A Young Girl's Guerilla War

[Scopas]

JULY 2, 2016 ATB
STRATFORD PLACE, HONORARY DISTRICT #2, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
2200

"-ings a final end to the Yokohama Sniper's reign of terror." The newscaster concluded. "Now, fo-"

The next item in the bulletin fizzled out as the screen died. Keith Forester slumped back into the couch, hand still loosely grasped around the remote. It had been the third time he'd seen that particular "special bulletin" over the last two days; seemingly, the death of the feared Yokohama Sniper at the hands of the heroic agents of the Imperial Bureau of Investigation was all anybody could talk about. It was as if nothing else of any note was happening.

If only God were so merciful.

Keith closed his eyes, letting the cynical thought flow out and away through his nostrils along with his breath as he exhaled. Keith, he reminded himself, wouldn't think that anything else of note was going on. Keith wouldn't think of anything that he had not been directly ordered to think.

Keith, he thought as a cry from Hannah cut through the apartment from the bedroom, quickly hushed by Emily, is a father now. And all that matters is making sure that Keith doesn't stop being a father because he thought too much and did too little to remain Keith.

From the other room of the small two-room apartment, Keith heard Emily cooing something to their five year old, suffering from a bad case of strep throat. He didn't know what tune she was humming, what words might be carried on her breath too low to be heard through the wall.

He only hoped those words were Britannian. They'd agreed years ago to not speak Japanese – Elevenese – around Hannah.

It would be, they fervently hoped, easier that way. They couldn't do anything about the hair or the eyes, but they could make sure that Hannah would be as Britannian as any Honorary Britannian could be.

It was better than the alternative. Better an Honorary Britannian than a Number. Better to live than to be a corpse.

Better to be a traitor to thousands of years of dusty ancestors and useless traditions than to be a corpse.

Even if it was hard to remember that sometimes.

With another sigh, Keith allowed his eyes to flicker open. The half-remembered meditation exercises from… from before would not be bringing him any peace tonight, he could tell as much already. He was too agitated, too uneasy; his mind might be sick and tired with unease and neverending stress, but his body was full of nervous energy.

Keith walked over to the window, sliding it open with difficulty. The low-rise apartment building, one of hundreds like it originally thrown up for temporary worker accommodations in the burgeoning Tokyo Settlement before gradually gaining an aura of permanency as the land was zoned for Honoraries, was less than four years old and already home to a host of tiny problems. Fortunately, he'd fixed the window's slide with a bit of judicious banging with his hammer, so he could enjoy the summer breeze, cool this late at night.

Five kilome- three miles away to the southwest, the walls surrounding the open-air prison called Shinjuku Ghetto rose, the flat gray concrete blanched by the moonlight from above on all sides save that facing the Britannian Concession. There, the reflections of gaudy red, green, and golden lights mottled the walls like some strange pox.

Unbidden, a cool can of beer slipped into his right hand as Emily came up from behind him, tucking herself against his back. Without looking away from those distant walls, barely a hump on the horizon at this distance, he slipped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.

Hannah's throat must be doing better, Keith thought as he hugged his wife, if she went back to sleep so easily. Good girl, giving her mom a break.

"What're you thinking about, Kei…?" Emily's voice was husky in his ear, and for all that she spoke in the Britannic their status legally compelled them to use, he could still hear the voice of the same girl he had met years ago, back in a different Shinjuku. The girl he had married, in the dust of that Shinjuku as the walls went up and the dispossessed of Tokyo were herded inside. The girl he had married, almost five years ago now. The girl who had joined him in turning his back on Japan and had signed up for the Citizenship Classes, their baby daughter in her arms.

Despite her best efforts to cultivate first a Tokyo accent and then a Homelander accent, Emily still had the faintest touches of Osaka on her tongue. Even if it hadn't been just the two of them and their daughter in this apartment, that lingering accent meant that Keith could always pick her out of even the noisest of crowds.

"Just…" He swallowed, his throat dry and stuffy. A sip of the cold beer helped loosen it back up. "Just thinking about the old man again."

"Ah…" Her arms tightened around him just slightly, and Keith reciprocated the embrace as he stared out across the nightscape.

"I miss him." The words hung in the air, hideously underwhelming and entirely incapable of carrying the emotion welling up from deep inside Keith's heart, from a place that had once been the younger son, proud of his policeman father, full of irritated admiration for his naturally achieving older brother. A place that had once gone by a different name, in a different country. In a different life. In a different world. "I miss my father."

Emily was silent, her face tucked against his chest. Her warmth, the pressure of her arms, surrounded him, contrasting with the cool wind on his face, the cold beer in his hand. "Father was proud," he said, "always so proud… Proud of his uniform, proud of his country, proud of his sons…" Keith swallowed.

"I really loved my father."

In his mind, he could dimly see that colossus of childhood gain, that bushy mustache under the thick-rimmed glasses, that prematurely gray streak through his hair, and the tie pin his mother had once given Officer Matsumoto Souichiro of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police department always glimmering against the breast of his dress shirt when he wore a suit. He could see that same colossus crumble as they wandered Shinjuku, freshly returned from a trip to visit Grandpa's farm and finding the world had shifted on its axis while they were away.

He remembered the fury in his father's eyes when Keith, hand in hand with Emily, had told him their new names and that they had become Honorary Citizens, their applications approved and tests complete. The Oath sworn.

At least the Yokohama Sniper ended up being a woman… It had been all too easy to imagine a familiar face, worn down by years of privation and twisted with hate, glaring down the barrel of a rifle. At least… At least I don't have to wonder if the Yokohama Sniper had been thinking about Hannah when she shot that kid…

"I really loved my father…" There was still a part of the boy he had once been who cried when he remembered that rejection. "I wish…" He trailed off. What did he wish? That his father had been less proud, less stiff-necked, more willing to adjust to the changing times? That wouldn't have been Matsumoto Souichiro.

"I wish he could be here with us… That he could watch his granddaughter grow up… Could help you take care of her…"

Even if his father was still alive somehow, even if he had somehow found a way to beat the odds and survive as a Number, Keith knew that dream was dead. Souichiro, his father, would never accept that the mother of his only grandchild was an Honorary Britannian, and that his granddaughter would be raised to be an Honorary Britannian, completely cut off from anything Japanese if Keith had his way. The knowledge that his father would never, could never be part of his daughter's life gnawed at him. Who was he to cut Hannah away from her grandfather? How could he?

"My son is dead! You killed him, you bastard!"


Because, Keith answered his own question, it's the only way for Hannah to have a long life, if not a happy one. To be Japanese is to be vermin, utterly disposable. I'll do anything to keep her alive.

"But… as long as you're Emily, and as long as she's Hannah… And as long as I'm not who I was… He won't… I can't…"

He could never go home again. But what was home, if not this apartment? It wasn't much, but it was where his wife lived, where their child lived.

The thought of his old bastard of a father's reaction to Emily, not Ami, and to their daughter curdled the old grief into anger again, just like it always did when thoughts of what could have been bothered him.

"Fuck him!" The can crumpled in Keith's fist, and he pressed Emily close to him, trying to ignore the way the wind chilled the wetness on his face. "What did he want me to do? Curl up and die with him in the ashes of our old home? Lay down next to Mom and Kotaro's bones and join them? Fuck him and his pride! Pride wouldn't fill our bellies! Being Jap- being Elevens wouldn't keep my daughter alive, it would only trap her in the same misery he was too proud to turn away from! He didn't even try! He just wanted to die, and hated that I wanted to live!"

He didn't know who he was trying to convince. Souichiro, if he was still alive, was miles away and no doubt hated him still. Hannah was still too young to understand, or at least he fervently hoped that five was too young to understand hatred, and thankfully still asleep despite his outburst. Emily had heard it all before.

Emily…

Abruptly, Keith felt ashamed. Emily's parents were both dead, and she'd been an only child. She had no family other than him and Hannah.

In his darker moments, he couldn't help but envy his wife, just a bit. It would have been easier if Souichiro really was dead, as dead as the Japan he represented. It would have made it easier to keep Kenji buried.

"I miss your father too…" With a start, Keith realized that it was Emily who had said that, talking into his chest.

"You never liked him," he mumbled back, letting the can drop from his fingers and turning away from the window, wrapping his freed arm around his wife, running his fingers through her short hair. "He was always stiff around you… He never welcomed you in…"

"I know, but…" Emily tilted her head back, looking up at him. Her eyes glimmered, wet with moonlight and pooling tears. "I miss what he could have been. What he should have been. He should have been proud of his son. Proud of what his son managed to accomplish. Made a life for himself."

"He said the wrong son died." The old hurt coated his tongue like the scum after a night's hard drinking, and Keith, realizing he was lashing out at the image of the Souichiro that could have been in his wife's eyes, moderated his tone. "When I told him what I was doing… He said he wished he had taken Kotaro with him to Grandpa's place, that I'd stayed behind in Shinjuku with Mom…"

"That was wrong of him to say, to think," Emily replied, heat touching her voice. "He had a wonderful son in you. And now you're mine, and you're my wonderful husband. You've got a good job and career in the Honorary Legion, and the pay's enough for the rent and food, so I can stay home with our daughter. It's your hard work. He didn't deserve a son like you."

"It didn't need to be this way…" And now the anger was gone, cycling back to grief. "Plenty of cops just changed what laws they were enforcing… Swore new oaths…"

"If he had been as good of a man as his son," Emily insisted, no hint of compromise in her voice, "that's what he'd have done. Instead of making you work your own way through Citizenship, he could have given himself and his son a new life, a better life than what he settled for. So he lost his son and the chance to have a family with us." She stood on her toes and touched her nose to Keith's, forcing a reluctant smile to his lips. "His loss."

"Yeah…" Not his loss; Keith hadn't been the one to push his father away, to reject him. To choose to cling onto a rapidly dying past instead of finding the courage to reach out to a new life. All he had done was keep his family alive and fed, and damned the costs to himself. "Yeah, you're right. His loss." As he repeated his wife's words, Keith felt certainty creep into him. "I loved my father. I miss my father. But, if my father was more willing to see me dead instead of dishonored, instead of an Honorary… If he'd rather Hannah be dead than speaking Britannian…"

It was only a quarter turn, only a slight shuffling of his feet, Emily obligingly following him into the darkness of the apartment. Only a small adjustment, only a minor change, but Keith's back was to the open window, to Shinjuku.

"If he wants to lie down and die with Japan, with Mom and Big Bro…" It hurt, saying it out loud, but in that hurt was the first seed of catharsis. "If he wants death, then let him die. I am not my father. I chose life, and I'll choose my family." Emily was radiant in that pale light, her smile and eyes loving and beautiful, for all that her face was unwashed and drawn with the exhaustion of a young parent tending to a robust if occasionally ill daughter. "And if the price of that is kissing Britannian feet, well…" The smile felt crooked and forced on Keith's face, but he thought it could feel natural someday.

"Pride is death; if nothing else, that's my father's lesson."

 

[nick012000]

I've just finished reading all of this, and I'll admit: I want to see Tanya's face when she realises she needs to work alongside Lelouch's little cult for the sale of overthrowing Brittania.

Anything for the cause, right? Just lie back and think of Japan, Tanya!

 

[Scopas]

Another commission handled by Scitty Kitty, this time a simple headshot of Tanaka Chihiro, once of Shinjuku, also known as the Yokohama Sniper.

 

[Scopas]

FishTheTaco/Silencio finished another commission for me, this one depicting the recruitment of Diethard Reid in Chapter 21.

 

[Scopas]

(Thank you to Sunny, Restestsest, Rakkis157, and MetalDragon for beta-reading and editing this sidestory.)


A Voice for the Future: A Spot of Golf


JULY 7, 2016 ATB
FILLMORE COUNTRY CLUB, JUST OUTSIDE THE KYOTO HONORARY SETTLEMENT
1230


"Oh… Oh… C'mon…" The ball trembled on the lip of the hole, perfectly balanced on the brink. The suspense of the moment was heady as Bradley, Bradley's unnamed caddy, and Lady Sophie Sumeragi, also called Kaguya, waited with bated breath. Or, in Kaguya's case and quite possibly that of the caddy's, waited behind expressions which were very convincing facsimiles of the eager tension written across Bradley's face.


Finally, with a desultory thump, gravity passed its verdict and the ball tumbled out of sight and went to its destiny in the depths of the hole.


"Huzzah!" Bradley's broad, pink face flushed with passion as he pumped his fist exultantly. "A birdie! I got a birdie!"


He actually said 'huzzah,' Kaguya marveled from the sanctuary of her mind. What century does this boy live in?


"Is that very good?" Kaguya asked with cloying sweetness, playing dumb and making a show of listening attentively as Bradley, the third son of a noble unimportant save for his post as the vice-president of the second largest trans-Pacific shipping concern, took the opportunity to "educate" her once again on the finer points of golf scoring, tooting his horn as he did so.


"Splendid showing, milord," the caddy said after Bradley finished explaining the difference between an eagle and an albatross, perhaps taking pity on Kaguya by cutting his noble master off before he could ramble any further. "That makes eight holes straight where you have come under par. Very well done, if I do say so myself. What a way to end this morning's game!"


"Thank you, Alex," Bradley, an overweight boy two years her senior, replied offhandedly, not even looking at the man. "Yes, a fine morning if I do say so myself." Seemingly remembering some scrap of his etiquette training, Bradley turned what he probably thought was a charming smile on Kaguya. "You did quite well yourself, Lady Sophie. At least, quite well for a… beginner."


Ah, what a graceful last-minute correction. And the man's name is Alex? Good to know.


It was always a good idea to learn small but important details like the names of the servants, at least in Kaguya's experience, even though she would never call the man by name, at least not anywhere his employer could hear her. It was also an excellent idea to politely ignore any peculiar gaps in sentences where a slur or a comment on her status or personal history might have been barely excised from the printer's tray of the speaker's mind just before publication.


To effectively play a role, the minor details were just as important as the broad sweeps. A poor performance of a "civilized" Britannian noble at one of these "encounters" could do greater damage to her acceptance in the Area's upper crust than showing up at tee time, or heaven forbid tea time, wearing a kimono.


After all, a full and public embrace of her native culture would convey the impression of perceived strength, even if it also conveyed temerity of the highest degree. Likewise, an excellent impression of a Britannian noble communicated an embrace of the Britannian way of life, as well as a certain willingness to "play ball", as it were, and to make sacrifices to meet the Britannians on their own terms.


A poor performance, on the other hand, only conveyed incompetence and weakness. Kaguya could afford neither.


"Thank you, my lord," Kaguya smiled sweetly at her suitor for the day. "Perhaps I will be able to impose on you again next weekend for another lesson? The Fillmore is such a beautiful course, after all… But good company makes it all the more enjoyable."


"Ah…" Somehow, Bradley found some way to become even more floridly pink, the color of his cheeks darkening to a shade that made Kaguya think of freshly sliced ham. It was an unfortunate shade, considering the boy's porcine face and the way his fair hair made him look all the pinker. "I… Umm… I'd like that…?"


The caddy, Alex, coughed lightly and Bradley's features firmed up.


"That is," the noble boy continued, his voice much firmer, "I would be willing to spare some time to help you improve your game, Lady Sophie. I am sure that, with my help, your handicap will drop to scratch in no time."


So not just a golfing caddy from the Club, hmm? Kaguya bobbed her head eagerly as she eyed the servant from the corner of her eye. A family servant, certainly. Perhaps Bradley's personal valet? Certainly a chaperone, sent to keep youthful hijinks in line and to make sure that the boy doesn't get too friendly with the Honorary, I'm sure. Pity that.


It came naturally to Kaguya to think of Bradley Dean as "the boy" despite him having two years on her. It was clear that Thaddeus Dean had not passed down much in the way of his business acumen to his third son, which was probably the reason the Britannian magnate was willing to consider even in passing a match between his boy and an Honorary Britannian. No matter that she was brilliant, that Sumeragi Industries was far more successful than Pacific Shipping Solutions ever could be, and no matter that the blood of emperors ran in her veins, while the Deans were mere lesser nobles with good business sense.


A third son was all an Honorary Britannian could rate, no matter how noble the Honorary was.


If Kaguya Sumeragi had truly been a social climbing Honorary eager for her children to be full Britannian nobles, she would have rejoiced to even get that sort of consideration, leaving Kaguya little choice in how to play her role.


And even that would be far too straightforward, now wouldn't it? If I play the "eager would-be Britannian" role too well, the Old Men might start getting tetchy again like the hypocrites they are. Kaguya sighed to herself, indulging in a moment of self-pity. Guess it's time to play the "demure maiden" card.


Kaguya carefully blushed and made a show of fiddling with the baggy fabric of her golfing trousers, the already voluminous garment made moreso after she bloused the legs into the high argyll-patterned socks. A touch of feigned embarrassment also gave her a fantastic excuse to look away from Bradley. He truly did resemble a pig, and not even a bristly boar brimming with bombast; indeed, Bradley looked fit to wallow in a sty, his mouth in the trough, and it was difficult not to mess up her poise and snicker at that mental image.


"I am honored you think so highly of me," she said, brushing an errant lock of her hair back behind her ear in a carefully calculated 'spontaneous' act of maidenly demurity. An old reliable, that, according to her official Britannian guardian, Lady Annabeth. "I am very thankful for your time. I am sure you are in high demand, and I appreciate your personal, undivided attention."


It was a bit of a dangerous move and not one that strictly fit with Lady Annabeth's lengthy lessons on Britannian courting etiquette, but Kaguya had always found it best to follow her instincts at times like this. She knew full well that Bradley was emphatically not in high demand, after all, evidenced by the way his father had instructed the boy to begin his attempt to court "a girl below his station."


She also knew that Bradley very much wanted to be wanted, and as he swelled up with self-importance before her, Kaguya knew that she had been right to trust her instincts.


He's barely even a Britannian, Kaguya thought with a trace of pity. Real Britannians lust for power and strive endlessly for it. I've met real Britannians. Bradley, though… Bradley just wants to be liked.


Tanya was more of a Britannian than him.


It was amazing the difference a little time could make. Just a week ago, Kaguya had felt all but helpless in the course of her life, her attempts to carve her own way frustrated by the accident of her birth and her desires to improve the lot of her people hobbled by the cautious conservatism of the Old Men.


And as far as anybody else outside of a chosen handful of close collaborators would know, none of that had changed.


Just another role to play, Kaguya mused as she burbled something simpering and enthusiastic as she followed Bradley towards the next hole. Honestly, it's starting to get a bit hard to keep them all straight.


The other Houses knew, of course, that the House of Sumeragi had contracted with the Kozuki Organization. Concealing the purchase and transportation of the supplies she had already shipped to Shinjuku would have been all but impossible, with the quantities to follow unmissable by any save the blind and fatally concussed. Instead, Kaguya had seized the initiative and brought the matter up at the last meeting of the house heads. Lord Tossei had been most displeased, but Lord Taizo had run interference on her behalf. The other three members of the Numbers Advisory Council were thankfully too absorbed with their own scheming to care, especially not after Lord Taizo had claimed that it was "important for the young lady to learn the importance of safe and sensible investments."


Which, if they were as canny as they think themselves to be, should have only served to heighten their suspicions. They are fully aware that Lord Taizo is my actual guardian, Lady Annabeth be damned, so what reason would he have to downplay my intelligence at a meeting save to obfuscate my goals?


"You know, Lady Sophie," Bradley said as he stumped up the hill to the next hole's teeing area, wiping the beading sweat from his brow with a monogrammed kerchief as he went, "there's no reason for us to be out in the heat of the day. The course isn't going anywhere, you know! Why don't we break for lunch at the Clubhouse?"


Cool and comfortable in her lightweight argyll-patterned golfing outfit, Kaguya didn't feel any particular need to retreat from the fairly mild noonday sun and she wasn't hungry either. On the other hand, she didn't care about golf and Bradley looked like he might actually melt if he was left outside for much longer.


Besides, I hear that the Fillmore has a complete dessert buffet on offer!


"Certainly, my lord," she said with a sweet smile, peering up at the Britannian from under her white flat-cap. "I could do with some refreshments myself!"


"Very good!" Bradley replied with poorly hidden relief. "Alex, tend to our clubs."


"Very good, milord." The caddy sketched a slight bow to Bradley before turning to Kaguya. "Lady Sophie, shall I take your clubs as well?"


The man's smile was appropriately servile, but his eyes were cold and assessing. Kaguya met them with the smoothly bland expression of disinterest reserved by Britannian noble etiquette for furniture and the help. It was a subtle test that Alex, if that was the servant's name, had sprung on her, but Kaguya already knew the correct response.


On one hand, a lady of her true rank did not speak directly to a mere valet, especially not one in the service of a club or another noble. Etiquette dictated that a lady of royal lineage only spoke to her handmaids, the ranking maid in charge of the household, and if she must, the butler, when in public. On the other hand, while Kaguya was the descendent of a cadet branch of an old imperial family, that family was no more and the empire they had ruled had not been Britannian and thus inferior. Claiming the same rights as a lady of the Britannian royal family could be a sign of disloyalty on her part.


So, instead of standing pointedly still and quiet or responding to the man's barb, she channeled just a touch of the fire she had seen glowing in Tanya's eyes as she recounted her first kill.


"The key, Lady Kaguya, was proving my competency in an undeniable manner."


The breath wooshed out of Alex's mouth as the 35 pound bag slammed into him like an inelegant sledgehammer, his knees thudding into the green as his strength left him.


"Oops!" Kaguya tittered behind a raised hand, coyly covering her mouth as she sought out Bradley's eyes. "I think your caddy's got butterfingers, Bradley!"


She pointed at her golf bag where it lay at the servant's feet, her drivers spilling out of the unzipped mouth. He had tried to grab the bag even as she'd rammed it into his gut, an impressive display of dedication considering how he had still scrambled for the handle as he wheezed for breath.


"He fumbled his catch… Wait," she put a finger to her chin, turning her face up in thought, "does this mean I got a hole in one?"


Bradley stared blankly at her for a moment, before snorting with laughter as he came back to himself. "For taking down Alex? Not hardly, Lady Sophie! Good show, though. Can't take lip from the help, eh?"


"Too true!" Kaguya agreed happily as she linked her arm around Bradley's in the prescribed manner for a young lady escorted on promenade.


All the while quashing the discomfort in her belly. Abusing the servants was a time-honored Britannian tradition, a casual reminder of noble privilege and might and thus beloved by the aristocracy, and so her role forced her to go along with the practice. Bleeding hearts stood out in Britannia, especially if they had Japanese faces.


She still hated the pointless cruelty of the culture of abuse, not to mention the waste. Kaguya had no issue with pointed and useful cruelty – no daughter of Kyoto who sought to maintain her position in a man's world could afford to be squeamish – but cruelty for its own petty sake did nothing but make more enemies.


And isn't that just Britannian culture in a nutshell, she thought wryly. Utter swine, greedy and bullying, power-hungry and always, always so desperate to show how dominant they are of everything around them. To them, the only unforgivable crime is that of weakness… Funny how they never realize how that constant clamoring for strength only makes them look weaker in everybody else's eyes.


One day, Kaguya promised herself once more, I will reveal their weakness for all to see. I think I have already found my best tool towards that goal… But for today, I must still play along.


"They're all the same, you know," she confided to Bradley as they strolled off down the hill, leaving Alex to handle both sets of clubs behind them, "all of the lower sorts. You wouldn't believe how much trouble my own Honorary housestaff gave me before I finally drove some manners into their heads."


"Oh?" Bradley chuckled, wiping his moist brow again with his handkerchief. "You know, hearing that from you should come as more of a surprise than it is. You really do have some teeth, Lady Sophie. No wonder my father's so impressed."


And there's that weakness, noted Kaguya with distaste. Bowing to the opinion of your father instead of drawing your own, only seeing a sweet face and finding that a tongue that can drizzle honied words can be bitter and venomous as well… And did you think I didn't hear the slightest hint of unease in your laugh, Bradley-boy? Time to set you back at your ease, I think.


"I will defer to your father's wisdom on that score," Kaguya demurred, smiling up at her companion again at just the right angle for her bright green eyes to peep out from under the brim of her cap, a practiced look of playful cuteness. "He's so smart! I'm really impressed with how well your family has done, Lord Bradley! A vice-president must be so busy all the time! I could never keep up with all of that!"


She was laying it on a bit thick, but Bradley was a bit thick too. No reason to risk him drawing the wrong conclusions.


"But you own your own company, don't you?" Bradley's big, stupid face creased in a frown of honest puzzlement. "Don't you know all of that… business stuff too?"


"Me?" Kaguya adopted an expression of artful surprise. "Lord Bradley, I have people for that! After all," she sniffed, "a lady doesn't dirty her hands with business outside of the household books, of course… Especially not when there's sweets to be had! I have heard so much about the Fillmore, but I have never been here before! Is it true that they have an entire kitchen devoted to the dessert menu?"


"It's true," Bradley acknowledged, before adding with a sniff, "although the food is, in my opinion, barely adequate. Let me assure you, Lady Sophie, that the chefs back at the Dean Estate in the Homeland are far finer."


Before Kaguya could follow that comment up with the usual round of giggled flattery, an almost furtive look passed over Bradley's face. When her golfing companion spoke again, his voice lacked the usual noble oiliness; for the second time that day, Kaguya felt like she was seeing a shy boy glancing out from around the edges of the edifice of the scion.


"That's what Dad says, at least. But, between you and me…" Bradley was muttering, and were they not all but alone, the heavily laden Alex trailing behind them on the hill, Kaguya would have thought he was trying to avoid being overheard, "the Crème brûlée is really, really good. I'm not really supposed to like it, since it's European and all, but…"


Well, well, what do you know? It looks like there might be a real person somewhere inside the Brit pig after all.


"If what you say is true…" Kaguya replied, voice solemn and grim… "then your secret will be safe with me, Lord Bradley." The mock seriousness slid from her tongue like a viper's molt, leaving an impish smile behind. "Us sugar lovers gotta stick together, eh?"


As Bradley beamed down at her, his smile far less stiff and uneasy than before, Kaguya pressed her advantage and wrapped her hand around his. "Come on! Why are we standing around in the heat when there's desserts with our names on them waiting for us? Come on!"


It turned out that, no matter Bradley's numerous other faults, chief among them the bad taste displayed by being born Britannian, he had an excellent taste in food extending beyond a keen eye for sweets. Over their extravagant lunch, thankfully free of the usual protocols in the designated informal space of the clubhouse dining room, the third son spoke knowledgably and at great length about all of the dishes Kaguya chose to sample. From the selection of vinaigrettes that arrived with the salad starter to a step by step explanation of how the much-vaunted Crème brûlée was prepared, the teen was a practical font of knowledge.


Incidentally, the Crème brûlée was indeed just as wonderful as Bradley had promised.


I wonder if Tanya would like to try some, Kaguya mused as she stared at her empty dish, only the remnant of the crust left behind. She ate almost as many cookies as me, after all…


As the after-lunch conversation began to wind down, Alex the caddy discreetly slipped up to their table and, with a quick bow, knelt by Bradley's chair to murmur something into his ear. Bradley's spoon, still laden with a last bite of his pudding, paused in mid-air as the young noble listened intently to his servant before turning to Kaguya, a broad smile worming its way across his face.


Something about that smile made Kaguya's gut clench with unease. It's the gloating, she decided. He's pleased, very pleased, about something.


"Well, Lady Sophie," Bradley began before pausing to take the last bite of his pudding, relishing the taste as he replaced his spoon by his plate, "there's one less troublemaker in the world now."


"Oh?" Kaguya blinked guilelessly at the Britannian from across the table, her eyes wide with clearly telegraphed interested innocence. "Well, that sounds delightful! But… I must ask, which troublemaker are you referring to now, Lord Bradley? Sometimes, it seems like the whole Area is full of nothing but troublemakers. It's so hard to keep track of them all!""


