are not uncommon, but in the Empire where gender equality still has a ways to go, their qualifications are always questioned. Any sort of apparent problem would not be good for someone who wants to do white-collar work.

  My fretful agonizing is interrupted by a deferential knock at the door. It’s Visha, who’s starting to get used to being my adjutant, and from the look on her face I smell trouble. I immediately abandon my less urgent thoughts and switch gears to focus on work.

  “Captain, a message from the General Staff Office.”

  “Thanks. Do they need a response in a hurry?”

  If it’s some pointless errand, I want to take my time with it, if possible.

  “Yes, ma’am. There’s someone waiting for you.”

  “What?”

  After taking a glance, I snatch up a pen and read the military telegram more closely.

  It’s from the General Staff. I’m being ordered to finish assembling my unit and deploy immediately to a base in the southeast. Top priority.

  “Captain von Degurechaff? Is something the matter?”

  “…It’s too soon. It’s still way too soon. Lieutenant, get the General Staff Office on the phone.”

  I order the uncertain second lieutenant to ring the General Staff. But at that moment, as if they expected me to do that, a high-ranking staff officer appears. No, they definitely knew, which is why they sent him from the General Staff Office to talk to a mere captain like me.

  “That won’t be necessary, Major von Degurechaff.”

  “Er, Colonel von Lergen. I didn’t know you were here.”

  It’s my acquaintance, Lieutenant Colonel von Lergen. He’s sensible and a good soldier who is against sending children to the front lines.

  “Yes. Congratulations on your promotion, Major. I’ve come as an envoy. I exp
ect you have a lot of questions.”

  The lieutenant colonel delivers this unofficial announcement as though it is already settled. I’m not unhappy to know I’ve been promoted, but I smell trouble. A high-ranking official would normally never come from the General Staff Office just to deliver the promotion papers for a simple battalion commander.

  “…Thank you for your concern. Lieutenant, leave us.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Excuse me.”

  I immediately dismiss all third parties, including my adjutant. I want the room to be as private as possible when we get down to business. My promotion… I suspect the battalion would intuit what it means. To put it another way, the battalion has to get ready for combat. Can I buy some time by saying the unit lacks discipline or hasn’t gelled yet?

  “Okay, Colonel. What’s going on here?”

  After I completed initial formation of the unit at Central, the plan was deployment to a base in the southeast. I know that depending on the state of the war, there’s a nonzero possibility of going north or west, but these orders are to immediately move to the southeast.

  Standard operating procedure is to give at least six months for the creation of a unit. It’s altogether unclear to me why they should think my unit would be ready so much sooner.

  “You’ve got your forty-eight people. The brass considers the unit formed.”

  “Yes, it’s ‘formed,’ but it isn’t a unit yet.”

  Amateurs often fail to realize that finalizing the members and becoming a unit aren’t the same thing. To make an effective fighting force, you have to take a certain amount of time to establish a chain of command and ensure everyone can work together; otherwise, it’s only a unit in numerical terms. Politician-soldiers aside, this is the General Staff’s job, so I would expect them to understand.

  That only makes it all the more terrifying. I have to wonder what would make them feel they have to force this, when they understand how unrealistic it is.