"Oh," Bradly blinked, surprise at her question momentarily displacing the smug satisfaction from his face. The surprise in turn firmed into a frown of patrician disapproval that sat ill at ease on his flabby features. Indeed, the expression was so clearly unnatural and practiced that Kaguya was forced to assume that the boy had practiced it at length in a mirror, presumably trying to imitate one of his betters, most likely his father. "Yes… yes, I see your point. The Empire is truly vexed with an abundance of rats scurrying underfoot these days, isn't it? Sad that such a state is practically taken as a given now… Not that a lady in your position would need to burden herself with the specifics."


"Not for the most part," Kaguya agreed with a careless shrug that, while equally as practiced as Bradley's disapproving frown, suited her role as Lady Sophie, wide-eyed gadabout. "That's really what the help is for, isn't it? I'm not really much for the news myself, I'm afraid. It's far too dull and always so depressing, except when Prince Clovis is giving a speech! Honestly," she rolled her eyes theatrically, eliciting an appreciative chuckle from her companion, "it's enough of a bore keeping up with all of the reports my company's directors insist I read, not to mention all of the household accounts Lady Annabeth forces me to slave over!"


"Quite understandable," Bradley nodded understandingly. "You bear a heavy cross indeed, Lady Sophie. It's no fault of your own that your lessons were… delayed, and it's commendable how hard you have worked to master them."


The happy smile on Kaguya's face was not at all forced. Indeed, it was sweet as honey, as elegantly manicured as any hedgerow and, indeed, just as naturally occuring. "Thank you so much for your understanding, Lord Bradley."


"Not to worry," he replied, magnanimous in his dismissal. "But… Where were we… Oh, yes, in any case, this particular troublemaker is the infamous Yokohoma Sniper! Surely," he implored, "you have heard the name, at least? That's all any of the news stations have talked about for a week now!'


"Ah, yes," Kaguya smiled as the knot in her stomach cinched itself tight. "I think I've heard about him, but I more or less tuned it out. I'm not much of a newshound, remember? So I don't really know all the unpleasant details, but… well, the name is quite self-explanatory, isn't it? Almost on the nose."


"Heard of her!" Bradley corrected triumphantly. "They just got her! And not a day too soon."


"A… woman?" Kaguya blinked, momentarily taken aback. "I… can't say I was expecting that." Remembering herself, she quickly added, "I mean, aren't men supposed to be the ones who are all about passion and the hot blood of battle and all that? Flying off the handle like this Sniper presumably did seems like a very… masculine thing."


That's it, Kaguya told herself as she carefully deflected the lordling's attention away from her gender, play into the Britannian norms and use them to your advantage… The girl sitting across the table from you definitely has no stomach for the fight. And another girl commanding a city from a bunker doesn't have passion enough to rekindle a nation's fiery heart. Just a pair of harmless girls, nothing to see here…


And as 'Lady Sophie' deflected and disarmed, the rest of Sumeragi Kaguya smoldered with fury. Damn that bitch of a sniper! She'll blow the cover for the rest of us!


"Well," replied Bradley dismissively, resettling himself in his chair as Kaguya's stomach dropped through the floor, "what can you expect from the Elevens, Lady Sophie? Unlike yourself, they're hardly… Civilized."


She nodded along, her tongue heavy and still behind her lips. It was, a distant corner of Kaguya noted, almost sweet how he made exceptions for present company without having to be reminded. By Britannian standards, that's positively cosmopolitan.


"Yes," Kaguya heard herself say, "they're so childlike sometimes. I mean, you wouldn't believe how much trouble I've had with even the newer Honoraries, to say nothing about the outright Numbers. It's like they don't want to understand."


It was her voice, but those weren't her words. Kaguya was busy, a cascade of possibilities running through her head as the lessons and propaganda her Britannian tutor had hammered into Lady Sophie operated autonomously.


"Exactly!" Bradley agreed vigorously, his eyes alight with interest and misplaced sympathy. "They just don't seem to understand their place! You would think after six years the lesson would have seeped into their thick heads, but…" He shrugged. "Maybe this time, they'll learn. His Highness the Viceregal Governor did up the punitive quota, after all, and if a thousand to one doesn't send a message, nothing will."


It will send a message indeed. Kaguya felt cold with the certainty, all ice and cut-glass clarity. Oh yes, it will send a message indeed. Lord Tossei and his faction have just lost once and for all as soon as that message is made. If the Britannians seriously carry out the full penalty set forth in Proclamation Nine in a city, not just out in the Niigata countryside, it means that it will only be a matter of time before there are no Elevens left, and quite likely no Eleven-descended Honoraries either. The conservative "wait and see" approach is doomed.


By sending this message, the Britannians have only guaranteed that the Day of Liberation will soon dawn. And I have secured the sun in my camp and given her as many bright beams as I could to scour the barbarians away.


"Quite right," Kaguya agreed aloud, directing a fraction of her attention at Bradley as her mind whirred. As soon as the news broke, events would begin to unfurl at breakneck speed. She wouldn't be the one to set the tinder ablaze, of course, but she wasn't going to stand around waiting to be burnt either. Timetables would have to be accelerated, shipments of weapons and supplies in and people out would have to be accelerated… "And if they won't learn this time, won't understand the course history has plotted for them now… Then they will never understand."


And if that's the case, then we truly are dead as a people. If a mass sacrifice of ten thousand, even twenty thousand, isn't enough to breathe renewed life into the Yamato-damashii, then it matters little how many bodies the Britannians stack, for we will already be as corpses.


"Quite right!" Bradley nodded, his budding double-chin bobbing slightly as the servant Alex stood at his back, thoughtful eyes nestled in a bland, empty face. "But for now… I think the rest of our game awaits. Nine more holes, eh?"


"Then by all means," Kaguya replied, rising to her feet in a single graceful movement, an almost burning energy suffusing her limbs in a desperate need to move, "I'm ready for the next round if you are!"


A Voice for the Past: A Warrior Without a War

JULY 7, 2016 ATB
KAWAKAMI, NARA PREFECTURE
1900


As the sun slipped away beyond the broad shoulders of Mount Sanjo, Tohdoh Kyoshiro settled down on the cracked old foundation stones that marked the place where Obatani Hamlet had once stood.


Once of the Republican Japanese Army, for a time the personal armsmaster of the Kururugi Household, now of the Japan Liberation Front, many miles had passed below Kyoshiro's boots since his childhood, much of which had been spent at his grandfather's home in Kawakami Village, or at the Kendo dojo the old warhorse had devoted himself to in his retirement.


Tohdoh Koichiro, like his son and his grandson, had been a military man for the bulk of his adult life. Unlike his son, Koichiro had seen combat under the last Emperor of Japan, during the failed attempt to expand the Empire of Japan onto the Asian mainland. The scars the great undertaking had left on his grandfather had been clearly visible to the young Kyoshiro, for all that his body had survived the trials of Khabarovsk, Vladivostok, and Karafuto intact.


The stories the old man would tell when the snow fell over the Omine Mountains left an indelible mark on Kyoshiro. Stories of dedication to the Emperor and the Land of the Rising Sun, of the devotion forged between comrades in untenable situations, of ingenuity in the face of overwhelming might. Stories of the loss of comrades and the loss of hope, the suffering of the wounded, and of how the dedication to something greater than oneself became a shield against the pain and the despair.


All of these stories, Kyoshiro Tohdoh had carried with him when he followed in his father and grandfather's footsteps. Like his father and grandfather, he had enrolled at the Republican Japanese Army Academy, and like his father and grandfather, had graduated with honors, whereupon he had taken the oath of service to Japan and her government.


He had been commissioned as a Lieutenant of the Artillery.


Between his excellent grades, his father and grandfather's networks of contacts in the Army bureaucracy, and the Tohdoh family's history of military service dating back to the Bafuku, he had risen rapidly through the peacetime RJA. His superiors were impressed by his stoic demeanor and sincere devotion to the ideals he had learned from his grandfather's stories. His non-coms were impressed by his willingness to get his hands dirty in the pursuit of deepening his proficiency as an artillery commander.


That last aspect of Kyoshiro's command style had been taken directly from his grandfather's stories. Although his grandfather had served as an infantry officer, he had always emphasized how important it was to prove to the men that you understood exactly what they were doing, and that you could hold your own in any one of their tasks.


"That," Koichiro told his attentive grandson, "is how you get more than just respect for your rank. That's how you get their loyalty. Prove that you know what they're doing, what they're feeling. Show that you're not afraid of an honest day's work."


Consequently, Kyoshiro had always made a point to serve on one of his battalion's self-propelled howitzers at some point during every field exercise, not as a battery commander or even displacing the sergeant commanding the howitzer's crew, but rather as a mere loader or a gunner. His grandfather's wisdom had paid off; in every command Kyoshiro held on his way up the ranks, his men consistently outperformed every other artillery formation in every metric assessed.


Oh, how they had cheered…


Kyoshiro sighed, brought back to the present with the echoes of his long-dead 2nd Battalion still ringing in his ears. It was, he noted, a beautiful night. The moon was already out, hanging brilliantly in the sky in the last rays of sunlight, and the cicadas were out in force.


Here, a kilometer and a half away from the nearest access point into the JLF tunnel system radiating out from below the sacred mountain to his west, he was thankfully alone. Only here, in a village that had already been dying when he was a boy, was Kyoshiro free, free from his subordinates in the Knightmare Corps, free of General Katase's endless need for advice and support, and most of all, freed from the damnable "Tohdoh of Miracles."


Miracles… How grotesque.


Intellectually, Kyoshiro understood the name he had been given by some propagandist in the dying Kururugi Administration. It was important to give the people hope that the Britannians could be defeated, and symbols were crucial in inspiring and preserving hope. It was that cold understanding that had kept his grief-stricken temper and shattered nerves intact during that meeting with the remnants of the General Staff, where they had congratulated him for his victory and had addressed him by that nickname in a speech broadcast via radio to all of Japan, immediately making him a living symbol of hope.


His stoic demeanor had held fast until he found his way to the quarters assigned to "Tohdoh of Miracles." Being the man of the hour, he had been given a private room, a reprieve from the crowded barracks bunkers the surviving rank and file had been crammed into. As soon as the door had closed behind him, once he was confident that he was alone, Kyoshiro had finally allowed himself to grieve for the lost 1st Battalion, 7th Heavy Artillery Regiment, the sister formation of his own 2nd Battalion.


No miracle had been enough to save them, to save the city that they had died to a man to protect…


Kyoshiro sighed again, and closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing. In and out, in and out…


And as his breathing calmed and his heart rate slowed, Kyoshiro allowed himself to remember Itsukushima.


It was August 13th, 2010. The Britannians had made landfall three days earlier, and Japan hadn't been anywhere near ready to receive them. The Navy, somehow caught flat-footed by the massive Britannian armadas approaching the Republic from three directions, was for the most part caught in their berths, the handful of vessels who managed to put to sea sent below the waves in hours. The Air Force was similarly under-prepared, and by the time the Britannians advanced on Hiroshima, they had enjoyed air supremacy for days.


Despite enjoying an uncontested sky and control of the waves beyond the coastal artillery guarding the harbor's mouth, the Britannians had still managed to bungle the assault on the city. It was the first piece of luck Lieutenant Colonel Tohdoh had enjoyed that day.


From his post at the Takanosu Battery on Itsukushima, Kyoshiro had watched as the Britannians attacked Hiroshima from the east the day before, following National Route 2 and the Sanyo Expressway in a baffling line of advance from Fukuyama. The fighting in the city had been intense, if tragically short. The city's garrison had done their best to hold their position but over the course of the day and the night the Britannians had steadily forced their way through the dense suburbs and urban core, driving the Japanese Army back.


The stand of the Hiroshima Garrison would have been over much more quickly if the Britannians hadn't somehow miscoordinated the second mandible of their pincer, the seaborne force arriving only after everything east of the Ota River had already fallen to the Britannian landward forces. But somehow, whether it had been poor communication or some bizarre interservice rivalry, the Royal Britannian Navy only arrived in Hiroshima Bay after the fall of Hiroshima City was all but assured.


If that mistiming of the two assault wings had been Kyoshiro's first piece of luck, the second must have been whatever failing led to the initial Britannian disregard for his Takanosu Battery, and for its sister battery across the harbor, the Mitakayama Battery.


Oh, how arrogant the Britannian sailors and marines had been in their approach! Kyoshiro could still see the pale gray profiles of the destroyer escort, the two warships carelessly shepherding the four slab-sided amphibious assault vessels directly into the mouth of Hiroshima Bay. Those assault vessels were already deploying a swarm of tiny landing craft by the time the approaching flotilla advanced to Onasabi Island, each carrying a squad or so of Britannian Marines, or else one of the at the time newly revealed Knightmares.


He and Lieutenant Colonel Ienaga, in command of the 1st Battalion of the same 7th Heavy Artillery Regiment that was the parent formation of Kyoshiro's own 2nd Battalion, had frantically coordinated as they realized that the Britannians would motor right past their positions without so much as an attempt at suppressing fire. Kyoshiro, by dint of having a commission three months senior of Ienaga's, had the dubious honor of deciding the moment to fire.


It had been glorious.


The Britannian destroyers sweeping into Hiroshima Bay had been grand vessels, all clean steel lines and bristling spires, standing as tall and proud in the water as the Britannian emperor's own household guard on their parade ground. Both ships were stuffed from stem to stern with the most advanced sensors and missile systems the arrogant superpower could boast and carried enough ordinance to level a city while hiding behind the horizon, all protected by teeming point defense cannons.


Even an army officer with multiple generations of antipathy for any naval force such as Tohdoh would freely admit that the destroyers of His Imperial Majesty's fleet were impressive, true knights of the waves in all of their menacing glory.


But so close to shore, under the twenty four total howitzers of Tohdoh's two artillery battalions, all of the flotilla's might meant nothing. Their point defense cannons, designed to fend off aircraft or intercept air-to-surface missiles, were hopelessly overwhelmed, drowned under the iron rain of eight batteries. Their gleaming steel hulls, triumphs of technology each, were ripped asunder by the merciless 15cm high explosive shells that fell as swift and true as the gods' own vengeance. Trapped in the Bay between Kyoshiro's battalion to their west and Ienaga's battalion to their east, all the Britannian naval detachment could do was die.


Within four minutes of Kyoshiro's order to fire, the once pristine ships were almost unrecognizable, smoke belching from their ravaged hulls as a terrible blaze consumed them. One destroyer was halfway submerged, sailors launching lifeboats as the stern sank below the surface of Hiroshima Bay. Her sister, holed below the waterline by a lucky shot, was already capsizing, her crew desperately throwing themselves into the sea as the unlucky were sucked down into the depths along with their ship.


The transport ships loaded with Britannian marines, their supplies, and their vehicles, most especially including the complement of Portmans, had likewise met their doom.


The battalion had been elated, and Kyoshiro, knowing even then that the Britannians would not allow their defiance to remain unpunished, hadn't the heart to quash their enthusiastic cheers. Instead, he'd radioed his compliments to Ienaga and set to work coordinating with the battalion of infantry attached to his 2nd Battalion as guards; the Britannian transports had managed to offload many of their soldiers and even some Knightmares into their landing craft, and those survivors would be out for revenge.


As it turned out, Lieutenant Colonel Ienaga and his unlucky 1st Battalion would be the recipients of that vengeance. The Britannians spurned the high cliffs and densely forested slopes of Itsukushima in favor of the lower-lying Etajima Island, where Ienaga commanded the Mitakayama Battery. Kyoshiro could do nothing but silently watch the ensuing slaughter, gripping his binoculars with white-knuckled fury. Could do nothing but watch, and make adjustments.


Before the Conquest had begun, before Britannia had come to Hiroshima's shores, when they had first been assigned to coastal guard duty, Kyoshiro had sat down with his fellow officer of the 7th Artillery. As their colonel would be otherwise engaged with personally directing the 3rd and 4th Battalions in their defense of the landward approaches into Hiroshima Prefecture, it would be up to the pair of them to direct their own efforts to keep the seaward approach to the city clear.


Among the many plans and contingencies he and Ienada had worked out, Kyoshiro had suggested a last, desperate fall-back, for use in the event that troops had already landed on the beaches and it was too late to attempt a retreat. In such an occasion, each battery would sight on the other's position and wait until the enemy broke through the defensive perimeter and into the cleared ground of the Battery itself, a prepared killing ground conveniently stocked with sensitive ordnance primed to provide secondary detonations.


Kyoshiro had passed the order himself, breaking radio silence to give the codeword. "Gyokusai," he had stated into the radio's receiver, the taste of the word cold and revolting in his mouth. The long arms of his howitzers had risen as one, battery commanders passing down pre-planned firing solutions and gun lieutenants making hurried adjustments before all twelve guns of the battalion spoke as one.


The resulting sea of explosions had washed over the northern reaches of Etajima Island, the munitions in the Mitakayama Battery's bunkers detonating in sympathy with the bombardment Kyoshiro had ordered on his sister unit. While the view through his binoculars was obscured behind thick, burning smoke and plumes of debris during the shelling itself, Kyoshiro had no difficulty imagining the shrapnel scything through friend and foe alike, nor the bleeding eyes and ears ruptured from overblast.


When the smoke finally cleared, Kyoshiro kept himself steelly calm as the concussed remnants of the Britannian assault staggered back down to the beaches where their landing craft waited. As the invaders pulled themselves back together, Kyoshiro kept himself calm, issuing new orders as he shoved the horror at what he had done away.


There was still, after all, much to do.


The next set of targeting solutions were distributed among the grimly waiting men of his batteries by runners, the radio shunned on the off-chance that the Britannians were listening in. The battery commanders and gun lieutenants again made adjustments until Kyoshiro was satisfied that the entirety of the channel between Itsukushima and Onasabi Island was blanketed in overlapping fields of fire.


The Britannians, Kyoshiro had known with bleak certainty, would be frustrated that their revenge had been spoiled and infuriated at the fresh insult. Their renewed assault was never in question.


He had also known that he had no intention of allowing his battalion to follow Ienaga's into the afterlife. Admittedly, there was little risk of that now, not until the Britannians managed to muster reinforcements, but going to war with only a single arrow in the quiver was foolish. He had summoned the major commanding the infantry battalion guarding his artillery to him and had brought the man in on his plans.


Unsurprisingly, the infantry major was all to eager to collaborate, his awe at the destruction Kyoshiro had wrought written plainly across his face. Soon, the infantrymen had joined his artillerymen in making their own hasty preparations. Though both worked frantically with shovels and entrenching tools, the infantrymen's rifles were never far from their hands.


They needn't have hurried; by the time the Britannian officers had finished licking their wounds and reimposing some measure of order on their surviving forces, all was in order.


When the Britannian marines and sailors set back out to sea in their landing vessels, they had been like some awful oil slick spreading across Japanese waters. Among the swarming flotilla of ships overly-burdened with blood-mad sailors and marines, a handful of Knightmares had stood like demons among the churning mortals, their giant frames haughty and unmoving among the onslaught. Despite their reduced numbers, the Britannians were still clearly spoiling for a fight.


Their pride remained unchallenged until the survivors of the naval invasion of Hiroshima were more than halfway to Itsukushima, too far to easily turn back to the shelter of Etajima or Onasabi's coasts.


For a second time, as Hiroshima burned behind them, Kyoshiro's guns bellowed their fury. This time, his howitzers were joined in their chorus by the infantry battalion's 81mm mortars as the first Britannian marines and sailors stumbled onto Itsukushima's shores. The infantry, dug into shallow foxholes between the trees on the slopes overlooking the lower firing positions of Takanosu Battery, did their best to throw the intruders back into the bay as the artillery company assigned to the beachside position retreated up the hill to rejoin the rest of Kyoshiro's 2nd Battalion.


That battalion of infantry had fought like lions as Kyoshiro again ordered his section chiefs to make adjustments. As rifles blazed and mortars thumped on the beach below, the howitzers' barrels had climbed towards the sky until they had practically reached their maximum elevation. Then, once the word was passed down the line once more, Lieutenant Colonel Tohdoh Kyoshiro had commanded them to fire as one.


The last of their explosive shells rose in high arcs into the skies over the shrine island before descending almost straight down like the lightning of Susanoo himself, and like the kami's wrath, the howitzers smote the Britannians as they huddled on the beach, the infantry pinned in place for just long enough to bog down the Portmans wading ashore through the sticky mud of the tidal flats. And, while the armored Knightmares could withstand the light shells of the infantry mortars with ease, the ship-killing artillery under Kyoshiro's command was a different matter.


Even as the last survivors of the Britannian flotilla meant to take Hiroshima by sea died on the beach below him, Kyoshiro had given the order to prepare to retreat. The Fall of Hiroshima was already an inevitability, and even then Kyoshiro had known that the fight for Japan was only just begun. But as his men scrambled around him, he had thought of nothing but the shelling he had ordered on the 1st Battalion's position.


He had been watching through his binoculars as his order was executed. He had seen figures in the olive green of the Republic's army still fighting the gray-clad invaders, before both had vanished under fire and steel.


Such was the cost of victory.


Ultimately, the "Miracle of Itsukushima" had been a tactical victory at best, from where Kyoshiro had stood at his island command post six years ago, and from where he knelt in the ruins of the present it hardly looked like a victory at all. His battalion had retreated in good order, their self-propelled howitzers, their personnel carriers, their ammunition trucks, and their headquarters vehicles accompanied by the jeeps and the trucks of the infantry battalion on a convoy west into the mountains of Shimane Prefecture, but they left Hiroshima burning behind them, the last stalwarts of the doomed garrison succumbing to the Britannian advance.


But, tactical victory or not, it had been the only victory of any note won by the Republic's forces during the Conquest. To a people desperate for hope, and to a leadership hungry for symbols, that had been all that mattered. Even as he led his convoy up into the mountains, the shattered remains of other RJA units joining his column as he retreated to the prepared positions in his nation's spine, every radio broadcast spoke of "Tohdoh of Miracles" and "the Miracle of Itsukushima."


Even the men who had fought under his command, infantrymen and his own artillerymen alike, parroted those stupid phrases, preferring the propaganda over the contents of their own memories. Kyoshiro's stoic resolve, modeled after that of his Imperial grandfather, had saved him from despairing as all of those hopeful eyes turned towards him. Carrying the weight of their hopes was another duty, he had recognized, and Tohdoh Kyoshiro had never backed down from duty.


Which was why he had left his column under the command of his second, Major Urabe, to bring the men the rest of the way. Lieutenant Colonel Tohdoh Kyoshiro had been Instructor Tohdoh during peacetime, and he had a duty to his student. He had left to find the young Kururugi, the young man who bore the ancient blood and the name of the last ruler on his strong shoulders, and in that duty Kyoshiro had failed. The Britannian advance swept over Kururugi Shrine long before he got anywhere close to the Prime Minister's residence, and Kyoshiro had been forced to return to the Matsumoto Headquarters empty-handed.


Only to learn that Urabe, doing his best to advance his commanding officer's glory and honor, had heavily stressed how Kyoshiro had bested the naval Portmans during the battle, taking advantage of the environmental factors to slow the highly mobile armored units before bombarding them into burning wrecks.


General Katase, Kyoshiro learned, had been most impressed, saying that "any man who understands the enemy so well must surely be able to imitate them! When the Day of Liberation comes, we will need our greatest warrior to turn the Britannians finest blades back against them! upon themselves!"


The words had stoked the fires of his hidden rage to an even greater inferno. It had been a great trial over all of these years, holding his composure together in the face of similar comments. General Katase and the rest of the JLF's staff had, Kyoshiro feared, drawn entirely the wrong lessons from the Conquest. As if the Knightmare is truly the reason Britannia won. As if an artillery officer could hope to turn the tide of war commanding such an entirely different beast. As if a coward of a man could be called a great warrior while the true heroes lay dead and forgotten.


He was a coward. If Kyoshiro had truly been brave, he would have forced those lessons down Katase's gullet, decorum and the protocols of rank be damned. Instead, he had hidden behind his stoicism and avoided that fight, his emotions far too tender and raw for the confrontation. He had swallowed his words, grudgingly accepted the praise, and set to work learning how to pilot the enemy's weapon as best he could without a Knightmare to call his own, hiding in his work both from his own pain and from "Tohdoh of Miracles."


And now, it was far too late to say what should have been said then. It had been six long years since the Battle of Itsukushima. Six long years since he had fought and failed to save the burning city behind him, and over those six years Kyoshiro still had yet to save anybody from the same devouring maw that had fed upon Lieutenant Colonel Ienada, his colleague, and his command.


And yet, they still look to me, look to "Tohdoh the Miracleworker." Even now, as Yokohama bleeds, they look to me. What can I say to them? What can I do for them? How can a second-rate artillery officer become the knight in shining armor they so desire? With a sword sharp enough to avenge a million wrongs and a shield to ward away all blows?


The moon, waxing gibbous overhead, kept her secrets and gave no relief.


Tiredly, Kyoshiro got to his feet once more. It was time to return, time to put together some sort of response to Yokohama. Time to become "Tohdoh of Miracles" once more.


That was duty, and that was all that Japan had ever demanded of him. He had never measured up to his duty as he saw it, not to his student Suzaku, not to his battalion, all gone now save for himself and Urabe, and not to his nation. But the demand still went forth, and there was nothing Kyoshiro could do to answer it but be another man.


A Voice for the Present: A Voice from Yokohama


JULY 7, 2016 ATB
KONAN WARD, YOKOHAMA GHETTO, YOKOHAMA SETTLEMENT
2100


They came at sundown.


Nobody was surprised.


The entirety of the Yokohama Ghetto had been waiting for the hammer to fall for days. As soon as the Sniper had begun to target Britannians in the nearby Settlement, an inescapable gloom had fallen across the Ghetto.


Everybody knew what was coming. It had been six years since the Conquest, six years of unremitting random cruelty periodically punctuated by outbreaks of utter mercilessness. The walls of Yokohama Ghetto bore the silent scars of past acts of retribution, lines of bullet holes at chest height, with occasional pitting lower down, where the Britannians had aimed low enough to hit the children.


Back before the Conquest, Sayuri had been a proud wife and mother, a happy sister and daughter. Now, she was only a wife, though she had woken up this morning a mother.


Beside her, Susumu lurched forwards, his left arm hanging limply at his side, the crude bandage on his shoulder doing little to immobilize the useless appendage. Dried blood caked his fingers and the leg of his worn trousers. Though she hadn't looked at him in over an hour, she was certain that his face was still gray with pain and streaked with tears, his eyes fixed on some point down the tightly packed road.


His lips still fluttering in mute apology to Kazuha.


Just like Sayuri's were.


"Kazu…" Her throat was dry, so dry. Her eyes hurt. That was good. They should hurt, for what they had seen. "Kazu… I'm sorry, baby… I've been a bad mother to you…"


Behind her and off to the side of the road, Sayuri heard a shot. Someone had fallen out of line.


"Kazu…"

Her husband had always had a nice, deep voice, good for singing the dirty drinking songs he'd always break into when he and her brother would get together to "play cards." Now, it was barely a croak.


"Kazuha…"


The sticky summer heat was almost intolerable, but Sayuri could feel her skin prickling, clammy and inexplicably cold despite the night's sultry summer heat.


"Hurry up! Keep moving!" The barked order came from somewhere up ahead, and Sayuri momentarily shied away from that horrible voice, so much like the one that had said "that one" over a finger pointed straight at her six-year-old daughter.


Sayuri stumbled on. What else could she do? The time to stand and fight was over, long since over. If the time to stand and fight hadn't ended with the Conquest, it had certainly ended when the gray-clad soldiers had pulled Kazuha from her arms, when she had let them take her away.


"Momma! Momma, help!" She could still hear her daughter's voice in her ears. "I'm scared, Momma! It hurts!"


"Kazu…" She swallowed, her throat tight, her eyes painfully dry. "I'm sorry… I'm a bad mother to you… Please forgive me… But…"


Susumu stirred beside her, and she saw his head start to turn towards her in her peripheral vision. She hoped he would be angry, that he would strike her, beat her, kill her for daring to be alive and unwounded while their last child was heaped up in a pile at the foot of the wall outside their apartment building, while his bones were shattered from a stray bullet slashing through his shoulder.


Instead, Susumu only sighed, his head slumped forwards as he trudged on. Where were the Britannians taking them? It didn't matter.


"But…" Sayuri continued, still seeing her daughter standing right before her eyes, her arms pinned to her sides by a towering giant in a faceless mask, as real as her half-visible neighbors, her comrades on this nighttime march. "But… I realized I'm scared to die, Kazu… I'm scared… I'm sorry… I know you don't want to die either… But Momma is scared, Kazu… Forgive me…"


Ahead, the crowd was slowing, halting. Bellowed orders drifted from the front. Something was happening.


"Get in line!" A rough hand shoved her, shoved her away from Susumu, who stood silent, his face exhausted and grief-stricken. "Get in line, bitch!"


A gloved hand grabbed Sayuri's hair, still tied back in its usual ponytail, dragging her face forwards and down. She staggered forwards, into whatever queue the soldier had put her into, and when she turned back around she couldn't see Susumu through the milling press. Somewhere behind her, someone screamed. There was another gunshot, then another two, and then hard-edged laughter mixed in with something in Britannian she couldn't quite understand.


An overwhelming fear struck Sayuri, the first thing she had felt, truly felt, since she watched Kazuha crumple to the blood-streaked concrete. Where was Susumu? Where was her husband, her last link to the life she'd once had, to the time of family dinners after long work days, to picking out baby names, and to dates in college?


"Kazu…" She croaked, fear bubbling in her chest. "Is this you…? Did… Did you take Daddy, because I left you… Because I let them take you…?"


More screams came over the crowd, followed by more shots. Suddenly, with a lurch, the group Sayuri had been herded into was starting forwards, gloved hands shoving her into motion. She scanned the seething crowds around her as she moved, desperately looking for any familiar faces and finding nothing but strangers and darkness all around her.


Before her, a truck loomed, its open back gaping like some terrible maw. Sayuri tripped and almost fell as the crush of bodies slammed into her, first from before her as the people ahead stalled in the face of that terrible mouth, and then from behind her as the soldiers shoved them forward. Step by step, Sayuri staggered up the plank ramp leading up and into the truck, feeling the boards creaking below her feet.


Darkness surrounded her for an instant as wood disappeared in place of steel. The back was still open and only an arms-length behind her, but already the heat was sweltering and the claustrophobia was overwhelming. The truck was packed with people, forced shoulder to shoulder with no room to sit, barely any room to breathe. Fighting to turn, Sayuri saw the soldiers behind them, two of them training their rifles on the crowd while their comrades forced another few women, and they were all women being forced into this truck, up the ramp with the help of batons.


"Susumu!" Her voice was suddenly so loud, the croaking grief wiped away by animal terror. Where was she? Where were they taking her? Why were they only putting women into this truck? "Susumu! Susumu!"


The crowd heaved forwards again, and Sayuri almost lost her footing. Terrified at the idea of stumbling, of being trampled underfoot, she grabbed for the women around her, seizing their clothes, their shoulders, trying to fight off the hands she could feel scrambling for her shoulders, her hair, as the others around her struggled to find their balance.


Suddenly, everything went pitch dark as the doors to the truck slammed closed, the sound of steel on steel deafeningly loud in the unlit metal box. An instant later, a collective howl of terror, of grief, almost primal went up, filling the truck with the sound of human fear. Despite the din, Sayuri could clearly hear the sound of a bolt slamming home.


We're locked in! They locked us in!


"Susumu!" Sayuri cried out, more by instinct than by any hope that her poor shattered husband could do anything to help her! "Susumu!" Another name came to her lips and caught there, in the back of her throat, almost choking her. For a moment, she saw her daughter reaching out for her again, felt herself shying away from the soldier behind her daughter's tiny form…


And then the truck lurched forwards, sending the entire crowd scrambling again as they were forced backward, bloody hands clawing at the unforgiving rivets and sheets of the shipping container's interior, and Sayuri lost herself entirely to her terror and her grief.


"Kazuha! Kazuhaaa!"

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 31: A Mounting Tension


(Thank you to Aminta Defender, Sunny, MetalDragon, Adronio, WrandmWaffles, Rakkis157, and Aemon for beta-reading and editing this chapter.)


JULY 11, 2016 ATB
SHINJUKU GHETTO, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
0540


Outside of the old apartment building Ohgi had led me to so long ago, Shinjuku waited.


The lobby was empty save for the two Sun Guard militiamen standing guard by the entrance. The broken doors of old mailboxes yawned open from the wall. The street outside was uncharacteristically thick with loitering men and women. Any crowd in this otherwise quiet corner of Shinjuku was uncharacteristic in general, but I had ceased to be surprised. A crowd much like this one had greeted me along with the sun each morning for the last several days, ever since the news of Chihiro's identification and death had broken. Word of the two-day-long massacre and forced deportation had only swollen the anxiety-ridden ranks.


As I stepped past the guards and through the door, I felt the pressure of the crowd's undivided attention settle on my shoulders. Men and women, young and old, all stared silently at me. While the noise of a city rising for work seeped in from the surrounding streets, a brittle quiet reigned here, in front of the apartment building where Ohgi and Naoto had offered me a home so many months ago.


"Brothers and sisters…" My eyes swept over the attentive crowd, picking out familiar faces in the gray light of morning. There stood Takahiro, the never-ending font of youthful enthusiasm flanked on either side by his friends, Rin and Miyu. The trio of youngsters stood silent and still for once, their faces drawn. Two rows back stood Kaho, the long-suffering girlfriend of "Trainspotter", better known as Youji, who had joined me in ambushing a convoy of Knightmares, holding her toddler in her arms. Next to her stood a gray-faced Mrs. Maki, whose children Ohgi had once tutored.


So many tired faces, speaking of sleepless nights… Everybody knows what has befallen Yokohama could just as easily happen here, could happen to them… They have all come together to find solace, and so they have come to me once more. A crowd is made up of individuals, all drawn together as their individual wants and needs coincide into a greater goal. By pooling their strength and speaking as one, they advance on their shared objective.


In the wrong hands, a crowd can easily become a mob lashing out with unthinking violence. How fortunate that they are in my hands instead, and that it is up to me to set their objective.


"Brothers and sisters," I repeated, raising my hands up and outwards as the energy of the crowd's attention filled me, palms tilting towards the crowd as renewed certainty ran through me, before snapping them into fists and thrusting them skyward, ready to speak. "Good morning! Japan lives!"


"Banzai!" The cry went up from the throats of the multitude thronging the street, their fists joining mine in the sky. "Ten thousand years!"


"Yes," I called out, the cheers cutting off immediately as the crowd strained to hear me, "the Japanese people are still strong, still fierce, still proud. No matter what insults are heaped up on us, no matter the abuse, no matter the murder of families and friends and parents and children! Ten thousand years, brothers and sisters!


"Ten thousand years would not be enough to make us forget the pain! The loss! The cruelty inflicted on thousands for the crimes of one!"


An ugly murmur of agreement rose from the crowd, and I nodded firmly back, establishing solidarity with their loss.


I'd had a hand in causing it, after all. Unintentional or otherwise.


I should have murdered Chihiro myself while I had the opportunity.


"Brothers and sisters," I called out, sweeping my gaze across the crowd, "I will not deceive you; bad days are coming."


The silence was back, as was the intense sense of focus. Glimmering eyes stared out from gray faces, every line trembling with anger and pain.


"Yes, bad days are coming indeed. Things will get worse before they get better. But…" I smiled conspiratorially at the crowd, "you already knew that, didn't you?"


A wave of nods and a few chuckles rose in reply, and I gave them a moment to express some of the tension, allowing the momentary laughter to fade.


"Yes," I agreed with myself once the rapt silence returned, pitching my voice low, "you don't need me to tell you that hard times are coming. Hard times are always coming… Hungry times, trying times…"


I smiled back at the crowd again and took a step down from the lobby entrance, so I stood only a single step above street level. I knew that some of those in the back would have to crane over shoulders and heads to see me, but today I wanted to remind the Shinjuku crowd that I had risen from the same street as they had. I was one of them, not just an authoritarian voice from above.


Above all else, I had to be beloved by Shinjuku, by the hardscrabble men and women of the tenements and streets if not by its power brokers. In the hard days ahead, I would need that love. It would be the coin I would spend to buy their sacrifice.


"But," I continued, letting my gaze soften as I stretched out my hands towards the crowd, adults and children alike reaching back out towards me in a sea of mute pleas for reassurance, "I also know that you, the people of Shinjuku, know how to endure the unendurable without letting the Japan in our hearts die."


I sought out the eyes of individual members of the crowd, letting them read in me my bonafides, my own life of trauma, and saw their acknowledging nods. "I also know that you are busy people, practical people, who don't have time to stand and be lectured about what you already know, so I'll cut this short so we can all get to the Meeting Hall for breakfast."


A ragged laugh burst from the crowd at the mention of food, as well as scattered applause. I smiled, again letting the tension soften, before raising my hands once more towards the overcast skies, drawing all attention back to me.


"Hard times shall be upon us!" and now my voice was a clarion call, cutting through the hearts and minds of the people like a scythe. "But we will rise to the occasion, brothers and sisters! You are angry – keep that anger alive in your hearts, and know that your enemy thinks you weak and beaten! You are grief-stricken – take the time to grieve, to share memories of the dead with the living, so their names will live on!


"We might join the dead soon enough, but our names will live on and one day be spoken again by Japanese tongues under a Japanese sky! Until then, work hard and train harder! Our time will come soon, brothers and sisters, and I expect everybody to do their duty below the Rising Sun! For when that time comes, we shall rise up and return this injustice so harshly foisted upon us ten-thousand-fold!


"Once more and again! Long live Japan! Long live her people! Death to our enemies!"


"LONG LIVE JAPAN! LONG LIVE JAPAN! LONG LIVE JAPAN!"


The lingering ghosts of night shaken off at last, the crowd began to dissolve as its members ambled off towards the Meeting Hall for breakfast and work assignments. The noise level began to swell and rise as conversations broke out between chatting friends or chiding parents trying to herd children off to get food before their lessons. No trace of the earlier silence remained, save in a tiny pocket around me as a few stragglers hung back, clearly hoping for a private word.


I looked past them, out over the column of retreating backs, and found myself wondering how many more speeches I would give out under the open air before such gatherings became death sentences.


If the Britannians turn their gaze upon us in earnest and start using artillery to shell any large concentrations of Elevens, the time for speeches will already be over. But, I told myself, turning to look back at Yuyuko, my bodyguard for the day, that's a consideration for the future.


"Time?" I asked, mouthing the word at Yuyuko, who consulted her watch before slashing the air in front of her. Half an hour left, apparently.


Just… Just a moment then.


I nodded to Yuyuko, who stepped forwards flanked by the guards as I slipped back away through the door, retreating into the lobby. "The Commander is taking a quick break! If you have questions or concerns, please form an orderly queue here! We will-"


The door swung shut behind me, cutting off the sounds of the street. Knowing that I was still visible from the outside through the broad windows by what had once been a receptionist's desk, I kept my back straight and my pace unhurried as I turned the corner and stepped into the first floor apartment my bodyguards had appropriated for their guardroom.


Safely out of sight, I closed my eyes and tried to feel my fingers. They were completely numb, as if I had left my hands in an icy stream for an hour. Similarly, the only thing I could feel below my knees was the dim awareness of the pressure exerted by my own body weight.


Just what would Ohgi say if he could see you now? I scolded myself as I picked my way over to a chair, practically collapsing down onto the uncushioned wood. Bad enough that you forgot dinner last night, worse still that you only managed three hours of sleep, but keeping your enhancements running practically all day yesterday only to spin them back up on first waking?


Well, that particular bill was coming due. My enhancement suite, a polite term for a collection of stripped down Imperial spells bashed together, gave me the physical and mental edge I had required for survival as a child laborer. The enhanced reflexes and improved mental processing my magic provided me had likewise made me a force to reckon with during the hit and run raids I had conducted in the mountains of Nagano and the tenements of Shinjuku.


Not without cost, though.


A wave of disorienting fatigue slammed over me as the weight of sleepless nights tried to drag me down. Eyes slamming shut, I clenched my teeth as pins and needles exploded down my arms and throughout my legs, the sudden sensation almost agonizing after hours spent numbed on magical analgesics. My back hurt, my eyes burned, and I was so, so hungry.


Blinded as my eyes dilated open, unable to handle even the minimal light of the ersatz guardroom, I grabbed the wooden lip of the chair with both hands and squeezed down, trying to anchor myself in a swirling audio-visual mess of stimulation.


The deferred emotional reactions were the worst part of spinning down, though. When I was enhanced, everything seemed so clear and easy to understand. Plans appeared almost fully formed before me, the correct and rational decision always ready at hand. Now, all the stray thoughts and tangents rampaged over my tired synapses as the highs and the lows previously smoothed out into minor dips or hills expanded into fissures and peaks.


Somewhere, a door opened. I heard footsteps approaching me, but couldn't find the will or the capacity to react. Exhausted and unenhanced, I was all but sapless, incapable in my weakness.


"Good morning, Commander." I couldn't see her through my watering eyes, but I knew that somewhere in the room, Tanaka Chika stood. "You don't have time for breakfast, I think, but I brought you an apple." She paused, evaluating my state. "I'll cut it up for you."


My exhaustion was so great that I could barely muster any concern at the thought of being helpless and alone in a room with Chihiro's little sister even as she pulled out a knife.


Or, I mused as the sounds of chopping began somewhere off to my left, you simply know that Chika is nothing like her big sister. You have nothing to worry about.


If I could, I would have laughed scornfully at that second assertion. I had no end of things to worry about. But, I would freely concede that Tanaka Chika, Inoue's devoted assistant, was nothing like the bloody-handed butcher who had condemned some thirty thousand of our countrymen to death for absolutely no gain.


Thirty Britannians… Thirty four Honorary Britannians… and consequentially, thirty thousand of our own… Chihiro, you damned fool… And I'm equally the fool for letting you off your leash. I would have killed those Britannians myself, given the chance, and already my operations have led to the deaths of far more of the invaders than your paltry trick, but every risk I took was calculated towards the accomplishment of an objective, no matter how shrouded my reason! But subtlety was never acceptable to you, was it?


Thankfully, Chika had not been in the room when the news of the official Britannian proscription against Yokohama Ghetto arrived four days ago. She had been off running some errand for Inoue, a coincidence I had regarded as a great mercy as Junji read the latest dispatch from Yokohama aloud to Inoue and I.


Less mercifully, Chika had been in the room when the news of Chihiro's unmasking had arrived two days before that, slipped quietly in front of me by a wincing Junji as Inoue and I discussed the latest district allocations with the Leadership Commission. Chika, serving as our stenographer, had dutifully noted the moment when I called for a quick break in the official minutes.


"I understand," had been the twelve year old's only response when I took her aside to explain that her elder sister had been discovered on her mission, her voice solemn and her eyes knowing. "She won't be coming back."


It hadn't been phrased as a question, and the girl – although she was my age, almost to the month – had only nodded politely as I explained that Chihiro might escape and survive to return home yet. Perhaps after losing her parents and who knew how many friends to the Britannians, Tanaka Chika had grown understandably fatalistic. Perhaps she had been savvy enough to realize that I would kill Chihiro if she ever showed back up in Shinjuku again after abandoning her mission in favor of an independent month-long killing spree. Perhaps Chika had put herself in the shoes of a fellow orphan and found something in me that she understood.


When the news of Chihiro's death had arrived as we all knew it would, Chika had shown little further reaction to the news of her big sister's fate. She had only asked Inoue to be excused for an early lunch before quietly slipping away to some private corner. Crowded as Shinjuku was, the skyscraper's weeping shells afforded plenty of hiding places for a skinny child. Thirty minutes later, Chika had returned red-eyed but ready to take notes for Inoue's afternoon meeting with Miss Tsuchiya.


And now she haunts my steps like a little ghost, I thought, blinking as she appeared with her typical unobtrusive sidle, the opposite of her sister's furious stride, in my slowly recovering peripheral vision, a dish of apple slices at the ready. Always there to feed me at the appointed times, or to pass messages on from Inoue…


It's just a bit unnerving.


It was strange to admit that the last Tanaka made me feel that way. I had never felt so much as a hint of disquiet around the survivors of the others I had lost under my command; some had raged, some had wept, and some had shown an understandable if undignified interest in what benefits they could still expect in the wake of their loved one's sacrifice. Mister Tokihaku, Sumire's widower, stood out in my mind as an example of dignified grief.


But in the cases of all the others who have died executing my orders, the personal dimension was not the same as it is for Chihiro. I trained with Sumire and Manabu and knew their stories, but when they died, they did so as soldiers under orders. For Chihiro… She was a personal enemy of mine and I sent her away to further my own agenda.


But Chika had proven herself reliable. More than that, she had proven herself trustworthy, enough that Inoue had put her in charge of making sure I ate. In quiet moments like this, the quiet girl, eyes huge and dark behind her spectacles, would appear with a small snack or a steaming glass of tea. At scheduled mealtimes, she would guide me with sheepdog tenacity down to the Meeting House's communal kitchen, refusing to leave me be until I had taken on a bowl of porridge at the very least.


A part of me noted that true betrayal could only come from trust.


"Thank you, Chika," I managed, realizing as I felt the grit on my teeth that I hadn't brushed in at least two days. I reached for an apple slice, as much for something to mask the horrible taste of my teeth as for the energy its sugars could provide me. "Just… give me a moment."


"Take your time, Commander," Chika replied in her dull, passionless voice, the antithesis of Chihiro's fire and bile. "Guard Yuyuko is running interference. There is no need to rush yourself."


"Time is too valuable to waste," I muttered rebelliously, but allowed myself to slump back into the chair. I ate another apple slice. Somehow the fruit only made my hunger more difficult to ignore. "Breakfast is at seven, right?"


"It can be earlier, Commander," said Chika, before pointing out that, "you were the one who set your schedule. All I do is keep you to your commitments."


"True," I chuckled, my voice rasping unpleasantly. "True, true… Thank you for your help, Chika…"


I paused, wondering what more I could say. What should you say to a child after you sent their only living family off to die? After you had fervently hoped for their sibling's death?


"I will get you some water too, Commander." Thankfully, Chika filled the echoing silence for me, taking the need to find something appropriate to say out of my hands.


She really is quite good at helping me with my commitments after all.


The bleak humor of the thought wrung a tired laugh out of me, prompting Chika to raise a quizzical eyebrow.


"It's nothing," I waved her down, "nothing…" I sighed. It seemed so patently unfair that the day had only just begun and I already felt so, so tired. "Well… No need to keep them waiting any longer, I suppose."


With a deep breath, I closed my eyes and I reached down into myself, down to where the magic went. The formulas flickered through my mind, their equations as familiar as well worn boots.


Where had my exhaustion gone? Where was the fatigue that had felt so crushing, all of the emotional surges that wracked me like a ship caught far out from shore? As my eyelids flicked back up, the world shone.


Destroyed, and remade anew.


Chika stood before me, somber as she watched me hop to my feet, momentarily ecstatic as new life surged through my veins. I smiled at her. "Thank you, Chika. I'll be by for breakfast soon. Make sure the kitchen sets a bowl aside for me, please."


With a jerked nod, Chika turned on her heel and vanished, ghosting out of the room, leaving only glimmering apple seeds behind as evidence of her passing.


Fully spun back up, I stepped past the trio of Sun Guards in front of the apartment building and down into the street itself, down on equal ground with the queue. I smiled at the first of my waiting constituents and dipped into a polite greeting bow. "Good morning. How can I help you?"


Each of the four subsequent conversations followed a similar path; a polite greeting paired with a compliment about my impromptu speech, vague statements about how wonderful Shinjuku was looking these days, and finally some mention of the particular issue or complaint that was the speaker's supposed reason for lingering behind. Those complaints were, to a one, incredibly trite and minor, almost irrelevant.


They were also not the reason for the conversations. No, that particular truth was layered throughout all the rest, through the meandering anecdotes and forced laughter. It was the quiet, desperate need for some reassurance that things weren't really as bad as they looked, that I as the closest thing to an authority figure left in Shinjuku had some plan up my sleeve to keep Yokohama's fate from finding a home in the Tokyo Settlement's ghetto.


I was careful to make no promises.


As the last person waiting to speak with me stepped forwards, Yuyuko tensed beside me. I heard the two door guards approaching as well, leaving their posts to back up my bodyguard. I could almost see their hands drifting towards their pistols, ready for trouble.


Masatsugu had clearly gone out of his way to warn the rest of the IAF about Councilor Nishizumi Tsutsumi.


I turned and gestured for the guards to return to their posts, and glared at Yuyuko until she took a reluctant step back, before turning to bow a greeting to the Councilor for Central Kamiochiai. "Councilor Nishizumi. What can I do for you, the Council of Notables, or possibly Kamiochiai this morning?"


"Commander," the one-time 'legitimate businessman' rumbled in return. "It's good to see you again."


As our previous meeting had concluded with mutually unsubtle jabs, the manifest dishonesty almost brought a smile to my lips. After dealing with the upheaval left in the wake of the almost stupefying act of mass slaughter so recently perpetrated by the Britannians, it was almost refreshing to return to the usual sleaze of politics.


But, even the Notable seemed shaken by recent events. Unlike our previous encounter a mere two weeks ago, Councilor Nishizumi had come to my door alone and unarmed; three concessions in one act. In the language of power politics, a tongue in which we were both fluent, he was unquestionably assuming an almost submissive role, arriving as a supplicant rather than a rival. That he had waited until the prospective audience of the early morning crowd had dissipated before approaching me furthered that impression.


Today, apparently, was not for showboating.


"And you as well," I replied, allowing my voice to soften as I threw the man a bone. If he wanted to deal in good faith, I would happily oblige. "I've got a meeting in ten minutes, so let's make this quick. What can I do for you today?"


"Busy morning, eh?" Nishizumi's smile didn't touch the worry dismayingly easy to find in his eyes. "That's fine. I won't take much time. It's…" He coughed awkwardly into his hand, shifting side to side. "It's just that… Lately, things have… changed."


"Mhm," I hummed noncommittally, simmering as I nodded, allowing the Notable to continue to struggle to find his words. "And of course, the Council of Notables would like some reassurances, I am sure."


If this is the council's attempt to come running to me begging for handouts, or worse yet, demands, after the Britannians just finished murdering a town's worth of our people, I think I just might enjoy "re-educating" them on the nature of our relationship.


"Not today," Councilor Nishizumi denied, shaking his head. "Look… Commander… I know that there's a bit of bad blood between us – hell, between you and the whole Council! – but, well…"


"But things have changed," I supplied, beginning to see what he was getting at.


"But things have changed," the old sailor agreed. "And none of us in the Council is stupid enough to think that the Britannians give a good goddamn about us, any more than they do about anybody else in any ghetto in the Area. An Eleven is an Eleven is an Eleven."


"That's always been the way of things," I pointed out. "We've both lived in Shinjuku for years, Councilor Nishizumi, so please, be blunt. What's changed specifically?"


"Blunt, eh?" Councilor Nishizumi paused, as if weighing up his words, before proving true to his nature and bull rushing ahead. "Fine. Once you and Kozuki and Kaname flattened all the gangs and started rebuilding Shinjuku, and once you proved you weren't just gonna be another bigger gang, we got… Eh…"


He sagged, suddenly, as if the shame and exhaustion was physically pressing down on his shoulders.


"Well, ain't no two ways about it, we got cocky. It was like the Republic was back for a bit, you know? We kinda got drunk on the feeling. Thinking the good times were back, that we had power again, that we were in control again. Then, well…" he grimaced, shaking his head, "we've sobered up now. Thirty-k dead…it's a helluva smack in the face for us. One we sorely needed."


"Sobering indeed," I agreed. "Not to mention the deportations. Junji's still trying to attach some hard figures to those."


"Right, right…" He ran a distracted hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Right… Well, the Council wants you to know that all the normal business is on hold for now. We're behind you now, all the way. You don't have to worry about us. Understand?"


You weren't behind me before? I almost said before pausing and biting back my initial incredulous response. No, think, don't react. Why this little announcement? On face value, it makes sense – if the Britannians could kill us all, cooperation is the logical response. But why wouldn't he announce that in front of the crowd? A show of unity in the face of the enemy would have been a good PR move…


Ah, I realized, finally putting the pieces together. The show of humility, the worry in his eyes, the emphasis on personal matters being put aside… What would Nishizumi, a former gang boss, expect from a rival whose power base had suddenly grown and firmed?


He would anticipate a revenge attack, the settling of old slights. He saw how the crowd responded to me, and was worried that I would take the opportunity to sweep the board clear of rivals. Caught between the Britannians on one side and myself on the other, knowing full well that the Britannians would just see an uppity Eleven, he came to submit before I forced the issue.


Of course, that submission will only last for as long as his terror of the Britannians outweighs his disdain for my leadership. But right now… as he said, things have changed.


"You don't have to worry, Councilor," I said, inclining my head to catch and hold his eyes. "After all, should the Britannians come here in force, death would be among the least of our concerns if we fail. You have my word that I will do whatever is necessary to keep us from sharing that fate, just so long as I have your full cooperation."


I paused for effect before rhetorically asking, "Do we have an understanding?"


Councilor Nishizumi sighed, bone deep weariness worn on his sleeve, yet so too could I see the edge of a smile on his lips.


"Heh, that we do, Commander," he said with a bitter chuckle. "Long live Japan."


An hour and a pair of brief stops later, I walked into the conference room I had claimed for my own on the second floor of the Rising Sun Benevolent Association's Headquarters, a bowl of porridge in hand and just in time for Lieutenant Ichiya's board of inquiry.


Not that Lieutenant Ichiya had been informed that this morning's meeting was slated to be her board of inquiry, of course, nor that she had even been under investigation. As far as she knew, she was simply coming to the Rising Sun's headquarters to deliver her regular weekly report.


It was easier for all this way.


I am sure she would be surprised to learn that her successor has already received word of her sudden promotion as well. Or, perhaps not… the reward should be commensurate with the services rendered, after all.


The habitually nervous lieutenant was seated on the far side of the conference room table, a Sun Guard with a navy-blue Internal Affairs sash quietly lurking behind her. On my side of the table, Inoue and Lieutenant Koichi waited patiently, separated by an empty chair. Inoue had predictably taken the opportunity to catch up on her paperwork and only looked up from the stack of manifests at her side to nod and smile a greeting before signing off some hand receipt. Equally predictably, Koichi was engaged in some whispered side conversation with one of his men, who hastily stepped back as I approached.

"Inoue, Lieutenant Koichi," I nodded a greeting, before turning to include "Lieutenant Ichiya. Shall we just get things started?"


Inoue muttered something approving as she pushed her wad of papers away into a satchel, clearing the space in front of her for a notepad. Koichi merely nodded.


"Alright." I turned and looked at the Sun Guard sitting unobtrusively at the end of the table, a notebook of his own ready to take the official record. He nodded, ready to execute his duty.


After years of fearing being the subject of a military tribunal… How ironic is it that when I finally experience one, it is from the other side of the bench?


"Alright," I repeated, shaking the stray thought away. "I, Hajime Tanya, Commander of the Kozuki Organization and acting board member of the Rising Sun Benevolent Association, call this board of inquiry to order. In attendance are Lieutenant Inoue Naomi, board member of the Rising Sun Benevolent Association, and Lieutenant Koichi, representing the Internal Affairs Force, as well as the accused, Lieutenant Ichiya, commander of the 14th Sun Guard Company, also known as the Naka Free Rangers."


The room was silent except for the scratching of the stenographer's pen as I turned to Ichiya. "Lieutenant, you stand accused before this board of inquiry of willful participation in unsanctioned actions, of communicating with members on deployment in contravention of standing orders, of disobedience of the same, of conspiring against the Kozuki Organization and its leadership, of concealing evidence of the same conspiracy, and of providing material support to an outlaw.


"Lieutenant Ichiya, do you understand the charges against you?" I paused, and when no response was immediately forthcoming, repeated "Do you understand the charges against you, or do you require an explanation before submitting your plea?"


"I…" Ichiya shook her head slowly, disbelievingly at first but with mounting concern as she looked from unsmiling face to unsmiling face. "No, I don't understand… I don't understand any of them. I don't remember seeing anything about any of them written down anywhere…!"


"In order," I replied, speaking over her rising panic, "willful participation in unsanctioned actions describes voluntarily aiding an attack or raid not approved by the Triad, or by the Leadership Commission in their stead.


"Communication with members on deployment is forbidden according to standing orders, on the grounds that unregulated communication could reveal operational details to the enemy. Disobedience is self-explanatory.


"Conspiracy against the Kozuki Organization indicates voluntary participation in the planning of acts contrary to the interest of the Organization, while conspiracy against the leadership is the same only against the well-being of the leadership. Concealing evidence is again, self-explanatory, while providing material support means that you assisted a noted enemy of the people of Shinjuku."


The stenographer bent over his pad, pen scribbling industriously. Next to me, Inoue was doodling in the margin of her otherwise empty page. Koichi looked just as cadaverous as always, except for the small motions of his head as he looked from me to Ichiya and back, faint interest gleaming in his eyes.


"Now that the charges have been explained to you," I continued, "how do you plead?"


"Not…" Ichiya swallowed, fighting for some shred of professionalism, her eyes darting and nervous. "Not guilty…? Yes, not guilty!"


"Very well." I turned to the stenographer, who looked up briefly from his page. "Let it be known that the defendant has pled not guilty to all charges."


"Noted," the man nodded, his hand twitching back into motion.


"Examination will now begin." I turned to Koichi, split-faced and expressionless but for an unsavory sparkle in his eyes. "Lieutenant Koichi, would you do the honors?"


"Certainly, Commander Hajime," the scarred man replied, unfolding himself from his chair to stand as I regained my seat and took the opportunity to shovel rapidly cooling porridge into my mouth. "Lieutenant Ichiya, you remained in contact with the former lieutenant Tanaka Chihiro after her departure from Shinjuku Ghetto, did you not?"


"Well, yeah?" Ichiya's reply quirked up into a question, with just the slightest patina of fear coloring the inquiry. "Why wouldn't I? She's… she was my friend as well as the one who'd been in charge before I took over after she got sent out. Why wouldn't I have stayed in contact?"


"Strike her question from the record," I told the stenographer, looking up from my breakfast. "The defendant does not have the right to ask questions, save when the board of inquiry specifically grants her said permission."


"Noted."


"So," Koichi pressed on, one corner of my most enthusiastic lieutenant's mutilated mouth flicking up into a joyless smile, "you admit to both unapproved communication and disobedience at the same time, as you fully admit to knowing that Tanaka was sent away on the Triad's authority. Very convenient; thank you for keeping this short. Now, let's discuss the content of your communications with Chihiro, shall we? They were carried out via your cell phone, correct?"


"Y-yes." Ichiya looked increasingly pale, the last remnants of her confusion deepening into fear. While the specific point of this exercise might still be lost on her, she had clearly grasped the gravity of her situation. Inoue looked up from the pad, met her eyes, and dispassionately returned to her doodling.


"We are told," Koichi revealed with just a touch of the theatrical, "that on the night of her departure, Chihiro publicly cursed Commander Hajime in particular and the Rising Sun Benevolent Association in general. We are told that she made several threats, both general and specific, against both. Despite this, and despite repeating those curses and threats as well as expanding to a few new ones, you continued to communicate with Chihiro and kept her up to date on affairs in Shinjuku independent of the designated official radio channel. Is this correct?"


"L-look," Ichiya began, licking dry lips, "I don't know who told you all of this, but… Yeah, Chihiro talked a lot of shit! We all know that, right?"


The room remained silent as Ichiya scanned desperately for support.


"Well, she did! But… she drank a lot, right? And she was my boss. Besides, it's not like she was going to do anything against us! Why would I betray her confidence by passing on random shit-talk like that?" Ichiya once again got no response. "Look, can I just know who you heard all this from? They might be lying!"


"No," Koichi replied, utterly unperturbed, "you may not. Note," he turned to the stenographer, who looked up again, "that Lieutenant Ichiya has admitted to conspiracy against the leadership and concealing evidence of that conspiracy on behalf of Tanaka Chihiro."


"Noted."


"Now," Koichi said, his tone never rising from its quiet interest, "we have established that you understood that Tanaka Chihiro had been sent to Yokohama, where she made pointed threats against the leadership in general, particularly Commander Hajime on the basis of her heritage, and on the basis of her involvement in humanitarian relief efforts for Honorary Britannians in the Tokyo Settlement.


"You remained in communication with her after the killings of Honorary Britannians in the Yokohama region had begun, did you not, and continued to pass along intelligence about the mood in Shinjuku?"


"Yes, but-"


"And when your messenger, a certain Iwamoto Miyako, returned from Yokohama in the company of Ogasawara Sui on July the eighth," Koichi purred, now clearly fully engaged with his role, "what did you do? Why did you refrain from informing the Leadership Commission of this development?"


"Well…" Ichiya trailed off for a moment, before rallying. "Look, I had a duty to my command, to the Rangers! We look out for ourselves because we can't trust anybody else to have our backs! I had a duty to discharge, and so I did! Once everything was safely handled, I noted their presence in my daily report on the ninth! I did bring it to the Commission's attention!"


"Your report on the ninth was late," Inoue interjected, "so late that it only crossed my desk the next morning. Your note was a single sentence appended to the end of a paragraph concerned with an unrelated manner. As you are generally a competent officer, Lieutenant, this seems less like a mistake in report structure than a case of deliberate obfuscation."


"Take a note," Koichi said, turning to the stenographer again, "that the defendant has admitted to harboring an outlaw, one Ogasawara Sui, who was declared an outlaw due to her culpability in the so-called Yokohama Sniper Attacks, an unauthorized spree of attacks on Britannian and Honorary Britannian civilians. As the reprisal of these attacks was the mass slaughter of thirty thousand Japanese in Yokohama, the defendant has also admitted her guilt on the matters of participation in unsanctioned attacks and of conspiring against the Kozuki Organization as well."


"Well," I said, reclaiming the whip hand of the proceedings as I pushed the empty bowl away and looked up at Koichi, who graciously returned to his seat so I wouldn't have to crane my head up, "that accounts for all the charges, I think. Stenographer?"


"Yes." The Sun Guard rose from his chair. "On the charge of willful participation in unsanctioned actions, Lieutenant Ichiya pled not guilty and has subsequently admitted without coercion to her guilt. On the charge of communicating with members on deployment in contravention of standing orders, Lieutenant Ichiya pled not guilty and has subsequently admitted without coercion to her guilt. On the charge of disobedience of standing orders, Lieutenant Ichiya pled not guilty and has subsequently admitted without coercion to her guilt. On the charge of…"


As the stenographer droned on down through the list, Koichi nodding gravely along, Inoue leaned over to whisper in my ear. "So… We haven't done any of these before, but since this is your show, I take it that you've already got a sentence in mind?"


My show indeed…


Show was absolutely the correct term for this so-called "board of inquiry". Ever since Ichiya's messenger, Umeda Kimi, had quietly made a surreptitious second stop at the Rising Sun's headquarters after reporting in at Naka Street three days ago, the day after the news of the slaughter in Yokohama broke, I'd had the show's conclusion firmly in mind. All that had remained was setting up this pantomime of a legal proceeding.


I will not allow a second Chihiro on my watch. This disobedience ends now. If I am to wage a war against Britannia, all internal threats must be excised before they can metastasize. And if I am to save the rest of Chihiro's command, their leader and Chihiro's closest surviving collaborator must be dealt with.


After all, Sui was both already dead and far too lowly to serve as a sufficient object lesson. Leadership as well as followers would be held accountable.


The quiet basement corner Naoto had ordered be walled-off back during his private war with the gangs had been my first stop after arriving at the Rising Sun's headquarters. There, under the silent guard of two women in Internal Affairs' sashes, Sui had been waiting for me.


To her credit, Sui had neither begged my forgiveness nor pleaded for her life. I had frankly anticipated an escape attempt. Surely she knew what was coming, and surely she would react the same way she had in Yokohama after Chihiro's madness had spiraled if the newly minted Lieutenant Umeda Kimi's report was to be believed. Instead, the cornered rat had finally discovered her teeth, and all I had found in that tiny room was a second Chihiro. I had listened patiently to her accusations of treachery, of favoritism, and all I could think about was how this woman might have saved thirty thousand of our countrymen had she shown this same defiant fire earlier.


Technically speaking, I hadn't needed to pull the trigger myself. I had no shortage of willing hands these days, not to mention how many angry, grieving people would jump at the opportunity for some personal vengeance for Yokohama. I had pulled it anyway, the snap-crack of the accelerated bead echoing in that tiny concrete box as Sui's last futile struggles faded away.


It had been painless and quick, though that had more to do with my desire to be done with her than any altruism.


When I executed Sui, I had felt no anger, nor any satisfaction, and certainly no guilt. I had only felt the vague pressure I recognized as magically muffled exhaustion as I holstered my pistol, another item on my daily list checked off as the two IAF soldiers began handling the corpse. Taking Sui's life was simply another duty, and one that I had found far easier to shoulder than offering condolences to grieving survivors or offering hope to a desperate crowd. A burden all the same, but one slightly less emotionally exhausting than the others.


I wondered if Naoto had felt that same weary detachment. Remembering his waxen skin and hollow eyes, that he'd felt the same exhaustion was unquestionable. That he had carried on regardless without any obvious crutch was nothing short of remarkable. He had no magic; perhaps he didn't need any.


But, I thought, looking across the table at Ichiya's drawn face, perhaps I can grant the lieutenant a greater degree of grace than I afforded to Sui. Unlike Sui, she didn't egg Chihiro's foolishness on, as best as I can tell. Nor did she encourage the women under her command to follow in their leader's example. If she had, if the entirety of her command had gone rogue, who knows what damage might have resulted? And despite her poor choice in friends, Iciya has done good work on the evacuations. She was a comrade once.


…Once, my train of thought continued, but now, an example needs to be made. We are not terrorists, striking out at random targets in the hopes of changing something. We are an army fighting for the liberation of Japan.


Breakdowns in discipline will not be tolerated, and misplaced sentimentality will merely damn the cause to a shallow grave beneath the boot of our heartless oppressors.


"Yes," I whispered back without looking away from the stenographer, nodding as he read the finding of the penultimate charge. "I have a sentence in mind."


"Tanya…" For the first time since the board began, Inoue looked… not uncomfortable, but perhaps conflicted. "Are you sure about this? The phone, the disobedience… This is about Chihiro, isn't it? She's already dead. Nothing you do to Ichiya will change that."


"Thirty thousand dead for nothing," I replied, entirely unmoved. "This isn't justice, but that doesn't render this proceeding meaningless. After all, unlike theirs, Ichiya's death will not be in vain."


Inoue held my eyes for a moment, and I did not look away, allowing the rest of the ersatz courtroom to fade away as I tried to convey my sincerity, my vision to her. I must have succeeded, for after a few seconds she slowly nodded and looked away, toward the doomed Ichiya.


That, it seemed, was that.


At last, his recounting of the charges and the findings complete, the stenographer returned to his seat and I rose again. "As the chairwoman of this board of inquiry, I ask for a verbal verdict on the guilt of Lieutenant Ichiya. On all charges, what say you?"


The formalities, after all, must be observed.


"Guilty," chorused Inoue and Koichi. Ichiya, who had grown increasingly pale as the list of charges she had inadvertently admitted her guilt to was read, swayed in her chair, face ashen gray.


"And I also say guilty," I echoed, a moment later. "As the chairwoman of the board, I name you a dishonored member of the Kozuki Organization and the Rising Sun Benevolent Association for your part in the conspiracy against myself and others. For this, you will be stripped of your rank and your name struck from our membership. For your role in the murder of civilians, both invader and otherwise, I sentence you to death.


"However," I raised a quelling hand, even though the condemned had shown no sign of interrupting, "I am not unmerciful. In recognition of your otherwise unblemished service record, you will be given an hour to write your goodbyes and last statement, and to enjoy a last drink if you so choose. You will then be provided with the final means to reclaim your honor."


Ichiya, lieutenant of the Kozuki Organization no more, looked up from her private hell to meet my eyes. Then, in a shuddering nod, her head jerked up and down as if puppeted by unseen hands, her eyes wet holes in a sallow face. She understood exactly what I was saying, what I had offered her.


Redemption and a place of honor, should she make the only apology the ancient ways had deemed acceptable and appropriate for failure in battle.


Coincidentally, such an expression would all but guarantee that any blame for the whole Chihiro Saga would land on her shoulders even after her death. The choices of the Leadership Commission, the Triad that had set Chihiro loose, would be washed away along with Ichiya's own dishonor.


"Lieutenant Koichi…" I stood and wavered slightly as exhaustion washed over me, now that the deed was done. Even my still-spinning enhancement suite could only blunt the edge. The pressure weighed down on my shoulders like a soaked blanket for a second before I pushed it away.


Focus! I had no time to be tired. Already, my mind was turning to the next item on my agenda. My list was long, and every item clamored for resolution, like a flock of nattering birds. One task was accomplished and yet so many more remained. Every time it seemed like the end was in sight, Junji or Inoue or somebody else would arrive with yet more reports and yet more work.


Good work is rewarded with more work. I reminded myself. And duty is a mountain.


I turned from the room, showing condemned and board alike my back. I had another appointment, and my time here was through.


"Lieutenant, I leave matters in your capable hands. Please ensure that she has a capable second and a cloth to wash her neck."


JULY 11, 2016 ATB
RSBA HEADQUARTERS, SHINJUKU GHETTO, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1130


"Tanya," Ohgi greeted me, the warmth of his voice only slightly sapped by the crackling static of the radio, "it's good to hear from you. How're you holding up?"


"As well as can be expected," I replied, my habitual reserve holding for a moment as I checked that Junji's technician had closed the door behind him.


"Of course, when my expectations were formed by how utterly exhausted you were when we returned to Shinjuku, Commander Kozuki, that really isn't saying too much. Truth be told," I added, trying to inject a note of levity, "I could really use a vacation."


"Well," said Ohgi, and I could almost hear his smile, "you'll be happy to know that in the course of our recent expansions that The School now has an onsen! Let me tell you, Tanya, that nothing takes the edge off a long day quite like a soak. Now, it's no Kusatsu, but I'd say it's just about the next best thing!"


"That does sound really nice," I admitted, imagining the feeling of sitting down in steaming mineral water and allowing myself to relax. After years of filth punctuated by freezing cold showers, it sounded like heaven. "Someday, perhaps…"


"Someday," he agreed with an air of wistfulness. "Not too long, though… After all, nothing's ever certain these days. Who knows when we'll… Well, when we'll no longer have the chance to enjoy another party together, eh, Naoto?"


"Right, right…" Whatever he might have said next disappeared into a burst of static, and I could almost imagine Naoto yawning into the radio receiver. The leader of the Kozuki Organization sounded as stressed as always, but that was, unfortunately, to be expected; like his sister, the elder Kozuki was always prone to overwork. "Well, I'm… glad to hear that you're doing alright… Tanya."


Despite myself, my heart leapt into my throat at the sound of my name. For months now, ever since Naoto had vanished into the hills of Gunma and Kallen into the Ashford ROTC, my fellow half-Britannian had only referred to me as "Commander Hajime," a title that sounded profoundly wrong coming from him. I had reluctantly followed suit, giving him the same title that the people of Shinjuku had given me.


Commander Kozuki never rolled off the tongue as well as Naoto's given name did, though.


"Thank you… Naoto." It was absurd that the simple use of my name should make me so emotional, but for Naoto and Kallen, both of whom walked half in our world and half in the world of their father, names were very important. "I will admit that my load has, in some ways, lightened recently. I haven't heard any pointed comments from the Notables on your leadership skills since the news from Yokohama arrived."


"Right…" The momentary levity dispelled immediately. "Yokohama. We need to talk about that… Lots to get done, before… well, before."


"But first," Ohgi cut in, his smile still audible but with an unmistakable firmness not previously in evidence, "Naoto has something important to say. Don't you, Naoto?"


"Yes." The solitary word hung in the air for a moment, and I could almost see Ohgi shooting a prodding look at his friend, our leader. "I've… I've sulked for long enough. That's over. There's no room for that garbage. There wasn't before, but now…"


"I understand." And I did. Thirty thousand dead had a way of putting things into perspective. "For what it's worth… I regret the pain I brought to you and your mother. If I'd had the time, I would have asked for your input."


"That…" Naoto sighed, "that doesn't really help. But I appreciate the gesture."


And that, seemingly, was that.


"Onto business, then," Naoto continued briskly, the brimming emotions that not even radio static could entirely hide slipping away with the topic of his sister. "We've begun to have a traffic problem. The ratline to Takasaki was pretty visible when we were still passing seven hundred or so people a week. Too few safehouses with too many people leaving behind way too many tracks. If you want to increase throughput, we'll need more routes."


"That will take time, though," I noted, not disagreeing with Naoto's assessment in the slightest. "Scouting out new waystations, determining patrol schedules, making contact with locals and establishing supply caches… All of that requires time that we don't have."


"We-" Naoto started.


"I have a suggestion," said Ohgi, accidentally cutting off Naoto's reply.


"Ah, sorry about that. But," Ohgi continued, "I recommend looking north to Ibaraki. It sounds like Yoshi's been doing a good job setting down roots outside of Mito, at least according to the reports Lieutenant Junji has forwarded on to us, and Naoto, we have a few friends up near Katashina now, don't we? It's less of a direct route than heading straight through Saitama to Takasaki, I admit, but what if we go on through Nikko instead?"


"Katashina, eh?" Naoto mused. "Yeah, you could say we have a few friends…"


"Friends?" I asked, practically certain that I was missing out on something here. "Could you please elaborate, Naoto?"


"I've embraced regionality," Naoto replied, a hint of a smile in his voice, "by which I mean, I let nature take its course. Things are…" he paused, "different out here in the countryside, compared to the city. There's fewer people, but they're spread out over a much larger area, which makes it difficult to centralize. Instead of trying to force the issue, Ohgi and I came up with a different pattern."


"Once a training cohort of recruits from Shinjuku is almost done," Ohgi put in, "we pair them up with local recruits, or with members of an allied band."


"Allied bands?" I reached for my notepad. "Last I heard, you were experiencing difficulties with the locals. When did that change?"


While the overwhelming violence of the Conquest had shattered the old pillars of Japanese society, Britannian negligence had allowed those shards to fuse together into new sources of authority as the people sought order in the chaos. In Shinjuku, those sources of authority had been in large part the gangs, who carved fiefdoms out of the cluttered streets with the tacit support of the Britannian backers who used those gangs as procurers and knee-breakers. Authority also stemmed from local self-defense groups, who all too often became gangs in the fullness of time. Naoto's burgeoning rebel cell could have grown to become one such group.


In the countryside, things had taken a different path than in the Settlements. Instead of numerous but geographically limited street gangs, a vast mosaic of groups had sprung out of the rural towns and villages of Japan even as the first Britannian surveyors arrived to parcel them out into noble estates.


Some of these groups were simple bandits, the country cousins of the old Kokuryu-kai, women and mostly men who took Britannian negligence as license to take out their pain on their neighbors. Others had more closely paralleled Naoto's group and had taken up arms against the Britannians and their collaborators. Most of these groups died quickly as punitive columns swept out of the Settlements to burn and kill anything in the offending region. Many of the survivors had found their way to the JLF, but not all.


The mountainous central spine of Honshu, running from Shizuoka and Nagano up through Akita, had long been haunted by guerrilla bands that ranged greatly in size and equipment but were generally united in their lack of success. Some had claimed small victories in helping people escape from the estates of the more… involved nobles, funneling the refugees either to hidden communities in the mountains or to more laxly governed towns. Others took pride in assassinating particularly hated Honorary overseers or policemen, striking back at the Britannian apparatus without provoking a full reprisal.


Almost to a one, the existing guerrilla bands had spurned Naoto's offers of cooperation. They had stuck it out alone in the wilderness for years, without Kyoto's support and while resisting the pressure of the JLF or the other three or four major regional groups to join up. They were dubious, to say the least, of a half-Britannian leader. They wanted to see results before they committed.


I wondered what had changed.


"That's right," Ohgi confirmed, his voice almost cheerful for a moment. "Our efforts have finally begun to bear success. We realized that we had a lot of idle hands, including plenty with specialist skills. It's amazing how much goodwill pitching-in can bring, especially when you've got people who know how to get old water heaters working."


"Everybody likes a hot shower, I suppose." I paused, then asked, "How is Major Onoda taking it? Considering how these new allies are coming to us rather than the JLF, do you see this as a future wedge?"


"Hmm…No. No, I don't think so," said Ohgi after a thoughtful moment. "To tell you the truth, I think that we're beginning to grow on the Major. Or, at least, he's seen the value in working with us. He's been increasingly helpful of late; he even wrote back to some contact of his back at his divisional headquarters and… Well, let's just say that we've been able to expand our training curriculum dramatically."


How much of that is Onoda's changing sympathies, I wondered, remembering the sour old cuss, and how much of that is a result of Kaguya's influence? Doubtless his own ambitions are mixed into all of this as well.


"I want to know more about that, but let's finish the discussion of the refugee issue," I said, turning the conversation back. "You pair new graduates up with members of allied bands, and…?"


"And we give them a few weeks of freedom to roam the land and meet people," Naoto replied, smoothly cutting back into the conversation. "Then, they come back and tell me about who they met, where they went, what they saw, and so forth. And then we reach out to Junji, who does his best to scrape together what the Britannians are saying or doing or talking about in that region, and we ask Onoda what the JLF is doing in the same region."


"Once we've got a pile of intelligence," Ohgi put in, "we assemble a group spearheaded by the trainees who went to that region along with whatever refugees want to go with them and send them out with a radio, some supplies, and instructions to set up a camp. Once they radio back and inform us that they've found a foothold and elected a leader from the group of trained soldiers with them, we give them the order to stand ready and a few objectives, but otherwise let them do as they feel best, so long as they keep their heads down."


"Honestly," Naoto continued, and I could almost see him shrugging, "that's more or less what they would do anyway, and I think it's probably for the best. It preserves an element of control, and everybody knows to keep their hands off the Britannians for now, but it also allows the commanders on the ground to adapt to what they're seeing. Hence, regionalization.


"And in the case of Ohgi's proposed route, Lieutenant Matsuda has control over the region north of Katashina and south of Oze. He's got somewhere around a hundred people with him and is partnered with two bands, each less than fifty strong, operating independently in the same area."


"I see…" I paused, fighting against my exhaustion as I tried to figure out what I felt about this development.


Only three hours ago, Ichiya had shared the ritual last drink with Lieutenant Koichi, who had volunteered to serve as her second, as the consequence of an officer operating without oversight in a manner not dissimilar to that which Naoto and Ohgi had just finished describing. Just nodding along to their report made me feel like a hypocrite, condemning one while applauding the other. On the other hand, the flexible structure my fellow triumvirs were describing sounded appropriate for a geographically dispersed operation, as they were running. Besides, they enjoyed equal standing to me, and surely they best understood the organs they had established.


And, I couldn't help but admit to myself, I just made peace with Naoto after months of icy politeness. Do I really want to inflame relations again now, not even an hour after we let our last disagreement rest?


"So," I continued, moving past the uncomfortable concern and into the safer waters of practicality, "do you think that's enough of a base to provide concealment and lodging for over a thousand people a week? Assuming we split the traffic currently routed through Takasaki evenly, that's the probable low-end of what they can expect."


"Sounds like we'll need more routes, then," Ohgi replied, "or maybe more branches coming off the Takasaki and Ibaraki routes? No need for everyone to go to one place before scattering," he reasoned.


The conversation continued along that topic for a while longer as we worked out a number of potential routes and, equally importantly, destinations for the people fleeing Shinjuku Ghetto. So far, just over five thousand people had made the journey from the Tokyo Settlement to the hinterlands of Gunma Prefecture, with the very old, the very young, and intact family units overwhelmingly represented in the refugees. While this reduced the at-risk population in the Ghetto itself, it meant that the first waves of refugees generally represented a short-term burden wherever they ended up. So far, Naoto had done his best to keep the resettled populations spread out across the prefecture to keep that burden as light as possible, but that added a further element of complexity.


"Alright," I said an hour later, leaning back from my desk and massaging some feeling back into my cramping hand, "I think that's a good stopping point for today. Ohgi, you mentioned that The School is expanding its curriculum? Can you tell me more about that?"


"Not just the curriculum," Ohgi corrected, an old yet still vibrant passion enriching his voice as the topic turned towards education, "but also the number of trainees, the training staff, and the grounds of The School itself."


"Well," I replied, smiling at the renewed enthusiasm audible in his voice, "tell me more. What have you been up to these last few weeks?"


"Alright, so, I decided to shift the entirety of the last two cohorts over to cadre," Ohgi began, "especially as we started getting feedback from your Commission in Shinjuku, especially Mister Asahara, from Captain Yoshi over in Ibaraki, and since Major Onoda started writing to his superiors for more and varied support."


"Oh?" My ears perked up at that last item. "That's a surprise. It was less than two weeks ago that he managed to shake loose that mortar for training purposes."


"Perhaps not that big of a surprise," said Ohgi, "since most of that greater support is, in fact, more infantry mortars. So far, twelve of the Type 16's – 81 millimeter man-portable – have been delivered, along with six hundred bombs. They're handy little things, and the current cohort is learning how to break them down, build them up, and sight them in four minutes or less."


"Outstanding." That was good news indeed. Paired with the heavy machine guns that Kaguya had begun shipping to us for emplacement in the hardened aerial and streetside "nests" throughout Shinjuku, we were starting to develop quite the heavy weapons load for an army lacking any industrial base. "What else?"


"Our good friends in the 3rd Division have graciously lent us a pair of Type 62 heavy machine guns for training purposes," Ohgi wryly replied, making his opinion of Major Onoda's parent unit abundantly clear. "Quite generous indeed, since as far as I know nobody asked for such a loan, but… Well, they and their ammunition will be handy. From the same source, we have also received… Wait, hang on…"


There was a sound of rustling papers, and then Ohgi triumphantly returned with a cry of "Six! Six deliveries of demolition supplies, including blasting caps, remote detonators, detonation cord, eight crates of anti-personnel mines, and supplies of plastic explosives adding up to a total of two hundred and fifty kilograms!"


He paused and cleared his throat. "Frankly, the sudden burst of generosity from the JLF, while welcome, has begun to worry me. It wasn't so long ago that they refused to hand over more than a handful of shoulder-fired rockets and rifles."


"We did provide them with enough spare parts to outfit a platoon of Knightmares," I pointed out, "to say nothing of how many recruits the 3rd Division specifically gained from Niigata, in no small part thanks to our operation there. Besides that, I suspect that our new friend has begun to exert pressure."


"Ah, yes," Ohgi agreed, chuckling slightly. "I can see why that might be the case. I'm glad the negotiations are finally paying off."


Naoto and Ohgi knew that I had made an arrangement with a highly placed member of Kyoto House in exchange for food support and munitions, but that was about the extent of their knowledge of Kaguya. I hadn't wanted any rumor of the… what was she?


The arch-traitoress? I considered, remembering the names I'd heard bandied about Shinjuku for the Numbers Advisory Committee that served as the public face for the Six Houses. No, that doesn't fit… Even if she was a Britannian collaborator in truth, she's barely older than me. She would have been just seven or eight when Japan fell. A seven year old cannot commit treason. Especially not a girl growing up with the benefits and blindspots of a noble education. The fact that she's found the willingness to operate independently against her erstwhile masters, Britannia and Japanese alike, is truly amazing.


So, if not an arch-traitoress, then… Perhaps the Empress-in-Waiting? I smiled at the thought. It was ludicrous, even though Kaguya had all but named herself as such at the end of our first and only meeting. As if that title doesn't come with its own litany of problems, first and foremost the knives of every Britannian assassin the Homeland can offer. Not to mention that the old Republican oligarchs would probably be less than happy to see the Imperial House return.


Either way, I had no intention of filling them in any further until we met in person. Much as I trusted Junji and his prowess with radios, I didn't want to run the risk of some Britannian signal intelligence officer picking up any hint of "Lady Sophie Sumeragi" being involved in armed rebellion.


"Indeed," I nodded at the invisible audience seated a hundred and forty kilometers away. "But I suspect that you're right to be worried, Ohgi. If the JLF were still a state military, I would say that it sounds like they just received funding for the latest and greatest and are clearing stocks to make way for the new model.


"As the Republic of Japan no longer exists, it does sound as if they are building towards something and have decided to share their toys with everybody who might be inclined to join in."


"I can see that being the case," said Ohgi, "considering how they also were kind enough to ship us several crates of fragmentation grenades, a crate of incendiary grenades, six radio sets from the Eighties, a generator…"


His voice tapered off for a moment, and I heard the rustling of paper once more. "Well, I suppose the details aren't that important, but they also gave us several hundred carbines, submachine guns, and pistols, plus enough dextroamphetamine and codeine phosphate to keep an entire battalion zooted up for a month. Oh, and seven hundred kilograms of expired canned pre-Conquest rations, can't forget those.


"So, either they're clearing all of the expired detritus out of some supply dump, or…"


"Or someone is expecting or hoping for something quite flashy to happen quite soon," I said, giving voice to both of our thoughts. "And all of this is coming specifically from the 3rd Division? Naoto, are any of your allied bands getting handouts from the JLF as well?"


"Not that anybody's willing to admit," Naoto answered, "although we're making sure to share the wealth, now that we've got it."


"Smart" I said, fighting down a yawn. It had already been a long day, although it was just after noon, and I could really use a coffee about now. "Alright, I'll get in touch with Yoshi and ask him about safehouses in Mito, Utsunomiya, and Nikko. I'll also send a scout unit out west to Yamanashi with an eye towards finding a route north through Matsumoto, although I am still reserving judgment on that one. I'm not certain about the wisdom of running a ratline so close to the Fuji Mines."


"Well," Naoto reasoned, "even if we don't route through Yamanashi, more intelligence on the Fuji Special District can hardly hurt. Anyway, I'll send out word to Lieutenant Matsuda instructing him to start finding places to stash incoming refugees, and the same to Lieutenants Hiroyuki and Shigeo, who are both operating north of Ueda. If we end up routing people through Nagano, they'll be best placed to receive."


"Sounds like a plan," I agreed. "Other than that…"


I swatted down the urge to wring my hands like some guilty messenger bearing ill tidings. Not that the petty victory made me feel any better about the news I was about to deliver.


I took a deep breath. "Naoto… I got a call from our producer friend an hour ago; you know the one. He's apparently got a source somewhere in the staff of Thornton International, one with access to the week's scheduled flights. Diethard was snooping into some starlet or whoever who Clovis invited for a visit to the Area, but when he got that list he saw a chartered flight out of New Leicester on it…"


For a moment, all I could hear over the radio was the sound of heavy breathing.


"My father… It has to be my father, coming to Area 11. The airport at New Leicester is tiny, almost nobody uses it for anything but local flights. For someone to charter a direct flight from there to Area 11?" Naoto sighed. "It's him, no question about it."


Somehow, his sigh, almost of exasperation, failed to set my heart at ease.


"Will Kallen be alright?" I wanted to ask, the question leaping to my lips with alarming speed, seemingly bypassing my brain in the process. It was all I could do to close my mouth before it could escape the tip of my tongue.


According to Inoue's status reports, her cadet training was proceeding swimmingly, but the arrival of her father could throw everything into the garbage! She has a difficult enough time remaining civil around Britannians who didn't have a personal hand in abandoning her and her family to the tenderness of the Settlement. Asking for her to remain civil and collected in front of her father…


The potential fallout from a mishandled confrontation between Lord Stadtfeld and his rebellious heiress was practically incalculable, which explained how worried the prospect made me.


"Does this present a complication?" I asked instead.


Of course, at the same time, Ohgi asked "Do we need to go get Kallen, Naoto?"


I felt my heart jump at Ohgi's mention of her name despite myself.


Just another reason to accelerate the evacuation of Shinjuku, I thought grimly. We can't afford any single point of failure anywhere. Not Kallen, not me, not even Shinjuku Ghetto.


"Hmm…no, I don't think so." Naoto replied, and I felt the tension begin to ebb out of me. "At least, not immediately. Dad's… got his own things to do. I don't think we'll cross his radar, not like that. He's not above pulling a few strings or twisting some arms, and given Kallen's whole deal with the ROTC, well…I certainly don't envy whoever her school pushes in his way. But I doubt he'll be showing up in Shinjuku, Tanya, and certainly not out in Gunma.


"Still…" I could almost see the sudden anxiety crossing his face, the stress matching my own at the thought of an angry Britannian aristocrat dragging Kallen before Clovis for judgment, "I guess I'm going to need to tell Mom, huh…?


Wait… I stopped, reorienting towards Naoto's concern. I'm going about this all wrong. Naoto got his initial resources and contacts via his father, didn't he? I even suspected early on that this whole organization was all a stalking horse set up by Lord Statfeld. Was… no, why is he coming?


The knot in my chest so suddenly tied began to loosen.


This isn't an Organization matter; this is a family matter. In which case…


"That would be wise," I replied briskly, trying not to sigh with relief or roll my eyes at Naoto's curious blindspot towards his relatives.


Judging by his relationship with Kallen, Naoto had a bad tendency to squirrel away information from his family that they really should know in the name of 'their own good.' Remembering how Hitomi had reacted after I punched out Lady Stadtfeld, I doubted she'd stand for it.


"Please convey my greetings to Mrs. Kozuki as well, when you tell her the happy news, and also my regrets. And…" I hesitated, before adding, "I am… glad to hear from you again, Naoto."


"I will, Tanya," the leader of the Kozuki Organization promised. "Until we meet again, walk with the gods."


"Stay safe, Tanya," urged Ohgi, and then I was alone, with only the empty static of a quiet channel buzzing in the communications room for company.

 

[Kelenas]

Reading this chapter kinda makes me want to play a strategy game that focuses on running a resistance/guerilla/partisan organization. Not on the tactical level like XCOM2, Jagged Alliance 2, and the like, but purely focused on the strategic level, where you need to focus on acquiring weapons and other gear and resources for your organization, develop influence, build up intelligence networks, establish training centers, set up networks of cells, and so on, and so forth.

 

[Scopas]

Reading this chapter kinda makes me want to play a strategy game that focuses on running a resistance/guerilla/partisan organization. Not on the tactical level like XCOM2, Jagged Alliance 2, and the like, but purely focused on the strategic level, where you need to focus on acquiring weapons and other gear and resources for your organization, develop influence, build up intelligence networks, establish training centers, set up networks of cells, and so on, and so forth.

Click to shrink...

I know, right? I feel like that's definitely a niche in the strategy game market. For what it's worth, you can play from the other side as the commander of a counter-insurgent effort in Rebel Inc. Escalation. It's a pretty fun, if frustrating, game!

 

[Kelenas]

I know, right? I feel like that's definitely a niche in the strategy game market. For what it's worth, you can play from the other side as the commander of a counter-insurgent effort in Rebel Inc. Escalation. It's a pretty fun, if frustrating, game!

Click to shrink...

Think I tried that out quite a while ago. There's also the possibility to play the Rebellion in SW:Galaxy at War, but while they're narratively a rebellion/resistance/guerilla movement, in terms of gameplay they're not really all that different from the Empire.

So, yeah; pretty empty niche, unfortunately.

 

[Scopas]

Think I tried that out quite a while ago. There's also the possibility to play the Rebellion in SW:Galaxy at War, but while they're narratively a rebellion/resistance/guerilla movement, in terms of gameplay they're not really all that different from the Empire.

So, yeah; pretty empty niche, unfortunately.

Click to shrink...

Yeah... It's not really surprising, unfortunately. Writing this fic has actually been quite difficult for me for a number of reasons, one of which is the "how real is real" issue and the second being how many parts of a resistance movement are either incredibly difficult to figure out or just really not narratively fulfilling. I mean, how in depth do you go with contacting foreign supporters and working out deals? How does a group actively recruit new membership, both in terms of the media used as outreach and in terms of not alerting authorities to their presence? Where do supplies come from? Money? Weapons? How does a group establish an agenda, and how do intra-factional conflicts work out? What does a successful guerrilla organization look like on a day to day basis?


And of course, "how do you write a story about rebels that remains authentic without going into the hopelessly depressing?"


I think that I am doing an acceptable job answering at least some of those questions, but there is still a lot of things I should be thinking about and only some of them can be wedged convincingly into this story. In terms of trying for a simple plot that can be easily gamified, the difficulty of condensing the thousands of factors of irregular warfare down into something coherent would be immense.

 

[Kelenas]

The story definitely feels a lot more grounded and realistic than canon!Code Geass (so far, at least), in a large part because it tries to answer questions like "where are the MC's rebels getting their weapons/supplies from?", without having a ready-made cop-out via "magical mind control eye, duh!", and how it slowly escalated the scope and sophistication of Tanya's group and its activities. The early presence of moral complexity/grey-shading of the protagonist-faction also helps a lot.

But yeah; due to its realism/grounded-ness there's definitely an element of... I think grim or fatalistic determination might be the description that fits best? to the story. Britannia is basically a fusion between the Galactic Empire (in terms of how much they out-number, out-gun, and just generally out-scale the protagonists in terms of power and capabilities), and the Nazis (in terms of brutality and evilness; though the Britannians somehow manage to be even *worse* than the Nazis, IMO). So, simply "enduring" the Britannians isn't an option, but fighting back militarily has basically no realistic chances of success, either, creating a "doomed if they do, doomed if they don't" scenario.

 

[NumberSix]

The perfect waifu for Lelouch doesn't exi...

FORGET WHAT I SAID!!!!

In any case, I read through part of the first chapter, or rather, skimmed through parts, but you have Tanya's personality down perfectly.

Keep up the good work.

 

[Scopas]

SNIP

Click to shrink...

Yep, no doubt about it. It might be worth noting that the original idea for this fic sprang from a game I played about the doomed Warsaw Uprising. Tanya in particular was inspired by the (in)famous Grey Ranks, the children who joined their parents and leaders in the last-ditch struggle to save Poland from both the Nazis and the advancing Soviets.


If Tanya finds victory, it will not come easily, nor will it be cheap.

The perfect waifu for Lelouch doesn't exi...

FORGET WHAT I SAID!!!!

In any case, I read through part of the first chapter, or rather, skimmed through parts, but you have Tanya's personality down perfectly.

Keep up the good work.

Click to shrink...

Thanks! I would encourage you to read on, if only to give me updates on how well I'm handling Tanya's character! Either way, thank you for the encouragement and kind words!

 

[kalistira]

Woo, this chapter really hit home on getting us a look into Tanya's head... Usually a derpy space in most fics, but I'm loving this grounded, real Tanya you've made here. Definitely looking forward to more, thanks for the chapter!

 

[Scopas]

(Thank you to Aminta Defender, Sunny, MetalDragon, Adronio, WrandmWaffles, Rakkis157, and Aemon for their services as beta-readers and editors. I'll be blunt: I'm not... hugely in love with this chapter. I tried to do a few more things with it, and none of them worked out. The chapter's also a bit shorter than I would have liked, but... Well, it is what it is, and as one of my beta-readers pointed out, perfect is the enemy of good enough. So, thank you for your patience.)


JULY 13, 2016 ATB
STADTFELD MANOR, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1725


Kallen thought it was shocking how a system as expensive as the much-touted Tokyo Settlement MagLev could have overlooked something as basic as functional air conditioning during the design process.


No such mention of the oversight had made it into the fawning media, of course. Not during the construction phase, and certainly not after the system's twice-delayed grand opening. "A tracked palace," one particularly brown-nosed presenter had dubbed it, "from which all of Britannia's sons and daughters can view the fullness of this new gem in the imperial diadem!"


Despite the fact that she was no longer free to pursue her budding career as a journalist, Kallen found it grimly satisfying that every turning of the seasons proved the lies of the Britannian media again and again. While Prince Clovis had set a circling crown around his capital, the wet heat of the Tokyo summer had still infiltrated the densely-packed train carriage with contemptuous ease, turning the tight rush-hour confines into a sweatbox. No matter how much the Administration and its Fourth Estate lackeys might claim otherwise, the truth of the matter was manifest to anybody who relied on the magnetically levitating train system for their commute.


It's fitting, in a way, Kallen supposed, sitting straight-backed in her chair as befit a noble cadet, knees and heels firmly together in emulation of a posture diagrammed in her Cadet's Handbook, that, try as he might, lie as he might, the Viceregal-Governor cannot keep Japan out of his shiny new train. To say nothing of his Settlement.


Even in her own ears, the connection sounded tenuous and forced. While Clovis's incompetence as a leader and as a manipulator of perception were manifestly apparent, equating the all-pervading seasonal humidity to Japanese nationalism was a harder sell. The comparison didn't really make much sense, especially since the Britannians and their lackeys seemed entirely unconcerned with the ongoing struggle for liberation. The death of the Yokohama Sniper the previous week – damn you, Chihiro! – had inspired a satisfied if short-waved burst of elation throughout the Britannian Concession and the broader Tokyo Settlement; the heat, by contrast, had popped open collars, loosened ties, and in some extreme cases, even forced some of the office workers packing the car to remove their jackets entirely.


Sitting prim and proper in her army gray ROTC uniform, Kallen took the opportunity to glare at a particularly scrawny example of this last breed, silently venting some of her frustration on the pasty-faced man seated across from her on the opposite side of the train and enjoying his obvious discomfort. He'd had the misfortune to attempt what she was sure he considered a "winning smile" on her when they had first made glancing eye contact across the train car; Kallen had spent the rest of the trip punishing the fool for his mistake.


Serves him right, Kallen thought, satisfied with the misery she'd returned in some small way back to Britannia. Who the hell smiles at a girl on a train? Creeps, that's who… Bastard…


Even her attempts to spark self-righteous fury felt damp and half-hearted, sapped into exhaustion by the cloying heat and the strain of keeping the mask of Kallen Stadtfeld firmly in place.


It had been another long day at Ashford Academy, the grounds of which were almost deserted now that summer vacation was in full swing. Almost all of the noble student body had fled the Tokyo Settlement in favor of South Pacific vacations or summer homes on mountain estates, high above the swampy summer heat; a few even went "back to the Homeland," back to the festering cesspool of human rot they liked to call civilization. Now the campus was populated only by the handful of students who lived full-time in the dorms and by the ROTC cadets, whose vacation had been given over fully to their training.


Judging by the expressions of her fellow cadets when they had heard the news, Kallen reckoned that only she had actually read the enlistment papers before signing up. If any of her fellows had done the same, they wouldn't have been surprised by this development, especially considering how behind the fledgling cohort was in achieving the mandatory training benchmarks laid out in the Cadet's Handbook each had been issued after taking the Oath.


Every page of which Kallen had committed to memory. While her fellow cadets might be content to merely play at soldier, she had no such freedom. For a variety of reasons, ranging from her own standards to her secret mission, Kallen couldn't afford her ROTC career to be anything less than exemplary.


So, she leaned in. Using her rank as Cadet Sergeant, Kallen had reserved a place for herself at the front of every class, taking notes and asking questions right under the noses of the revolving cast of Army officers Major Pitt brought in to serve as guest lecturers. The major himself generally sat in the rear of the classroom, well outside of Kallen's field of vision, but the pressure of his gaze never lifted from her shoulders. Every time she glanced back, the Major's watchful eyes met hers until she returned her focus to the lecture.


The washed-up old pilot had clearly identified her as his meal ticket, and just as clearly had no intention of letting her slip away from his tight-fingered grasp.


The regard of her fellow cadets weighed almost as heavily on Kallen's shoulders as the focus of their "mentor". In the classroom and out on the training field, every eye turned towards her, following her every move and evaluating her every word.


But I'd expected as much, Kallen thought resentfully, channeling a bit of her anger into a clenched fist as she bit down on a scowl. No thanks to him and his stupid title.


Attention had followed her, ever since Alvin Stadtfeld had reclaimed her and made her his heir. New Leicester was, all things considered, a minor barony without any great incomes attached to it, but that didn't really matter; it was still a fiefdom in the Homeland itself, and therefore prestigious. As its heiress, even though she had yet to be formally introduced to society as such, Kallen had been rendered prestigious as well.


And that's not even getting into all of the other reasons creeps keep sneaking looks at me from the corners of their eyes when they thought I wouldn't see…


She had nothing but contempt for all six of them, male and female alike, almost as much contempt as she had for Pitt. They were all Britannians to the core, avaricious and scheming, smug in their superiority and proud in their duplicity. Just like with Pitt, Kallen kept her true feelings secret, guarding her thoughts with cool smiles and a single-minded focus on her duties as a cadet. So far, during the summer training camp, Kallen had spoken only to issue commands during formation practice, to ask questions during lecture, or to endlessly bark "yes sir!" to Pitt's satisfaction.


Both to advance her true mission and to preserve her sanity over the summer, Kallen hurled herself into her training.


Again, she had leaned into "Cadet Sergeant Stadtfeld," playing her role to the hilt. To her muted horror, Kallen found herself greatly enjoying the intensive summer program, particularly the physical components and, worst of all, the time spent in the Knightmare Simulator. The intensive program played to her strengths to an extent she would have found otherwise disturbing had it not quickly become her refuge.


Every morning, Kallen left Stadtfeld Manor at six, vanishing long before her drunk of a stepmother stirred and arriving at Ashford by seven for morning PT. After an hour of running, pushups, and crunches, four hours of classwork began, with lectures ranging from Knightmare specifications and upkeep to basic tactics to Army culture. Another hour of PT followed the half-hour set aside for lunch, and was in turn followed by three and a half hours of simulator time spent running scenarios and learning how to pilot in earnest.


A quick shower later and she was on a train back to the Manor, where she cloistered herself away in her room to review all the notes of the day's academic workshops and expand her knowledge on any points of interest referenced in class.


Unpleasant colleagues aside, it all came so easily to her.


The classwork, which covered relevant topics like physics and mechanical engineering as well as all the rot about the history of the Army and such, seemed far simpler than Kallen's usual classes. Either the ROTC curriculum had been dumbed down so every cadet no matter how inbred could comprehend its contents, or her desire to not think about anything but the task on hand had sharpened her mind's edge to a razor hone. Likewise, she stood easily head and shoulders over her fellow cadets on the practice field, beating their track times and continuing to crank out pushups long after everybody else had collapsed into the dust.


Of course, it was on the simulators where Kallen truly shined. While the same twisting, knotted agitation that she had experienced back during the recruitment assembly rose in her belly every time the simulator's hatch closed behind her, it grew easier and easier to ignore the momentary spike of nausea with each session. The voices and flashbacks were harder to push past fully, but with hours in the simulator every day, the edges slowly grew less jagged, the voices less loud.


"Now arriving at Emperor Albert the Second Station," a cool female voice chimed through the train's overhead speakers, the only thing cool in the sweltering cabin. "Doors will be opening to your left. Please remain clear of the opening doors."


As the levitating train slowed to a smooth stop – none of the jolting Kallen dimly remembered from the long-dead, but not sweltering, Tokyo Metro in evidence – she rose to her booted feet and pulled her ROTC-issued rucksack down from the overhead rack, its cargo of filthy workout gear and notebooks smacking into her back as she slung it over her shoulder. Across the train car, the pale office drudge let out a sigh of relief as she began to walk away, only to stiffen up again as she spun on her heel to glare at him.


That last moment of discomfort would be the final drop of pleasure she would wring from the day, of that Kallen was gloomily certain. She was returning to the place she felt least comfortable these days, a hollow shell of a home that was no longer anything of the sort, bereft as it was of the friendly face of her real mother. Compared to that absence, or to the presence of her drunken hag of a stepmother and all of her cronies, Kallen almost found herself longing for the boors who made up the remainder of her training cohort.


Honestly, a corner of Kallen's mind huffed as she made her way down the station steps to street level, you have no reason to be this petty. Lelouch and Milly even stole you away for lunch today, so you didn't have to play polite in front of Major Pitt! Today was a good day!


A vague flicker of guilt wormed its way up from Kallen's gut. Perhaps the office drudge had just been trying to be friendly? Now that she thought about it, he hadn't been that much older than her, only two or three years at most. Even if he had been trying to flirt, at least he'd been far more subtle about it than her overly-bred fellow cadets…


Who gives a shit, Kallen asked that annoyingly reasonable part of her mind incredulously. He's a Britannian! He should consider himself lucky I didn't kill him where he stood on Japanese soil! Or, sat, at least. I already showed him far too much mercy!


Her traitorous mind didn't offer up any further arguments, but Kallen couldn't quite shake that heavy, guilty feeling that rolled around in her gut as she listlessly made the short walk to the nearest bus stop. Tired of the day and depressed that even her momentary joy of ruining a Britannian's commute home had been spoiled, she slumped down in the first open seat she could find and just stared straight ahead. Thankfully, the bus had functional air conditioning, and the cool air was so welcome on her sweaty skin that Kallen almost missed her stop, hesitant as she was to leave the sanctuary for the cicada-haunted humidity outside.


The clatter of those insects intensified as Kallen keyed herself through the pedestrian gate and made her way up the walk paralleling the driveway, passing through the ornamental ring of trees surrounding Stadtfeld Manor her father had once jokingly named "the Forest". Alvin Stadtfeld had sourced those mulberry trees from the slopes of Mount Kumotori, in what had once been Chichibu-Tama-Kai National Park, ordering that they be dug up before they could be logged and replanted on the grounds of his new family estate in Area 11.


Kallen had distant memories of enjoying a trip to that National Park as a very little girl with Naoto, her mother, and her father. Those memories might have faded entirely with age if it wasn't for the framed photo of her, Naoto, and her mother together, Mount Kumotori rising behind them.


Her father had taken that picture.


Now, the handful of refugee mulberries sheltered Stadtfeld Manor from any inquisitive eyes that might peer over the boundary wall or through the bars of the gates protecting the driveway and the pedestrian access.


Not that there's anything really worth hiding there now, thanks to Tanya…


With practiced effort, Kallen pushed the stab of anger away. She fully understood why her leader had ordered Naoto to take their mother away to safety; in the heat of the moment, Kallen had even found herself appreciative, touched even, that Tanya would take the time to care for her and Naoto's mother.


It had been a relief during that first crowded week, as Kallen worked to mold herself into the perfect image of a Britannian student-soldier and calm down from her emotional meltdown in front of the entirety of Ashford Academy. The sudden absence of her real mother and her obviously hafu brother had simplified the details of that new mask wonderfully, simultaneously dispensing with loose ends while removing a temptation to hare away to Shinjuku instead of sticking it out in Ashford.


That relief had melted away over the ensuing weeks and months as it became steadily more and more apparent to Kallen that the dreaded investigation into her past by her new superior would never come. At first confused that the obvious social climber wasn't trying to force his way into her private life, Kallen was annoyed and amused to discover that Major Pitt in fact had, only to crash face-first into a sauced Lady Alicia Stadtfeld as full of fury as she was of gin.


Sending the pain in the ass ROTC officer scampering had been perhaps the first and only kindness Kallen's stepmother had ever done for her.


Which makes me all the more certain that she only did it by accident. Kallen didn't bother to suppress her smile at the thought. The idea of her two enemies tripping over one another and their respective agendas made the renewed loss of her mother sting a little bit less.


We were doing so good too… After months of me treating her like shit, we were finally acting like a family again, at least behind closed doors…


Kallen pushed that thought away too and looked up from the path towards her destination. She was almost to the Manor's front door, and… Kallen narrowed her eyes. She didn't recognize the black sedan parked out on the Manor's driveway, nor the uniformed driver leaning against it and lighting a cigarette. The latter began to nod respectfully at her approach before he noticed the chevrons on her collar. Dropping his cigarette, the driver straightened to attention, his fist snapping to his chest in salute.


No rank tabs on his uniform or any unit patches, Kallen considered as she paused to return the salute before releasing it and taking another few steps closer. And he's saluting a sergeant? A cadet sergeant?


"There really isn't any need for that, you know," said Kallen, hiking her rucksack back up over her shoulder. "I'm just a cadet. What are you doing here? At ease, by the way."


"Begging your pardon, Sergeant," the man replied as he slipped into parade rest, "but you're a cadet with a Knightmare Corps patch on your shoulder. Not all cadets are built the same, you know. Besides, red hair here? You've got to be a Stadtfeld. Respect where respect's due, you see."


"Uh huh," Kallen nodded skeptically, already seeing another Pitt standing before her. "Would that respect extend to answering the question I asked? Perhaps in addition to a follow-up, namely, who are you?"


"I'm waiting until your Lord Father has finished his visit home to his loving wife and children," the driver answered, smirking as Kallen's first spike of fury transmuted into confusion as she processed his response.


"As for who I am, that's really not important." The driver paused, before adding, "were I you, I would not keep the Old Man waiting, Lady Kallen. In his words, 'the jig is up.' Best just to go in and take your lumps, that's my advice."


With this last comment, the driver's initial amusement faded into something approaching sympathy. Kallen didn't trust it, not when his eyes still danced with hidden laughter.


But he's right, who he is doesn't matter… What does Dad know? Why… why is he here?


As a long list of potential discoveries the Baron of New Leicester could have made regarding her recent activities unspooled behind her eyes, Kallen moved by impulse. Following the instincts hammered out over hours spent out on the former equestrian track turned ROTC training grounds, her heels snapped together and her fist rose to a parting salute. The unnamed driver smirked again but held his peace, fist rising lazily to bump against his chest again.


Almost before the parting ritual was complete, Kallen was turning back on her heel towards the Manor. During her brief confrontation with the anonymous man with a soldier's bearing, someone had clearly spotted her and gone running to alert the household of her arrival. Now, Vernon, head butler of Stadtfeld Manor and her slut of a stepmother's barely secret lover, was waiting for her next to the open door, fat as butter and twice as greasy.


There was an unsettling air of coordination about all of this, as if she had stumbled into the jaws of a trap when she'd passed through the ring of mulberries. Kallen resisted the urge to turn and shoot a glare at the driver, certain she'd just find him smirking at her back, cigarette restored to its place between his fingers. Instead, still stinking of exertion and sweating freely from the summer's heat, Kallen stalked forward up the short flight of stairs leading up to the Manor's door.


"Lady Kallen," Vernon greeted her, extending a hand as if she needed help up the stairs. "Pl-"


The breath rushed out of the majordomo as Kallen shoved her rucksack forcefully into his chest.


"Why, thank you for offering to help with my bag, Vernon!" Kallen bared her teeth in an expression that could be called a smile. "It's crammed full of laundry, so see to that too. Now, where are Father and Mother waiting? Let's get this over with."


"T-the Day Parlor, Lady Kallen," Vernon wheezed, to his credit still managing to stand up somewhat straight with one arm holding the door open and the other wrapped around her rucksack. "Th-they're waiting for you."


So, no time to go change and freshen up, eh? Dad must be taking this seriously… Shit, shit, shit!


The impulse to run away was almost as strong as the urge to seize this sudden threat by the throat. For a moment, Kallen stood on the threshold of her family's house, torn between those two instincts. A third urging, to call Tanya or her big brother and request assistance, request orders, percolated up in between.


Ruthlessly, Kallen pushed each instinctual urge face down into a pool of water and held them down until the bubbles stopped. Or, at least, that was how she pictured the process as she closed her eyes and took deep, calming breaths, ignoring Vernon sidling around her and into the depths of the Manor.


Then, as the panic flowed out of her, Kallen Stadtfeld opened her eyes. Her hands didn't twitch as she strode through the Manor's atrium; when she turned left, down the hall towards the Day Parlor, her legs were steady as ancient cypress trees. It was only when her hand clasped the handle of the parlor door that her composure faltered slightly, an anxious tremor running through her limbs as Kallen considered what could be waiting for her on the other side of that white-painted door.


If he knows that I've joined the Underground, that I am fighting for the liberation of Japan… I have no idea how Dad will react. It could go either of two ways, Kallen thought. On the one hand, Alvin Stadtfeld had taken a Japanese lover and not abandoned her, not really, not like how Tanya's dad had. Also, someone had helped Naoto get his hands on that first batch of weapons.


On the other hand… he's a Britannian noble. An enfiefed lord. That means that he's loyal to the Empire, if perhaps not the Emperor himself…


It was, Kallen knew, entirely possible that she would walk into that parlor and find an entire squad of Royal Guard waiting to take her into custody, as befit her rank and her crimes.


But what choice do I have? Calling Tanya is pointless; she can't help me now. Running away would just mean they'd shoot me in the back… Give me a coward's death.


And that would not do. Not for Kallen Stadtfeld and certainly not for Kozuki Kallen.


For the Cause.


Resolved, Kallen turned the door handle and smoothly stepped into the Day Parlor.


Anticlimactically, Kallen found the room was entirely free of uniformed goons, save perhaps for herself. Instead, her father and her stepmother were sitting on separate couches on either side of a coffee table. A full tea service was laid out and each had a steaming cup perched on a saucer.


Kallen noted that the tasteful array of finger food accompaniments had been left entirely untouched.


There was no desultory conversation to interrupt as she stepped through the parlor door. Indeed, there was no sign that either of the two adults present had noticed the presence of the either, except for the way their eyes seemed to skim over and through one another as Alvin, Baron of New Leicester, turned to greet his daughter and heir with an air of unmistakable relief.


"Baron Alvin," said Kallen, conscious that she was still in uniform as she took the initiative of breaking the instantly uncomfortable silence. Almost unbidden, her chin dipped as her hands found the edges of her skirt between thumb and forefinger. Then, in a single smooth motion, her right foot slipped behind her left, her hands gently spread to pull her uniform skirt flat across her thighs, and she dipped down, knees moving outwards as she genuflected before the patrician of House Stadtfeld.


"Well met, Heiress Kallen," her father replied, rising from the couch and turning towards her. Eyes the same blue as her own found hers, and the baron's head dipped into a respectful nod, releasing her to straighten back up.


"And now that I have greeted my heir as procedure demands…" He spread his arms wide, his gray mustaches twitching above a spreading smile, "why don't you come over and give your old man a hug, Kallie?"


On some reflex long-buried from the time when she and Naoto had lived with their father and mother, a reflex that she'd never managed to fully snuff out, that was exactly what Kallen did.


"Hi Dad," she murmured, unable to even protest his use of her childhood nickname as she felt her father's strong arms wrap around her shoulders. "Good to see you."


"It is a pleasure most fine to see you too, my dear Kallie," Alvin replied, speaking into her hair as he pressed a whiskery kiss onto the top of her head. "No matter what else is going on… Honey, it will always be a damned fine pleasure to see you again.


"And today? Oh, today, it has been far too long."


Past her father, Kallen could see Alicia continuing to stare straight ahead, through her husband and out the window behind him.


"So…" Kallen pulled back from the hug, looking up into her father's face, "what else… is going on? I'm really happy to see you too," she added quickly, before so much as a hint of disappointment could cross her father's face, "but I'm… well, your driver said I should hurry up and take my lumps?"


And if the tension of waiting for the other shoe to drop continues on much longer, I think I'm going to scream.


"Ah, Errol…" A look of amused pain stretched across Alvin's face, complete with a theatrical wince. "Don't pay him too much mind, Kallie. I've known him for years. He's… Well, he's not harmless, but he does love mak'n a mountain outta a hill of beans. Best just to nod along with whatever he says and then dial it all down about ten percent."


You say that, Dad, but you don't just take surprise trips across the Pacific. You rarely leave the Homeland at all, and certainly not for some spontaneous jaunt to Japan. You came here for a reason, and don't think I didn't notice that you didn't deny the warning entirely.


"But…" Kallen prompted, still waiting for the other boot to come crashing down.


"But nothing," Alvin Stadtfeld shrugged effortlessly. "Like I said, Honey Bun, Errol just likes to give people a good fright. A reliable man, but a bit of a jokester, hmm?"


He chuckled, and for a second, some part of Kallen could almost relax.


"However, I must say, I have heard the most wonderous things about how the geraniums are coming along this year," said Alvin, offering Kallen a genial smile. "Would you do your old man the courtesy of escorting him through the gardens, Kallen?"


Behind him, Alicia remained stone-faced, still staring blankly out onto the view of the front lawn. By contrast, Alvin's smile seemed to Kallen as pure as driven snow, as down-home and warm as biscuits fresh from the griddle. She couldn't find a hint of deceit in that smile, nor a single note of malicious intent in his tone. Indeed, by all appearances, he was nothing but a merry old father eager to take a walk with his daughter through a garden, no cunning machinations or sly traps to be found. Despite her father's overwhelmingly innocuous air, it was blatantly obvious what he meant, what he really wanted.


In that moment, her inability to see past his amiable smile scared Kallen more than standing at Milly Ashford's left hand, vulnerable before the leering eyes of the entire Academy.


"Sure thing, Dad," she said, hoping that her smile held intact over the sudden fearful acceleration of her heart. "That sounds like a great idea."


As the two of them made their quiet way out of the Day Parlor and through the Manor's back door, Kallen noticed Vernon heading in the opposite direction. Judging by the way her father's eyes tracked the butler for a moment before dismissing him, he knew just as well as she did where he was going, and to whom.


Neither Kallen nor Alvin spoke until they were out on the grounds, surrounded by flowers, cicadas, and the oppressive, wet heat.


"Ah, just like being back home again," Alvin pronounced, rolling his shoulders as he stretched his arms out above his head. "Minus the cicadas, of course," he amended. "No broods in New Leicester, thank the Lord."


"Oh?" Despite being the heiress to New Leicester, Kallen could practically count the number of times she had set foot in the barony south of the Ohio River. She might be a Stadtfeld, but she'd never be a local in her family's ancient seat. "That… sounds nice? It must be nice to get a good night's sleep without all the bug sounds."


"Don't you worry about that, Honey Bun. The Smokies have their own variety of critters howling in the dark," Alvin smirked as he lowered himself to his haunches to examine some flower whose name Kallen couldn't recall. "I just happen to agree with the chatter of my old stomping grounds more than the local ensemble."


"That said, I think I'll always have a special affection for cicadas… They were chirping, you know, on the night your mother and I… Well…" The graying Britannian looked up from the flower, his smirk softening into a simple smile as he looked at his daughter. "You probably don't want to hear the rest of that story, but suffice it to say, cicadas will always have a place in my heart. Just as you will, Kallie."


"You could stay here then, you know," Kallen mumbled, abruptly feeling very young.


It had been over a year since she had last seen her father, and so much had happened over that span. She'd published articles in real papers, even if they'd mostly been suppressed. She'd joined first an insurgency and then the inaugural cohort of Ashford Academy's ROTC. A year ago, she hadn't met Rivalz and Lelouch, nor had she met Chihiro. She certainly hadn't met anybody like Tanya.


A year ago, when she had last waved her father off at the airport, she hadn't killed, nor had anybody seriously tried to kill her. In so many ways, that Kallen of a year ago had been so naive.


"Your wife's here, after all," Kallen added, glad that her voice sounded slightly stronger in her ears, "not to mention Mom. Nathan'd be happy to see you too, I bet. You… You don't have to go back there…"


"Oh… oh, what I wouldn't give to live in a world like that, Honey Bun." A breath too soft to be a sigh escaped his lips like the last breath of a dying man as Alvin's smile turned somber, almost melancholic. Regretful. "Unfortunately, the real world is not so kind. And as the old Japanese Imperial sorts were so fond of saying-"


"-Duty is heavier than a mountain," Kallen quoted by rote, having heard that line far, far too many times. Her gut twisted as she remembered all the times she had heard it, and from whose mouths it had come. Her father had said it before he left her and Naoto. Naoto had said it before he vanished into Shinjuku. Tanya had said some variation of it in her hearing at least half a dozen times.


She was so tired of hearing about duty. She supposed that was part of the mountain.


"That it is, Kallie, that it is…" Alvin hummed noncommittally. "Although… speaking of duty, tell me about your cadet program."


Kallen could see something in her father's bearing shift. A kind of energy seemed to be creeping out from some inner reserve, seeping from every pore of his bones and pushing the melancholy out in favor of something that set her teeth on edge.


"Is this ROTC, led by Major Pitt," a faint hint of a sneer touched his face before fading back into his genial smile, "everything you feared it would be?"


"Yes… and no," admitted Kallen, eyes on her father's back as he dusted his hands off and stood back up. "I mean… Don't get me wrong, Pitt's still a complete pig of a man. He's… he's just so obvious, you know? He keeps complimenting me all the time and tells all the other cadets they should be just like me, but… I feel like he's saying that because I'm watching, and he knows I'm watching?" She took a breath. "Does that make sense?"


"Oh, entirely, Honey Bun," Alvin nodded, straightening up and knuckling his back. "Ah! Don't get old, Kallen, I promise you it isn't worth it. But, yes, men of the good major's ilk are common as dirt and half as useful. Be polite and respectful to him but keep your distance, and never, ever accept a favor from him, that's my advice. What about your fellow cadets?"


"If they're the cream of Britannian nobility, I have no idea how we all escaped the fate of the French," Kallen said, dismissing her entire cohort as one. "Half of them are just miniature Pitts too."


"My my, I see you have inherited your mother's sharp tongue to go with her enchanting beauty," Alvin chuckled fondly. "But I would not be so quick to dismiss the sons and daughters of Britannia. Your fellow cadets might be as green as the Forest's leaves, but their families survived the Emblem of Blood where many other noble lines did not. Do not let their inexperience blind you to the threat they present."


"I'm not," Kallen replied shortly. "Don't worry Dad, I'm not going to forget that they're a threat; they're Britannians."


"In case you have forgotten, my dear, as are you. And unlike your fellow cadets, you have already proven yourself a true lioness in waiting, or perhaps a cub. Maybe it's time you set about making yourself a Pride, hmm?" Alvin pointed out.


Kallen remained stubbornly silent and tried not to think about the implication. The Britannian flag, after all, featured a lion prominently on its crest.


Eventually, he sighed. "Well, it breaks my heart to hear that you haven't made any friends yet among the ranks. What about the rest of your school? You are on the Student Council now, aren't you, and weren't you with the Newspaper Club before? Find any new friends there?"


"Not really," Kallen admitted. "Not in the Newspaper Club. Nobody else really took it seriously, except for a few of the girls, who took investigating Lelouch a bit too seriously." She rolled her eyes. "Seriously! As if we didn't have anything better to report on! I blame Milly; her influence has scrambled the entire Academy's sensibilities!"


"Lelouch?" Baron Alvin, Lord Stadtfeld inquired, the curious smile on his lips growing fixed. "I didn't realize that the murder of the Lost Prince had become such a captivating topic of interest for schoolyard news clubs."


"What?" Kallen blinked and then remembered the fate of the Vice-President's namesake. "Oh, no, nothing so interesting. Or dangerous. No, the Student Council Vice-President happens to be named after the prince; lots of boys that age are, you know. For some reason, lots of the other girls like him."


"But not you?" As Kallen had explained the name, Alvin's smile relaxed into a teasing expression. "I'll point out that he's the first boy I've heard about from you so far, Kallie! Or, perhaps Milly's the one who I should be speaking with after I'm done here?"


"Dad!" Kallen yelped, before noticing the smile and huffing. "No, I'm not interested in either of them! But…" she added grudgingly, "they aren't… that bad. Milly's… Milly gives me a headache, but after the assembly she… She realized she'd overstepped and apologized. Well, honestly, it was Lelouch who probably told her that she'd overstepped, and was the one to deliver her apology… And he's the one who's helped keep her under control at Council meetings since then. He's been helpful."


"Hmm," Alvin hummed again, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet as his eyes raked the flowerbeds before turning to catch Kallen again. "So, is this Lelouch boy your hacker friend, Kallen?"


Suppressing her shock took all of Kallen's practice at concealing her emotions behind a pleasant mask. As ice water filled her veins, Kallen's expression didn't flicker.


This is it, Tanya's cool voice pronounced behind her eyes. The other shoe has fallen. But, while it's impossible to know how he learned of Lelouch's edits to your file, it is possible that those edits are the extent of his knowledge. Keep your cover.


"My hacker friend?" Kallen met her father's questioning look with an inquisitively raised eyebrow of her own. "I don't know what you're talking about, Dad. Lelouch is pretty skilled with computers, I guess, but the real computer wiz on the Student Council is definitely Nina. Shirley's the Treasurer, but I think she pushes her work off onto Nina. Probably for the best."


"Did you really think I wouldn't notice the alterations made to your file, Kallen?" Alvin asked, clearly unimpressed with his daughter's attempt at a smokescreen. His blue eyes, suddenly cold, hammered against Kallen's composure. "What kind of fool do you think that I am, to not leave tripwires on your files? I was notified the moment someone tampered with your Ministry of Justice file. Besides, that file was locked and only a handful of people had the clearance necessary to edit it, much less access it. So, yes, your hacker friend."


"My… Ministry of Justice file?" The earth wobbled under Kallen's feet. She was suddenly very light-headed. Her right hand, she realized, was inching towards the knife concealed in her compact. She grasped her hands together to stop it, and to hide the sudden unnerving tremble. "Not… Not the Ministry of Education? Why…" She swallowed, "why would the Ministry of Justice have a file on me? Because of my articles?"


The knowing look in her father's eyes was terrifying. The realization that she had just tipped her cards and revealed her hand even more so.


Tamaki was right… Kallen thought miserably, I'm really not cut out for these spy games… Dammit, Naoto! Dammit, Tanya! And damn you, Lelouch! You and your fucking "peace offering!" I knew I should have stabbed you when I had the chance!


Then, another thought crossed her mind.


"Wait…" She peered suspiciously at Alvin Stadtfeld, Baron of New Leicester. "Why would you know if the Ministry of Justice had a file on me? How could you have had any sort of alerts about changes made to it set up?" Another question bubbled horribly up from the depths of her mind, like gas rising from the bottom of a bog. "Dad… You… The driver called you the Old Man, but… You're not Army, are you?"


"I'll be asking the questions, I think." His gray Van Dyke mustache twitched upwards, but the smile below it was anything but amused. "Starting with Naoto and Hitomi's locations. Interesting that you brought up your mother and brother earlier, Kallen, and invited me to join them when both seem to have vanished completely. I left your mother in a safe position here at the Manor. Where did you put her?"


"I don't know!" This time, Kallen didn't need to bother with any emotional masks. "I haven't seen her in months! I've got no idea where she is!"


Her protestation did not put her father at ease. "And your brother? I know you visited Shinjuku quite often, although you stopped dropping by for a few months at the start of the year before resuming in April. Then, you suddenly stopped visiting the Ghetto at the same time your file was edited and your mother spirited away. Should I assume that you know nothing of your brother's location either?"


"No," Kallen ground out, her panic quickly transmuting to anger as it always did. It was much easier to be angry than it was to be afraid. "I've got no idea where he ran off to. But…" she allowed, taking a deep breath and remembering that this was still her father, her dad she was speaking to, "I think he and Mom are together. I don't know where they are, but… But they're supposed to be safe."


For a moment, Alvin Stadtfeld said nothing. His eyes, distant and unsympathetic, picked over her face. Kallen could almost feel those eyes peeling her back, layer by layer, and wondered if she had ever known her father after all. She had never seen that look before.


Not on his face, at least.


"Can I assume," Alvin said, venturing the question in a tone suggesting that the answer had better be as the asker expected, "that they are supposed to be safe in some place that is quite far away from Yokohama?"


Kallen couldn't have said what it was that gave him away, but she was suddenly cognizant of the way her father was holding himself, the way his hands were tucked behind his back, out of sight, and the way his face was so artificially flat and void of emotion.


She recognized that expression immediately. She'd seen it often enough in the mirror.


So that's why you came, Kallen thought, a sudden wave of bitter disappointment crashing over her head. I should have guessed.


"You don't have to worry," she replied, her voice barely above a hiss, her fragmented composure shivering like drops of water on a hot stove, "the only Japanese woman you need care about is fine and, as far as I know, completely safe. Thousands aren't, but that's not what matters, is it?"


For a moment, Alvin's eyes glimmered with emotion. Then, he took a deep breath, and the glimmer snuffed out like a candle flame. "That's good," he replied, his words terse but unmistakably relieved. "That's… good. And your brother is as well, I take it, as you said that they are together? That's… very good."


Silently, Kallen nodded. Yes, it was good that her mother and brother weren't among the thousands of murdered Japanese piled up on Yokohama's street corners. On that much, she could agree. That much, she could concede. No more.


"Would you…" Alvin licked his lips, a quick, darting motion. A crack in the smooth mask, a vision of the man within. "Would you pass a message to them? Assuming you have some way to contact them, of course. No need to tell me what that way is," he added quickly, "and no need to confirm. Just… If you can manage it, I would consider it a personal favor."


Kallen nodded again, pointedly noncommittal. After all, she thought vindictively, he's the one asking the questions, isn't he?


Besides, she reasoned, I'm not even sure if I can get a message out to them. I'd have to wait until Rivalz comes in for a Student Council meeting and pass a message to him without Lelouch or Milly seeing it… Get him to hand it over to Inoue, and hopefully she'll know someone who can get it to Naoto or Mom. And… Tanya did say I should only do that for emergencies, and since Mom's safe… does this really count?


Something of that last thought must have flashed across her face, as seeing it, her father nodded resignedly. "If you can see your way clear," he added, "I would appreciate it. But, if not…" He waved vaguely. "Now," he continued, clearly letting the topic go, "I know that you're not in the most… cooperative mood at the moment, Kallen, but please set aside your anger for a moment. I still need a bit more information from you. Please."


Again, Kallen met her father's eyes. They were imploring, but not desperate. Not like they had been in that one moment, where Alvin Stadtfeld's concern for her mother, his lover, had shown through. Still… they were her dad's eyes.


And Naoto trusts him.


"Alright," Kallen said, exhaling her anger as best she could and trying to find Kallen the Journalist in her head, pushing Kozuki Kallen, Kallen Stadtfeld, and, most of all Kallie, out of her way. "What do you want to know? You seem really well-informed already, so I don't see what I can tell you, but… Ask away."


"Hmm… Well, to start with," Alvin began, one hand emerging from behind his back to idly play with his narrow beard, "what are your thoughts on the death of the Yokohama Sniper? What are your thoughts about the establishment of a new branch office of the IBI in the Hiroshima Settlement?"


"The Sniper?" Kallen's lip curled. "Good damned riddance."


It was the least she wanted to say about the late and very much unlamented Tanaka Chihiro.


Just a pity she brought so many people down with her.


"And the same goes for the ones who brought her down," Kallen continued, shaking her head. "I mean, the IBI. I'm not sure what they're hoping to do, setting up shop here in Area 11. I mean, it's not like there's a lack of police running around, and the DIS is supposed to be keeping everybody working under the Viceregal-Governor's decree, so…"


Kallen allowed her words to taper off with an artless shrug. Her eyes never left her father's face. She might not be the best spy, much to her irritation, but she hadn't been a half-bad rookie reporter. At least, not in her own opinion. Diethard Reid might scoff at her work, but he'd still read it, which was something in and of itself. Her few months of finding stories that the Administration hadn't wanted people to know about, about the treatment of the Honoraries and the exploitation by the nobility of everybody else in the Area, had given her at least a few instincts.


Every one of which was telling her that her father knew much more about the situation than he was telling.


And perhaps by feigning disinterest, he might take it upon himself to educate his daughter.


Judging by the flash of amusement in Alvin Stadtfeld's eyes, he wasn't taken in for a second. Still, he couldn't seem to hold himself back. "You don't think the IBI establishing a presence in Area 11 will change anything, do you?" He shook his head sadly. "Kallen, Kallen, Kallen… It's all about using the correct tool for the job at hand. You wouldn't use a spanner to…" He checked himself, remembering his audience. "You wouldn't use a Knightmare to attack a naval vessel, would you? That's the wrong tool for the job."


"Oh?" Kallen cocked her head to the side, interested despite herself. "So, what job is the Directorate supposed to be doing? I remember seeing something about them uncovering corruption in the judiciary…?"


"Above all else, the Directorate handles issues internal to His Imperial Majesty's Administration," Alvin confirmed with a nod and just a hint of a wry smile. "At least, they handle all the issues that they themselves don't cause. Broadly speaking, the DIS are tasked with hunting down traitors in the Lesser and Petty Nobilities, the upper ranks of the civil service, Commoners over a certain level of wealth and influence, and the officer corps."


"But not the Greater Nobility," Kallen pressed, noting the absence. "So, they wouldn't bother us?"


"Oh, they wouldn't dare," Alvin chuckled, "but that has nothing to do with our title. We're barely Greater Nobles. Country barons are very much in the DIS remit. Really, anybody without a ducal tiara or a bishop's mitre is their rightful prey. Excepting the Imperial Family, of course…"


"Of course," Kallen parroted, noting the way her father's words trailed off into an unspoken but nevertheless clear Unless. "So, in that case… What does the IBI do?"


"Ah, that's the right question!" said Alvin, beaming with pride. "It took Nathan a while to remember to ask me that one. The Bureau, like the Directorate, is tasked with hunting traitors and criminals to His Imperial Majesty. Unlike the DIS, the Bureau focuses on the lower strata of Commoners, Honoraries, and Numbers."


"I… see," acknowledged Kallen, speaking slowly as she turned the new information over in her mind. "Isn't that what the Knightpolice is for, though? Surely another group setting up here will make everybody already here upset?"


"The Knightpolice!" Alvin didn't even bother trying to hide his contempt. "Oh, the Knightpolice… I have so much sympathy for the poor fools in the actual Military Police who have to put up with that blunt instrument. The Knightpolice…" The graying lord shook his head, smiling to himself. "No, Kallen, the Knightpolice won't make a peep. They're a tool here, not a player. The Directorate, on the other hand, will be quite upset. But the Bureau stole a march on them by bagging the Sniper, so if Director Ramkin has any sense, he'll keep his powder dry for now."


"Does this mean that the DIS and IBI might start going after each other?" Kallen tried to keep from sounding too interested in the answer. Judging by the look her father shot her, she failed. "I mean," she hurriedly added, "the regular soldiers and the Purists got into a massive brawl back around last Christmas, and there's practically a brawl every other day down by the docks between off-duty soldiers or marines from the line regiments and the ones from the Purists troops!"


"Ah yes," Alvin shook his head, a moue of disgust curling across his lip. "Garrison troops. And Purists." He snorted again. "Bastards should have taken the hint back in the 80's. But," he cleared his throat, "you aren't wrong. There is likely to be a degree of conflict between the IBI and the DIS, but unless it is truly amateur hour, it won't be so obvious. However, the Bureau's newest field office should signal a shift in strategy, as far as intelligence gathering in Area 11 goes. A greater focus on the Numbers, a lighter focus on the upper crust. For better or worse."


"And… Is this all the Sniper's fault?" Kallen asked, silently damning Chihiro's ghost to an even deeper hell. "I mean, she was just… just one woman, right? Some crazy murderer with a rifle? Is that enough to cause a strategic change?"


"Not on its own," Alvin replied placidly, "but never underestimate the power of a nice, bloody shirt. Sometimes, Britannians do far more in His Imperial Majesty's service as convenient corpses than they ever could have accomplished in a lifetime of service. But leaving aside the capital the Bureau gained by ending the Yokohama Sniper's reign of terror, something along these lines has certainly been in the making for a while. At least since the troubles back in the spring." The gray mustache quirked back up into a smile. "Someone's running out of patience for Prince Clovis, I think."


"I see," Kallen nodded her understanding. "Yeah, that… That sounds plausible."


I see that this is information that Naoto and Tanya really, really need to know, Kallen thought as she babbled, filling time. I don't think we've got anything going on all the way down by Hiroshima, but if we don't, we really should. If the Bureau really is that good, we can't let them get set up here in Japan!


"Yes," Lord Stadtfeld nodded back to her, "do make sure Nathan hears all about that. Make sure his friends hear about that too. If I were you, I would tell all of them, Nathan most especially, to crawl into the deepest holes they can find and to close the doors behind them. For their sake, and for yours. This is not a battle he should want to fight, not if he can avoid it. Whatever business he has outstanding, tell him to bring it to a speedy conclusion as soon as he can."


For a second time, the earth swayed under Kallen's feet.


Dammit! She raged inside her head, staggering back a step from the Britannian in front of her. I got so engrossed in the topic that I completely forgot! No, I just thought the hacking thing was all he was here for, that and Mom! He knows!


Yes, a cooler voice in her head agreed, he knows. And what will you do about it, Kozuki Kallen? Anything for the Cause.


Anything…? Almost all of Kallen revolted at the thought, Kozuki Kallen and Kallen Stadtfeld agreeing unreservedly for once with Kallie. But… that's Dad. Our Dad!


Almost all of her agreed.


He's old and slow, that same cool voice said. His back hurts. Look at his knuckles - they're swollen and arthritic. And we have a knife. It would only take one swift move, just a single slice across the neck. We've got the strength for it. It would be over in an instant, and he wouldn't be able to tell anybody else about us.


That's stupid, thought Kozuki Kallen, and you know it's stupid. What the hell comes next, huh? What do we do with the body? With our clothes covered in blood? How the fuck does killing Dad help the Cause, huh?


That, thought Kallen Stadtfeld with Britannian cruelty, sounds like something Chihiro would do, doesn't it? All fury, without the least bit of thought.


With a terrific wrench, Kozuki Kallen forced it all to the back of her mind and lifted her eyes back to meet her father's.


All she saw there was disappointment. No anger, no fear, no confusion; it was painfully obvious that Alvin Stadtfeld had read the course of her thoughts without her needing to vocalize a thing.


It sent a pang through her belly, that disappointment.


The cool voice slunk away.


"How long," Kallen ground out, not noticing until the words were out that she had defaulted to Japanese. "How long have you known about… About them?" At the last second, she caught herself and used the ambiguously inclusive term.


After all, there's no guarantee that he knows about Ohgi and Inoue, much less Tanya.


"When I gave Naoto the seed money and contacts he requested," Alvin replied in the same language, his Japanese slightly rusty at first but quickly gaining steam, "I had assumed that he would be starting a criminal enterprise of his own, and would carve his own way to power in the Ghettos and villages of Japan. I could not give him his true inheritance, the lordship of New Leicester, so I gave him the means to create his own lordship, after the manner of other half-Britannians who couldn't quite pass."


His mustache twitched up over an undeniably proud smile.


"'Ah, a chip off the old block,' I thought." The smile faded. "So, imagine my surprise when I started getting notifications that you, Kallen, had begun visiting the Ghetto with increasing regularity. At first, I was more than happy to let you continue; after all, the Imperial Family aside, siblings should remain close, if at all possible. And…" The last traces of amusement vanished. "And he was there for you when I couldn't be. Who was I to step between you and your brother? I wasn't there when you needed me to be, and I didn't want to make things worse between us by interfering any further."


Words caught behind Kallen's teeth. What words, she couldn't quite say. Agreement that Alvin, her father, hadn't been there to stop the childhood bullies? Protestations that she wanted him to be involved with her life? A rebuke to say that he was right to stay far away?


"But then," Alvin continued, "Christmas came, complete with its little pogrom. I began to worry, especially when you started trying your hand at journalism, of all things." He shook his head, with almost an admiring look of disbelief stamped across his face. "Never let it be said that Naoto is the rebellious one of my children. But, Christmas came, and I grew worried, especially when the notifications suddenly ceased. And then, in two days, you called me about Pitt and all of the tripwires I had guarding your files went off as one.


"You have no idea how badly you scared me, Kallen." Her father's eyes were locked on hers, Lord Stadtfeld temporarily dismissed in favor of Alvin. Dad. "Calling me like that, that early? You never call me, and then I get a sudden call about some major harassing you? I thought…" He sighed and ran a hand over his pointed beard. "Well, never mind what I thought. You were more nervous than a teen approached by an Army recruiter should be. So," he smiled grimly, "I started wondering what had made you so nervous to receive official attention, albeit from a major.


"And wouldn't you know it," Alvin's rant had taken on an almost avalanche proportion, a mix of long-suppressed professional and personal stresses finally given voice. "As soon as I started looking, I understood entirely why you were so worried! Naoto has done quite well for himself, hasn't he? I can't tell you how surprised I was to learn that the Kozuki Organization had taken over an entire city, all under the Administration's nose, practically within sight of the Viceregal Palace!"


A look of acute pain passed over the man's face. "Why my idiot son chose to name his clandestine rebel organization after himself, I will never understand. Both his mother and I are far too smart for that."


"But you are arrogant enough," Kallen shot back, before forcing her mouth closed, her teeth clicking together.


Dammit, Kallen!


Her father shot her a quelling look, but then barked with harsh laughter. "Perhaps, perhaps." He sighed again. "I am quite proud of him. I certainly hadn't anticipated that. I do wish he hadn't felt it necessary to all but declare war on His Imperial Majesty, though. And," Alvin sighed again, "I wish he had been brave enough to turn you away and insist you keep your nose well out of it. Perhaps I really should have come back for longer earlier… Even a few years earlier… Only seeing you two for a weekend a year…" Alvin shook his head, an expression of resigned weariness clear to see. "You make me proud, both of you, but I really should have kept a closer eye on the pair of you… On you in particular, Kallen…"


A long, quiet moment passed between them. Alvin's pent-up emotions seemed spent. Kallen felt unsteady and uncertain of where they stood. The mulberries surrounding them moaned and creaked, shaken by the wind.


"...Well," Kallen finally got out as the silence grew unbearably heavy, "what will you do?"


Now that you know what I've been up to, what Naoto's been up to… Are you our dad first? Or Baron Alvin Stadtfeld to the core?


"God knows," replied Alvin, his breath exploding out in a heavy sigh. "What do you think I should do, Kallen? What would you do if you learned that not one but both of your children had involved themselves in a war against an empire that controls forty percent of the earth's surface?"


"I would back them to the hilt," Kallen replied immediately. "What other option would I have? Throw them onto the Emperor's grace? Last time I checked, the only punishment allowable for a finding of treason is execution by the wheel. If the choice is going to war against that empire or watching my children's limbs being broken and wound around the spokes of a cartwheel, well… is that any choice at all?"



Alvin closed his eyes, sighed, and let his head fall backwards. His lips moved soundlessly for a moment, and Kallen wondered if he was praying. Then, he reopened his eyes and glared irritably down at her. "You know," he began, his tone pointedly bland, "when I learned that you had chosen to sign up with the ROTC even after I extended an offer to drive Pitt away, I was truly hoping that this was a sign of maturity. I see that I was overly optimistic."


"Maturity?" Kallen hissed incredulously. "I can be plenty mature! I am a model cadet, I will have you know, and I have yet to lose my temper even once! And I have been tempted!"


"Yes, yes," said Alvin, waving her words away, "very impressive. Tell me, Kallen, why is it that you stubbornly refuse to use your brain? You are an incredibly intelligent young lady, and I am proud of you, so it truly hurts me to see you act in such a deliberately stupid fashion."


Almost snorting with anger, Kallen opened her mouth, mentally rolling up her sleeves for a full-contact brawl with this Britannian who dared to tell her how she should think… and paused. This wasn't some Brit bastard; this was Dad.


He only wants the best for us, Kallen. She could almost hear Naoto's non-explanation, repeated so many times over the years. Deep breaths. Act in deliberation, not out of impulse. Tanya's advice was more useful. In and out. In and out. Breathe in, hold… release.


"Alright," Kallen said, meeting her father's eyes as she mimicked his flat tone. "You clearly want me to say something. I clearly don't know what it is. Can we stop with the Socratic method and skip ahead to the part where you tell me what I should be thinking?"


"Kallen…" Alvin paused, and Kallen could almost watch as he mapped out his path through the conversation to whatever objective he had in mind. Not for the first time, she wondered who, exactly, her father was. "I don't object to your determination or your resolve," he said, cushioning his statement, "but you are far too prone to a binary mode of thinking. Us versus them, right versus wrong, etcetera.


"In truth, very little in life is as cleanly cut as all that. Take, for instance, the divide between Britannian and Japanese. You hate Britannia, but you have friends who are Britannian, don't you? You love Japan and the Japanese, but surely you have encountered bastards who speak your mother-tongue? There can be good Britannians and bad Japanese, and already that clear division between good and bad begins to blur on anecdotal experience alone."


"Sure, there's assholes everywhere," Kallen interrupted with deliberate crudeness. "But that doesn't mean that Britannia isn't evil."


"Kallen…" Alvin looked increasingly pained. "Please, just… Just listen, alright? There's a good girl. Now, binary thinking is comfortable and easy; it will also lead you to incorrect conclusions. Now, I am a Britannian, by birth and by upbringing. Yet I gave Naoto, my son, my money and my blessing to go forth and undermine His Imperial Majesty's law in Area 11. When I did this, it was not treason. If Naoto had been arrested before he became a rebel, I could have easily removed him from the cells and his arrest from the record.


"This is because 'us and them' only exist so far as both blocs can remain coherent. As soon as you find leverage into the individuals or the factions below the giant defining masks, understandings can be worked out. Agreements can be made. Blackmail and bribes trade hands."


"You're not answering your own question," Kallen pointed out. "You asked what I thought you should do with me, and you're just rambling on about philosophy."


Her father gave her a dirty look but sighed. "Fine. Kallen, you clearly cannot remain unsupervised. As your father, I find myself obligated to intervene for your own protection. For some reason, I cannot protect Naoto from his own stupidity and I would have better luck taking over the Fuji Special District than I would prying Hitomi away from her son. You, however, I can keep safe from the worst consequences of your own rash decisions."


"You can't stop me." Kallen didn't spit defiance; it was the simple truth. "I will never stop fighting for Japan. I am not Britannian, not where it counts."


"What makes you think I want you to stop fighting?" Alvin smiled, a hard-edged thing that gleamed with friendly malice. "For that matter, what makes you think that I want you to stop fighting Britannians? Again, Kallen, it isn't a matter of us and them, it's a matter of us and us and us, with 'them' being a fluid category for whoever isn't us at this very moment. And in Area 11, the Japanese are the least of the Empire's concerns." His mustache twitched at some private joke. "Consider it a favor, from a patriarch to his heir, that I shall be providing you the tools to serve His Imperial Majesty's interests without shedding a drop of Japanese blood."


"What…" Kallen frowned, finding that the conversation had turned in her hands like a snake, and now she was the one on the backfoot. "What do you mean? How could I possibly help Britannia and not be abandoning the Japanese? Your whole damned empire is fighting the Japanese!"


"Britannia isn't fighting the Japanese," Alvin scoffed. "The Japanese aren't worth fighting. It'd be like saying exterminators fight rats, or that gardeners fight weeds. They don't. His Highness might like to describe the occupation as a matter of life and death for the health of the Empire, but not on account of the Japanese. No, his real concern is the Chinese or the Europeans taking advantage of the chaos to stick their own oars into our pond, and even with that in mind his reports seethe with hyperbole. So no, the Administration isn't fighting the Japanese; they are simply conducting pest control operations."


The dismissive words tore at Kallen's heart, and from the wounds bubbling rage seeped. Face twisted, she opened her mouth, although what she could say in refutation was anybody's guess, but already her father was holding up a hand to forestall her. "I am not saying that the Japanese are vermin, mind you, nor am I saying that Naoto's efforts are destined for failure. I'm simply saying that the locals are too weak to give the Army the proper, stand-up fight for which they hunger. The kind that brings glory and recognition instead of drudgery. Those confrontations are like catnip to a certain strain of military mind, all simple and straightforward and proper. The insurgents present an adversary of sorts, an obstacle certainly, but Japan isn't a proper enemy, not one worth their full attention."


"...I don't understand," Kallen admitted, feeling the spike of rage peter away into something like grief at her father's frank assessment.


"Good, good!" Alvin praised, bobbing his head approvingly. "Admitting as much is the first step."


He's trying to teach me something… Kallen knew that much already, but… What is the lesson here? That Britannia isn't united? That's obvious, with the Purists running around. That the real threat is a foreign invasion? I suppose, but the Chinese are too busy being pushed up the Malay Peninsula and out of Indochina, and if the news isn't complete bullshit the EU is desperately trying to prop up the Middle Eastern Federation facing Cornelia's invasion. So… Who is the real enemy in Area 11, then?


And… How does he know all about this? Again, who are you, Dad? You know far, far too much…


"But," Alvin continued, "that is only the first step."


Drawing himself up to his full height, a weight seemed to settle over her father's shoulders as he peered down at her. Kallen met him look for stony look, still uncertain about all her father had said but determined not to submit.


Baron Alvin of New Leicester smiled as he folded his hands neatly behind his back. "Moving forwards, Lady Kallen, I will be overseeing your training. For the next few months at least. To be clear, this isn't a punishment, nor is it entirely a corrective measure. I have neglected my duties as Head of House Stadtfeld and as your father for far too long. There is much that I should have taught you by now, but… I was always busy. This ends here."


It was everything Kallen had wished for years, delivered at the most inopportune time.


"Well, I'm busy now," Kallen retorted, savagely pushing down Kallie and her sudden eagerness for time with Dad. "You were too late, and now I have my obligations to tend to! For starters," she gestured at her stinking uniform, "I'm a cadet, sworn to the Army. My days aren't my own!"


"Major Pitt doesn't have the spine to stand in the way of a father-daughter outing," Lord Stadtfeld asserted, eyes cold. "Men desperate enough to bait in teenagers in service of supporting their decrepit careers are generally locked into those careers for excellent reason, most often a gratuitous lack of competency, a gratuitous abundance of cowardice, or both."


"Well, I still need to learn how to pilot a Knightmare, let alone how to be a 'good soldier of the Empire'," Kallen shot back, and wondered why she was pushing back so hard against this. "How the hell are you going to train me to be a pilot or a soldier when, to my knowledge, you've never been either?"


"Pilots can be purchased," Lord Stadtfeld riposted. "Like practically everything in this world, skilled individuals are available for sale, should the buyer have the correct currency in the necessary amount."


He's not giving up, Kallen realized wonderingly. New Leicester isn't exactly rich either, and pilots skilled enough to teach don't grow on trees! But… If he's willing to throw around cash on this… Maybe I could convince him to buy a simulator too? Or even a real, actual Knightmare!


Alvin's lips parted in a smile and Kallen cursed herself, certain that her father had, once again, read her thoughts like words on a page.


"That really must be corrected as well," Lord Stadtfeld pointed out. "No peer of the realm should be so easily read. You might be tolerable – barely – as a provincial schoolgirl, but as the heiress to a Homeland barony, well… failing grade, I'm afraid."


I'm not getting out of this, Kallen thought, a numb sense of horror mixed with a strange relief, almost a joy, suffusing her limbs. Can't escape to Ashford without Pitt sending me back, can't escape to Shinjuku without breaking Tanya's orders… Can't stay here, not with the drunken hag…


"So," Kallen tried for a perky smile, as if she hadn't just knuckled under her father's persistent demands, "some father-daughter bonding time, huh? Sounds… Well, what do you have in mind?"


The bastard smiled. "Oh, I was thinking about an educational trip, for a start. After all, if you want to be a Knightmare pilot, I would say that you owe yourself a trip to Itsukushima. It could be quite valuable for you to visit the site of the only defeat suffered by Britannian Knightmares at the Japanese hands, wouldn't you agree?"


"And…" said Kallen, something like understanding finally entering her mind as some of her father's earlier words sank in at last. "What's the real reason we're going to Itsukushima, Dad?"


"That's my girl!" Alvin laughed, his baronial authority fleeing at once. "Why, that's just on the other side of Hiroshima Bay from where the new Bureau office is being established in the Hiroshima Settlement! It would be rude not to drop by and offer my congratulations to the opposition, now that they've finally entered the game in Area 11."

 

[warlock7]

This is the 2 fic i know of, where Kallen's father is part of brittanian covert organizations...

Yes, these kinds of lessons are something that she really needs. And i always enjoy fics where her family actually gets to appear.

 

[kalistira]

Not sure why you aren't happy with this chapter. I for one found it to be delightful, love seeing Kallen's side with her Dad, hoping we eventually get some Tanya talks with him. TFTC!

 

[Maitue]

Badass, can't wait to see how Kallen's "not the CIA" dad reacts to Tanya. Are we gonna see Contra Contra shit now? Japan is getting spicy, especially if it becomes the warzone for intelligence cold war shenanigans.

Or I could be wrong, and he's more of the "criminal overlord" type, and his son's little team is becoming a set of tools for him to use to get rid of rival nobles or other criminal organizations.

I've been watching a bit of OG XCom playthroughs, and now I'm thinking whatever faction their dad is in could become another sponsor for Tanya's crew. Essentially sending them material for missions like the Ex-Japanese military or the Kyoto Houses did. Hell, Lelouch's little band might become one of those groups too!

 

[Scopas]

JULY 25, 2011 ATB
MORIGUCHI GHETTO, OSAKA SETTLEMENT, AREA 11


The outbreak began in the usual fashion.


Too many unwashed bodies had been crammed into filthy, overcrowded tenements and the shattered remains of office buildings, shops, and subway stations, few of which had functional plumbing. Of those structures that were fortunate enough to retain relatively intact interior plumbing, still fewer were close enough to the freshly built walls surrounding the newly designated Moriguchi Ghetto to benefit from the potable water flowing to the sectors designated for Britannian use.


As summer sweltered and the ranks of the new Britannian residents swelled with each shipload arriving from the Old Areas, that minimal flow of water leaking over into the Moriguchi Ghetto had dwindled still further. In desperation, the ghetto's thirsty residents had turned to whatever liquids they could find to soothe their dry tongues, including the contents of storm drains, the condensation budding off the cracked cement walls of defunct subway tunnels, and of course, the turgid waters of the Yodo River itself.


First had come the bouts of nausea and vomiting, but the first spasms of uncontrollable, milky white diarrhea had followed close behind. With water already vanishingly rare inside the reinforced concrete partitions, thorough cleanup was entirely out of the question.


By the time any of this came to the attention of Doctor Harlan de Veers of the Osaka Administration's Ministry of Health, the disease was spreading with wildfire speed.


Well, thought de Veers, flipping the stapled report back to the front page and noting the time and date of its receipt in the margins, it was never really a question of if cholera would come, but only when. And it seems like that question's finally been answered as well. Sunken skin, extreme thirst, low blood pressure, and of course, pale but copious diarrhea? Can't be anything else.


Man, what a way to start a Monday.


With a sigh, he reached for the telephone receiver and punched in his supervisor's number. The secretary picked up two rings later.


"Good morning, Doctor de Veers," said John, his voice rich with the accent of the Pacific reaches of Area 2. "What can I be doing for yah today, sir?"

"Good morning, John," Harlan replied, minding the pleasantries as a wise man always did when talking with the gatekeeper to his boss's scheduling book. "It's looking to be a warm one, isn't it? I'll be needing to see Doctor Bozeman sometime today though, and preferably sooner rather than later. Something important's come up."


"That so?" There was a brief rattle of typing on the other end of the line. "Looks like his morning's already full, but he's got some time right after lunch. Does one sound good?"


"Umm…" Harlan hesitated for a moment, glancing back down at the brief report from the medic stationed at one of the perimeter checkpoints. "Best not to discuss this on a full stomach. Is he free at two thirty?"


"You betcha!" John replied exuberantly over the sound of more rapid-fire typing. "He'll be expecting you then. Have a good morning, Doctor de Veers!"

---

"Harlan!" Doctor Jessup Bozeman, head of the Ministry of Health's division in the Prefecture of Osaka, half-stood from his comfortable chair to reach across his desk to shake Doctor de Veers' hand. "How've you been? How was your weekend?"


"Pretty good," Harlan replied as he settled into the visitor chair across the desk from his boss. "Can't complain. I managed to get to the Blackhorse on Saturday."


"Oh?" Bozeman raised an interested eyebrow. "How did you do?"


"Above my handicap," Harlan admitted sheepishly. "Not one of my finest showings, sad to say."


"Ah, you'll get 'em next time," Bozeman said encouragingly. "But, that's not why you're here though, is it? Not unless you thought some sub-par putting was bad enough to put me off lunch?"


"Afraid not." Without further ado, Harlan dropped his lightly annotated copy of the report on Bozeman's desk and pushed it across the glass surface. As he continued speaking, Bozeman picked up the document and began leafing through its pages. "Looks like the Numbers couldn't figure out how not to shit in their drinking water, and now cholera's come out to play in a big way."


"Dammit…" Bozeman muttered without much emotion. "Well… Yup, looks like cholera to me. Give it a week and it'll run its course."


"Maybe." Harlan was less sanguine, but didn't see any reason to directly contradict his boss. That was rarely a good idea. "I'm a bit concerned about the potential for the Numbers to spread their disease to the slum commons, though. Enough of the Numbers have jobs outside of the ghetto that at least some won't be showing symptoms when going through the checkpoints, so a partial quarantine isn't really going to work."


"We could just cut off traffic to the ghetto for a week or two," Bozeman pointed out, before immediately shooting down his own idea. "Ugh, no… Who else is going to keep the construction going in this heat? Not to mention mop the floors and scrub the toilets…"


"My thoughts exactly," agreed Harlan. "Fortunately, it shouldn't be too hard to keep the worst of this under control. Move some of the Elevens out into temporary quarters outside the ghetto, send in cleaning teams to reduce the filth a bit, rig some public faucets so they stop drinking out of their own shit-stinking puddles or the river…"


"But who's going to pay for all that?" Bozeman interrupted, shaking his head. "No way the Prefect's going to be allocating discretionary funds towards any of that, especially not secondary quarters for Elevens. If we do any of this, the Ministry of Health's going to get stuck with the entirety of the bill, and if I agree to that, Gwen's going to bite my head off."


Harlan nodded in sober appreciation of that threat. Gwendolyn Hereford, Countess of Guernsey in Area 8 and Minister of Health in the Administration of Area 11, was known far and wide for her complete lack of humor and her tendency to shoot the bearers of bad news.


"Perhaps see if the Ministry of Economic Development or maybe Farms and Fisheries would be willing to step in?" he offered, fully aware that it was a long-shot either way. "I mean, if all of the Numbers are too busy shitting themselves to work, that's going to impact the available labor pool, which could slow down the construction of the Settlement here or divert labor away from paddies and the boats."


"Not a chance," Bozeman scoffed. "No way in hell is that fat prick Pulst going to spare a shilling. Not for a bunch of Numbers."


"What about for the commons?" Harlan shrugged as Bozeman turned a gimlet eye on him. "It's going to spread sooner rather than later. We can either deal with it now while it's only a Numbers issue, or we can wait until we start losing Britannians."


"You're missing the point, Harlan," Bozeman replied, folding his hands over his belly. "The issue is, all of this is preventative measures. Nobody likes to spend money on preventative measures, man! Especially not ministers. If they work, nobody knows about it, and if they don't, then they're a waste of money. Curatives are far easier to pitch since you can tell if the damned things are working."


"I don't know if I'd say it's preventative at this point," Harlan pointed out. "I mean, the ghetto's been ravaged already and it's only going to get worse."


"I meant preventative in that it's preventing this from becoming a problem to someone who actually matters," said Bozeman, rolling his eyes.


"The commons-"


"Matter almost as little as the Numbers do," Bozeman interrupted. "Look, there's already way too many Elevens crawling around here for anybody's comfort, including the Prefect and the Viceregal-Governor. A little bit of thinning out would do everybody, the Numbers included, a world of good. As for the commons? If we lose a handful or two, nobody cares. If we lose more than that, we'll just shake out every slum between St. John's Red Zone and Vancouver's Hastings. Anybody too stupid to avoid recruitment can explore what Area 11 has to offer for them."


Harlan considered arguing the staggering inefficiency of that last point, but decided against it. "If you think that's best, sir," he said instead, conceding the argument.


"Look," replied Bozeman, gracious in his victory. "I'll grant you that keeping track of this thing could be important. The boys at the Census will appreciate the numbers at least. The death counts, I mean, not the Elevens." He smiled at his joke for a moment. "So, how about you take that on as your project? You can take full credit on behalf of the Osaka Office. Hell, you might get a promotion out of it, how does that sound?"

---

Keeping count of Moriguchi's dead was surprisingly easy, Doctor de Veers soon found. Several groups of enterprising Elevens had already set up networks of "haulers," who transported the feces-smeared corpses from their place of death to the fresh plague pits dug into the old football pitch by Yodogawa Kasen Park. The newly minted businessmen kept close count of their profits and expenditures, and thus kept a good count of the number of trips they had made from various stops to the park and back.


They were, of course, all too happy to let the "good doctor" take a look at their scroungy, sloppy records, especially with the squad of Royal Marines he had borrowed from the garrison standing at his back. Together with Henry, his manservant and orderly, Harlan had managed to put together a solid list of daily losses along with a general demographic breakdown.


Keeping that initial dataset updated was, of course, a daily undertaking, one that Harlan was all too aware that he frankly didn't need to bother himself with. The demographics were exactly as he expected, with children, the elderly, and the weak making up the bulk of the deaths, and he was well aware that nobody save for himself and maybe a clerk or two at the Ministry of Health office at the Viceregal Palace back in the Tokyo Settlement would ever care about this data.


But, I'd know if I did a bad job, and that's just not my style. Harlan stifled a groan as he sat up straight in his chair and stretched, feeling his vertebrae pop in his stiff back. Dammit, why am I the one stuck handling this bullshit? I'm a general practitioner, not an epidemiologist! And besides, Jessup straight up said that nobody's going to care about any of this. Not until it affects someone who matters.


Not until it affects someone who matters…


The thought lingered in Harlan de Veers mind for the remainder of the day as he finished updating the daily count with the numbers Henry reported back to him before continuing on with the rest of his business. His work so far on the budding epidemic was entirely futile, entirely passive, and of no help to anybody. Not to the Numbers, of whom some thirteen thousand had already died, not to the Commoners, of whom fifty seven had died so far and over three hundred were currently hospitalized, and least of all to himself and his career.


Not until it affects someone who matters…


"Henry," he greeted his servant the next morning, "I have a special task for you today."


"Yes, Doctor de Veers?" A pen was already hovering over the tiny notebook Henry kept with him, always ready to jot down a grocery list or a phone number. "What can I help you with?"


"When you go to the ghetto to collect the latest butcher's bill, collect some samples of whatever water the Numbers are currently drinking," de Veers directed, setting foot on the path he had mapped out the night before. "Take samples of their stool as well. Be careful about it, use the necessary protective gear, and sterilize the exteriors of the containers before you come back."


"As you say, Doctor," Henry confirmed with a bow, clicking his pen closed. "I will have those samples on your desk by ten."

---

The only difficulty in the whole affair was, as it turned out, securing a social invitation to luncheon with "the right sort". The people who mattered. Harlan was technically nobility, but only barely; the pettiest of the Petty Nobility, whose only connection to the gentry was a third son of a Lesser house for a great-grandfather. Moreover, he hadn't been particularly social since coming to Osaka, preferring the comforts of his labs to forced small-talk at soirees or formal dinners.


But, petty though his lineage was, he was still a noble, and introverted though he might be, he was still a doctor with nothing but solid prospects in his future. A quiet word here, a meaningful glance there, and the invitations began to arrive.


Including, after several tedious social engagements and eighty dead commoners as well as three thousand Numbers, an invitation for an after church lunch with the Laffey family. Of the Lesser Nobility, Sir Bedevere Laffey was a second-cousin of the Count of Saint John, a vassal of the Duke of Palm Coast in Area 4, and thus very much someone who mattered. His wife, Helena, came from much humbler stock, but their daughter Abigail had tutored the Prefect of Osaka's fourth son over the summer, and so by proxy they both mattered as well.


It had been the work of an instant to slip the contents of the vial hidden in his cuff into the Laffey patriarch's limoncello as de Veers had graciously offered to pour another drink for his kind host. The elder Laffeys had both been too inebriated to notice and Abigail had slipped away from the table to "powder her nose," perhaps literally, for the third time. The private nature of the luncheon meant that no other witnesses had been present, especially since Henry had played his role to a tee and had taken the Laffey's help aside for a quick game of cards back in the kitchen.


The results had been everything Harlan de Veers could have hoped for and more. It was shocking, he had noted in the privacy of his mind, how much greater the sickness of a family of three seemed in the eyes of the Ministry of Health then the sickness of three thousand commoner Britannians, to say nothing of the Numbers.


Startled into action, Old Ironpants herself, the Countess of Guernsey, had come roaring down on Osaka demanding to know why quarantine and mitigation efforts hadn't been in place weeks earlier, before a family of quality had come down with the cholera. Doctor de Veers had stepped in and smoothly saved his valued colleague Doctor Bozeman's career by presenting a fully updated account of the outbreak so far, complete with daily casualties, as well as a developed plan of action informed by the current demographics of the afflicted. With the Minister of Economic Development and first Bishop of Tokyo Lazaro Pulst coming to Osaka personally to pray over the afflicted Sir Bedevere, the coffers had opened.


Almost overnight, the fevers both metaphorical and literal that gripped Osaka broke. And, just as Doctor Jessup Bozeman had promised, Doctor Harlan de Veers received the lion's share of the credit. After Countess Gwendolyn had caught him with his pants so thoroughly down, the Prefectural Head of the Ministry of Health really hadn't had any choice but to keep his word.


And so, his star on the rise and exciting new vistas of opportunity opening up before him, de Veers was extremely surprised to find an unannounced guest waiting for him in his very own bedroom one evening when he returned home from work.

---

"Don't bother yelling," the seated man said, his voice flatly matter of fact. "Nobody's going to come. You can keep your phone in your pocket as well, Doctor de Veers. Kindly take a seat and let's get down to brass tacks."


Harlan looked from the man to the door and back again, weighing his chances. He was unarmed, but so was the stranger. Or, at least, the man's hands were empty and his suit was absent any suspicious bulges that would hint at a hidden pistol.


And Henry should still be within earshot… and whoever this is, he must have at least two decades, maybe three on me…


"I said sit down, Doctor de Veers," the man repeated, a hint of steel in his voice. "Believe it or not, I just want a short, simple chat. Play your cards right and this will be a doorway to all kinds of opportunities that a career minded man such as yourself would hate to miss. Conversely, act a fool and you will be treated as much."


The man gestured towards the bed, inviting Harlan to sit down on his own furnishings.


"Who are you?" Harlan asked instead, ignoring the invitation. "Who sent you, and what do you want?"


"Linus Porterfield, the Directorate of Internal Security, and a moment of your time, Doctor de Veers, in that order," replied the apparent Agent Porterfield. "Now, if you are disinclined to give me that moment I will simply leave."


The urge to demand just that was on Harlan's tongue in an instant, but he held it back. His mind, stunned into inert stupor by the shock of finding a stranger in his bedroom, whirled to action at last, and Harlan actually thought about his situation.


They probably know about my infection of the Laffey family, but that isn't a certainty. If they do know, then I could be arrested at any time for attempted murder of a noble; there would be no need to break into my bedroom for that. If they don't, then presumably my handling of the outbreak is what drew their attention. And if they aren't here to arrest me…


"I am always eager to assist the Directorate with its mission," Harlan replied, crossing from the doorway to sit on the edge of his bed, facing Agent Porterfield where he sat at the small secretary desk Harlan kept in the corner of his room. "What can I do for you tonight, Agent Porterfield?"


"Your eagerness is greatly appreciated," Porterfield replied, angling his face towards Harlan. It had been mashed at some point in the past, Harlan noted, the nose almost flat from multiple breaks and the lines of the cheekbones jagged and uneven under the blotchy red skin.


A brawler's face, Harlan decided, noting the cauliflower ears.


It matched the rest of Porterfield, who now that Harlan inspected him gave off the air of a powerful man gone slightly to seed. He looked as if he might have played rugby when he was younger; he certainly had a forward's frame and the bulk necessary to dominate a scrum, even though the muscles under that neatly tailored suit had begun to be replaced by fat. His hair was still thick but had silvered completely.


For all that, Porterfield's eyes were still intent and focused, if chillingly blank.


"To brass tacks," Porterfield continued briskly. "Your actions here in Osaka have not gone unnoticed. We wanted to ask a few questions in regards to your motives and decision making process." Another smile quirked across his lips. "For our files, you see."


"Ask away," Harlan replied, gesturing broadly. "I'm an open book for an agent such as yourself, I'm sure."


Porterfield made a strange motion with his head, half an affirming nod and half an inquisitive turn of his head. Taken together, the gesture was disturbingly avian.


"Why did you continue to push for an active intervention plan for the Moriguchi Outbreak even after Doctor Bozeman rejected your initial request for funding?"


"I pressed forwards on the grounds of public health and efficiency," Harlan replied immediately, having been asked this question before. "Disease outbreaks may subside over time, but without a change in the sanitation standards for the afflicted area a recurrence is only a matter of time. Chronic outbreaks of sickness among the Number and commoner populations would adversely impact the efficiency of their work, lengthening the timelines of their assigned projects."


"And besides the obvious reasons?" Porterfield pressed. "Consider all of the answers you gave to your superiors at the Ministry of Health known to me."


"I…" Harlan hesitated, wondering how he should reply, then. If not with the same answer he gave Countess Gwendolyn when she had asked…


They want to know about my motives, eh?


Taking his courage in both hands, Harlan answered again. "Put plainly, at that point promotion didn't particularly feature in my future. I mean, Area 11? If it doesn't relate to the Sakuradite mines, nobody cares. And while Doctor Bozeman is getting up in years, he won't be retiring for at least a decade, by which point some fresh graduate with a better family name will make themselves available to fill his shoes. I needed leverage."


"Understandable," Porterfield made the nodding gesture again. "Successfully alerting the Administration to a public health issue of this scale would guarantee a smooth career progression from then-on. When did you decide to help the spread of the outbreak along?"


In for a penny…


"Doctor Bozeman was quite clear in his warning that sufficient resources wouldn't be invested in managing the spread until members of polite society began coming down with the cholera," Harlan explained, forcing his voice to remain level and his diction to remain slow and unhurried. "In light of that instruction and after it became clear that Doctor Bozeman's categorization of commoners as unimportant became self-evident as the outbreak made inroads into their population, the way forward rapidly grew clear."


"Why the Laffeys?" inquired Porterfield. "As far as we can tell, you had no previous dealings with Sir Bedevere or his family."


"That's correct," Harlan confirmed, nodding. "I'd never met them before. As far as the selection went, well… The who didn't really matter, beyond being of the requisite class. I just needed an opportunity to interact with the family in a situation where I could likely operate without notice. Getting caught would have ruined things completely."


"Clearly." Porterfield's voice was desert dry. "What would have happened if any of the Laffeys died?"


Harlan shrugged, not seeing any point in pretending to care. "Probably the same thing that happened when a few hundred commoners died. Ship in another aristocratic branch family and call it good. Besides," he caveated, "it was vanishingly unlikely any of them would die. They had access to quality medical care and all the fluids they could drink. Honestly, if they had died, it just would've gone to show that they really didn't need to keep living."


"Pretty cold of you, Doctor," Porterfield replied. He didn't sound shocked or upset though; he didn't sound much of anything. Just a statement of fact.


"Just doing my part as a loyal subject to act in the best interests of the Empire," Harlan replied piously, before gesturing with his hands, rolling them upwards in a brief "what can you do" motion. "I won't pretend to have a heart. The problem needed solving and the results speak for themselves."


"That they do," Porterfield acknowledged, "which is the reason you aren't currently dangling from a short rope as a poisoner." Noticing Harlan's suddenly wooden expression, the agent waved his hand dismissively. "You don't need to worry about that. As you said, the results speak for themselves. Besides, you didn't get caught. Why would we hang you when you've aptly proven your intelligence and discretion?"


"...Well, thanks for that," said Harlan, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. "I'm glad I passed muster." He paused, waiting for Porterfield to reply. "Was that all you needed?"


"How attached are you to a career in the Ministry of Health?"


"Umm…" Harlan blinked at the abrupt nonsequitur. "Well… Not very? I only really considered the Ministry as a first step to begin with. With some ministerial experience under my belt along with my medical credentials, I would be a strong contender for a head of staff position at most small to medium sized hospitals, which was my next step in a decade or so."


"I see." Porterfield seemed to turn something over in his mind for a moment before arriving at a conclusion. "Well, Doctor de Veers, from where I'm sitting, it seems like you have your pick of three options. The first," he held up a single, sausage-like finger, "is that you stay the course. As a doctor in his mid-thirties with a feather in his cap and his superior deeply in his debt, I predict that you'll go quite far at the Ministry. You can probably name your price wherever else you might end up."


"Gratitude's a pretty short-lived coin," Harlan noted, "and Doctor Bozeman's not going to like being in debt."


"I'm sure you'd find a way to handle the matter," Porterfield said with the confidence of a man who doesn't really care. "Regardless, that's option one. Option two," a second sausage link joined the first, "is much like option one. You remain at the Ministry of Health and continue to work your way up, but you take on something of a side job at the same time. The DIS could always use more eyes and more ears. Not," Porterfield added, "that we don't already have plenty in your office already; after all, how do you think we found out about you?"


"...I'm listening," Harlan replied carefully. "I wouldn't be against the idea…"


"Good," Porterfield nodded, raising a third finger. "Hopefully you are equally as positively disposed towards the third option. Tender your resignation to the Ministry of Health and begin a new career with the Directorate."


"In what capacity?"


"Most likely research and in-house medical staffing," said Porterfield, returning his hand to its fellow in resting on his lap. "DIS has excellent coverage for its staff, of course, and I can assure you a more than competitive salary, scaling with time in grade and so on. I can also assure you multiple fringe benefits as well, including a great deal of latitude when it comes to independent research and…" he hesitated, gunbarrel eyes darting from Harlan's eyes to his bare fingers, "your pick of spouses. I couldn't help but notice that you aren't married yet; a bit of an oversight for such a committed practitioner of Britannia's greatest traditions. Male, female, old, young… The DIS looks after its own, Doctor."


"I… see." Harlan licked his lips. "What would the consequences of declining this generous offer be, Agent Porterfield?"


"I bid you a good evening and walk out of that door and out of your life, Doctor de Veers," the DIS man replied, "and you remain content with your lot. Make no mistake," he said, leaning forwards slightly, "I am not attempting to strong-arm you. We do not conscript into the Directorate; we do not want coerced agents or employees working under duress. If you become one of us, we will trust you with our own and with our secrets. But tell me this, Doctor; would a man as ambitious as yourself be willing to settle for simple contentment? Or would you rather see just how far His Imperial Majesty's government can carry you?"


Well, Harlan thought, standing to extend his hand towards Porterfield's waiting grip, when they put it like that, there really wasn't any choice at all.

 

[kalistira]

Ooof, no Hippocratic oath for a Britannian doctor eh? Thanks for the chapter, love the world building and seeing more of the directorate, definitely really shows the sheet scale of the empire in a way that canon and most other stories I've read fail to do.

 

[Scopas]

Ooof, no Hippocratic oath for a Britannian doctor eh? Thanks for the chapter, love the world building and seeing more of the directorate, definitely really shows the sheet scale of the empire in a way that canon and most other stories I've read fail to do.

Click to shrink...

One of the interesting things about Code Geass as a show written by and predominantly for Japanese people is that the Britannian Empire is pretty clearly inspired in many ways by the Empire of Japan. The idea for this chapter in large part came from one of the most infamous groups within that empire, Unit-731. Unit-731 was originally a public health unit that soon progressed into medical experimentation, including the use of biological weapons. I figured that Britannia's almost certainly got its own Ishii Shiro running around.


I'm glad you liked the chapter!

 

[Scopas]

(Thank you to Aminta Defender, Sunny, MetalDragon, Adronio, Larc, Rakkis157, Mitch H., and Aemon for their editing, beta-reading, and suggestions.)


MAY 10, 2016 ATB
STUDENT COUNCIL CLUBHOUSE, ASHFORD ACADEMY, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
2300


"Hello, Nunnally," the warm presence she knew to be her brother said, lowering himself into the chair beside her bed, which creaked under the familiar weight, just as it had for years now. "I apologize for keeping you up so late."


"I expected you back an hour ago at the latest, Brother," said Nunnally Lamperouge, once Nunnally vi Britannia, daughter of Marianne the Flash and the man who had remade Britannia in his own image, and now nothing, clasping her big brother's offered hand. "I was beginning to worry."


It was cool and dry, that hand, with skin that had roughened ever so slightly over the last few weeks. Long-fingered and as clever as the mind of its master, the hand turned over in hers to wrap its fingers around her own thin digits.


His welcoming squeeze was soft, gentle; she returned the squeeze with all of her strength, built up on the rare occasions she practiced with the manual wheelchair reserved for emergencies. Despite mustering up every scrap of pressure that she could, Nunnally could barely equal her famously unathletic brother's grip strength.


Weak.


"I'm sorry," Brother repeated, and Nunnally knew that he was sorry, both by the way the air currents shifted as he ducked his head slightly and by the way his voice trailed off into the breathy sigh that only emerged when he apologized sincerely. She believed him; he was always sorry when he left her behind. At least, once he realized that he had left her behind.


Not that it ever stopped him.


Nothing ever stopped him. Unlike her.


Broken.


"I forgive you," she said, just as she always did. What other choice did she have? "Sayoko said that she would save some dinner for you. You can make up for keeping me from my beauty sleep by eating it; no skipping meals, Lelouch! Sayoko and Milly say you're not eating enough and are getting too thin."


Orienting her face toward the direction of his voice, Nunnally frowned ferociously and, when he chuckled, tried to smile at his amusement.


Pathetic.


"Why were you out so late?" she asked, channeling into that question some of the ever-present frustration that always threatened to swallow her whole. "It's one thing for you to spend your Fridays and weekends gambling, Lelouch, but this is a school night!"


"I had special dispensation from the highest of authorities," Brother said, and Nunnally could hear in his voice the smile she hadn't seen in years. "After all, Madame President herself accompanied me, so surely I could do no wrong."


"You went out with Milly?" Curiosity flooded Nunnally, along with a hunger to hear more. In her bubble of carefully guarded peace, invigorating stimulation was a rarity. "I hope you were every inch the gentleman, Brother."


"Of course I was!" Brother replied, before adding a moment later, "after all, I was out taking in a trivia night with my fiance on my arm; how could I be on anything but my best behavior?"


Lost time. Losing time. A central theme of the recurring nightmare that had plagued Nunnally for years. In her dream, she woke up old and gray in her bed, still blind, still broken. Sometimes her brother was still there, sitting by her side, his hand in hers, telling her sweet lies as he had when they were children. Sometimes he was still there, still holding her hand, but his flesh was cold and clammy, and she was too frail to push his corpse away as it collapsed forwards onto her, pinning her against the bed that had been her prison for years.


Worst of all were the dreams when she woke in darkness, old and gray, and found that her beloved brother wasn't there. When she dreamed that he had left her long ago, as he should have done long ago, to live his own life. To find a woman to love and another few to bear his children, just like their father had done, and had left her behind like a forgotten childhood toy. A ragdoll, button eyes gone and legs shredded, left to gather dust.


Nunnally had never told her brother about those dreams, first because she feared putting the idea in his head, then because she realized that she only wanted to tell him about her fears because it would bind him to her ever tighter.


The fact that she knew as much made the temptation all the sweeter, but Nunnally loved her brother. She would never do anything to hurt him, most especially not anything that would convince him to throw away his whole life just to burden himself with her pathetic simulacrum of living.


Still, it was easy to make a commitment to suffer in silence when Nunnally knew, knew with a childlike certainty that had long since outlived her childhood, that her brother was still there, would always still be there. Actually hearing him refer to another woman, a woman that he would always be there for, sent ice water racing through her veins.


"I…" She swallowed her panic and ignored the cold dread that gripped her heart. "I didn't know you had proposed at last, Brother! Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials!"


"Thank you, dear sister," Brother replied jovially, and Nunnally relaxed as she heard the joke in his voice. "Honestly," he sighed, "remind me to never again grant Milly free reign to invent her backstory. And no, you don't need to worry about her virtue, or mine; we found God, you see."


"What?" Nunnally couldn't even muster a witty response to that apparent non sequitur; her heart was still beating rabbit-quick after the fright Brother had inadvertently tossed her way. "I am sorry, Brother, could you kindly elaborate?"


"Well, perhaps not God," her brother conceded, "but perhaps the next best thing. It started with a strange piece of street art I saw a few days back, you see…"


So Nunnally lay in silence, a captive audience in her own bed. Though she would have happily listened to her brother tell stories of a world she could barely remember seeing all the same, had she any choice in the matter. She cooed appreciatively in all the right spots and gasped appropriately when he revealed the identity of the strange group of heretics.


Providing an attentive and appreciative audience was the least she could do for her brother, the only thanks she could afford to give him for allowing her to vicariously experience a side of the world her infirmities and his love would never allow her to see through his stories.


It's so unfair, an ungrateful, resentful part of her moaned, and Nunnally couldn't help but agree. All Brother has to do is walk down an alleyway to find a mysterious society of hidden heretics! All he has to do is listen to an old man ramble and murmur a few platitudes to become a leader in their midst! I listen all the time and murmur platitudes, but nobody gives me anything but condescending headpats!


If I had his luck, his life… I would put it to far better use than Brother ever could… That thought Nunnally pushed back into the dark, along with all of the other evil, useless thoughts. It was crowded, in that darkness, but there would be time enough in the long hours of the night for those shameful and shamefully satisfying thoughts. For now, her brother wanted his sweet Nunnally, all innocent and pure and forgiving.


If he knew the least part of what I thought to myself, Brother would never hold my hand again.


Speaking of Brother, he had fallen silent, and Nunnally realized he was waiting for her to say something.


"Well, Brother," she said, rewinding through the last moments of half-heard story as she beamed brilliantly at the place she knew her brother filled in the endless dark, "it truly is a treat to hear that you have found some new friends. Good for you!"


"They aren't friends, Nunnally!" Brother protested, "they're a means to an end!"


Which is almost certainly how my own friends see me, Nunnally thought. It was just a suspicion, one she had pointedly chosen not to confirm by never taking their hands in hers, but it was difficult to see any other reason for their interest in her. Perhaps they wish to get closer to Brother, perhaps they are simply displaying a most un-Britannian pity for a cripple. Either way, they serve their purpose well enough, I suppose, by providing me with some company other than Sayoko while Brother is occupied… So what are friends, Brother, if not a means to an end?


She patted his hand in teasing congratulations, enjoying his spluttering denials as she felt the truth behind his words through his grip. He was always so well-spoken around others; it was nice to know that he still allowed himself sufficient vulnerability around her to react like a child. It was even nicer to know that, try as he might, Brother still had far too much empathy for others.


After all, if he had already bonded so quickly with these True Anglicans, it surely meant that his bond with her was in no danger of fraying.


Unless he decides to invest his time in those with actual value, Nunnally worried. He still has time for me, even with his friends on the Student Council, but Rivalz and Shirley never afforded much use for a prince, even a prince pretending to be a student. If he actually bonds with people willing to follow him, willing to help him, willing to kill for him… Will he still have time to hold my hand?


"You are correct, Brother," the words came blurting out, almost before Nunnally could think them. "They are not your friends. You are wise to keep that in mind."


"Nunnally?" His grip on her hand tightened, painful for a moment before Brother remembered her frailty and regained control of himself with an apologetic murmur. The surprise lingered in his voice as he continued, though. "I… You are correct, of course, but… I am surprised to hear you agree with me…? I mean," he forced a chuckle and Nunnally read the uneasy truth behind the joviality, "I had honestly expected you to scold me for being too risky or too callous toward them…"


Weak.


"Do you want me to, Brother?" Nunnally asked, hating her useless eyes again as she always did when she wondered what expression her brother's face bore while he measured her words. "I will happily chide you for taking the risk of fraternizing with proscribed heretics, should you wish, but…" she sighed, knowing that the plaintive sound would tug on her brother's heartstrings and soften his discomfort, and hating herself for knowing as much and doing so anyway, "I know you, Brother. You thrive on risks. Telling you to stay safe is foolishness…"


"Nunnally…"


The guilt in his voice was familiar. To Nunnally, it always sounded like old wood, the surfaces worn down and polished over the years for all the use it had borne. She had used that guilt time and time again, sometimes for small things and sometimes for important matters and sometimes just to prove to herself that she could make a difference, if only by the proxy of altering her brother's actions.


Those last occasions made her feel guilty as well, although not guilty enough to stop laying hands on that familiar old lever.


"I know you, Brother," Nunnally continued, lowering her already damnably frail voice to a coo, hearing the rustle as Brother stooped to get closer. "You are reckless and relentless, but you are also caring. I know that you like to think of yourself as aloof and cool as you pretend to be at school, but I also know how easily the distance you place between yourself and others shrinks when you allow them to get close. Do not allow yourself to get too close to these True Anglicans, Brother."


Don't leave me behind, was the first of her unspoken messages; use them, don't allow yourself to be used by them was the second.


Honestly, she thought, concealing her scowl at the mingled confusion and compassion she felt in his hand, Brother is far too soft for this, far too weak… If only… If only I had his eyes, his legs, his luck…


How fortunate that I already have a hand upon his heart.


"Use them, Brother," Nunnally encouraged, levering herself up as best she could in her bed, her shoulders barely lifting from the sheets. "Remember your goals, Brother, and remember yourself."


And remember me when you come into your kingdom, Brother. Remember me when you avenge Mother and claim your birthright. Please… just remember me.


JULY 5, 2016 ATB
ALBERT'S TAPHOUSE, KITA WARD, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1830


Above the empty cellar-turned-secret sanctuary, the celebration raged on in the streets and in the taphouse as it had for hours now, ever since the news had broken. Ever since the Viceregal-Governor had declared, in a very special broadcast, a half-day general holiday to mark the occasion.


The Yokohama Sniper was dead, her reign of terror brought to a sudden and cinematic end.


As good of a reason to celebrate as any, Lelouch reflected as he grabbed a pair of kneeling pillows from the communal pile, one for himself and one for Milly. Besides, a holiday is a holiday. To bastardize a line, "the celebration will feed itself".


Smirking quietly at the irreverent thought, Lelouch turned back to the knot of True Anglicans, milling around as they awaited Father Timothy's arrival.


Although, perhaps "knot" no longer does the congregation justice…


Their numbers had expanded over the two months Lelouch had spent in the company of the underground church, in no small part due to his efforts and Milly's. The first clandestine service he had attended had a mere twenty-seven ragged souls, the majority of them elderly, in attendance. Twenty-nine, with the addition of Father Timothy and himself. Now, more than twice that number crowded the basement, several still in uniform and others in the garb of professional tradesmen or well-heeled clerks.


We've doubled our numbers, Lelouch thought with justifiable satisfaction, and not just at this congregation either.


Working his way back through the crowd to the "front" oriented toward the old church banner, where he had left Milly, Lelouch shook hands and exchanged nods and smiles of recognition with familiar faces. Havelock was there, the excitable poet from that long-ago trivia night, along with Hilda and her husband Charles, who stood tall and proud with a dogeared copy of the Book of Common Prayer in his hands. Closer to the front stood Color Sergeant Coffin, now a full month distant from the bottle and already looking years younger for it.


Would that they were all so willing to follow my suggestions… Lelouch hid a sigh behind a smile as he shook another hand. There's power in the scraps of authority I've acquired, but a pulpit it is not.


Waiting for him in the very first "row" of imaginary pews was Milly, fully costumed in the long skirt and high neckline preferred by "Milly Ashland". She had made a concession to the heat of the season, and perhaps to her own particular tastes; gone was the shawl she had previously worn draped about her shoulders, instead her sleeves had been rolled up so high past her elbows that her blouse almost resembled a casual shirt, save for the garment's cut.


The seemingly effortless charm that Lelouch knew she assembled each morning and wore like a mantle still followed her though, modest and understated clothes be damned. She still stood out in the congregation like gold among straw.


Of course, Lelouch thought with a slightly guilty pang, Nunnally would stand out even more.


Not that his darling sister was content to remain on the sidelines; not in the slightest. After Lelouch had brought Nunnally in on his latest plan two months ago, she had taken to her advisory role like a fish to water. Each time he returned from some quiet trip to the fringes of the Settlement or slipped back into the quiet apartment over the Clubhouse after meeting with Father Timothy for private lessons on the True Anglican creed, Nunnally had been up and waiting for him to return, eager to go over his latest experiences and mine for ideas or angles.


Nunnally's incredible enthusiasm and willingness to help him brainstorm new recruitment schemes as well as possible solutions to various issues bedeviling existing members had been a happy surprise. Milly's understandable reserve regarding his involvement in a church of hidden heretics had been much less surprising, though entirely understandable.


At least, Milly had been reserved toward the idea of joining a heretical fringe movement initially. When she learned that Charles, Hilda, and Havelock, their trivia playing partners, were also members of the church, she warmed up to the idea, presumably on the basis that the former two were sensible enough to not get involved in anything too crazy.


And both have been instrumental in helping me become instrumental to Father Timothy and his congregation, Lelouch thought, returning Milly's smile. Not that they aren't essential too. Honestly, considering how much the congregation adores the first of my confederates, it is almost a pity that they will likely never learn about the second.


"Thanks~" the incognito heiress chirped as he handed over a cushion, casting a critical eye over the foam bulging through the tattered seams. "Man, I really should bring my sewing kit one of these days…"


"You can sew?" Lelouch asked, curious despite himself. "I don't think I've ever seen you with a needle and thread."


"Duh, Brother Alexander." The dramatic eye roll following that exasperated reply was entirely Milly Ashford, but thankfully sass was part of her disguise's persona as well; Lelouch doubted even Milly's considerable talents as an actress could have fully concealed that. "Who do you think makes all those costumes you love ever so much?"


Before Lelouch could rebut and clarify his opinion on the costumes his friend had foisted on him in the past, he noticed the poorly concealed stares from the other church members standing around. Several grannies looked a hairsbreadth from laughing at his expense, while at least two of the new soldier converts looked like they were busy imagining what costumes he had "loved" on Milly.


As always, there seemed like no point in protesting. Judging by the twinkle in Milly's eyes, it would only make the teasing worse.


"Well," he lamely replied instead, beating an inelegant retreat instead of fighting a losing battle, "I'll remind you next time, Sister Jane."


Before "Sister Jane" could respond, Lelouch had turned back to make his way back through the crowd again, this time unencumbered by pillows and with his hat quite literally in his hands. One hand held the second-hand bowler out, upturned and pointedly empty, while the other remained free to shake hands and slap backs.


A few crumpled banknotes disappeared into the faded lining as "Brother Alexander" made his way down the first line of parishioners, old ladies and gentlemen reaching into handbags and wallets to find what they could give up. The next row, day laborers mixed with skilled tradesmen, yielded a hail of pound coins and, from one man in the starched-collar uniform of an accountant, a brown envelope firmly taped shut.


"Thank you, Brother Jackson," Lelouch murmured to the last man, appropriately discreet. "Your contributions are appreciated. How's Teresa?"


"Doing well, Brother Alexander," replied the first-generation Britannian, the son of a Seven Honorary and a Britannian mother. He had been one of Lelouch's first recruits. Lelouch had managed to snag his loyalty with Milly's connections, putting him in contact with a physician willing to provide discreet surgical corrections to certain clientele. The man's daughter had the misfortune to be born with a facial deformity that would have otherwise forever marked her as inferior in Britannian society, but with the right funds and the right friends, it was an issue of the past. "The bandages will be coming off next week. Thank you again for-"


"No need for that, Brother," Lelouch smoothly interrupted, patting the man's arm. "Just remember who your Brothers and Sisters are when the time comes."


He continued on like that, shuttling through the congregation with a word here, a smile there, the bowler getting progressively heavier in his hand. Eventually, Lelouch turned back around and returned back to the first "row", where Milly was holding court. As she saw him approach, she waved a dismissal and the two young soldiers who'd been hanging off her every word stepped back.


Nodding a greeting, Lelouch retook his place next to her, discreetly nudging the hat full of donations out in front of his pillow so he wouldn't accidentally upset the collection when it came time to pray. As he stood up, a ripple passed through the crowd as conversations fell silent and people fell into their ordered rows, leaving a neat aisle from the entrance to the basement on up to the front of the hidden church.


Up the cleared aisle, an old man limped; Father Timothy had arrived at last. Perhaps fittingly, the priest who had summoned his congregation for this impromptu and unscheduled meeting was the last to arrive. He had forsaken his vestments, Lelouch noticed, save for the faded stole hanging from his shoulders.


Some might have chalked that up to this being a Tuesday and thus not the designated meeting time for the weekly mass. Better informed about Old Tim's flagging health, Lelouch knew that the old man could no longer don the Roman collar that was the sign of his office; he no longer had the strength to breathe with even the collar's mild constriction banded about his neck.


Pneumonic or not, Father Timothy still had the necessary strength to raise his voice in greeting as he turned to face his congregation from below the banner that had once decorated his pulpit. "The Lord be with you!"


"And also with you," the congregation replied in a dull rumble, the old words falling neatly into place, following tracks worn smooth with repetition.


"Let us give thanks to the Lord our God," Father Timothy intoned, raising a trembling hand high.


"It is right to give him thanks and praise," agreed the congregation, speaking with one voice.


"Ah, but what shall we thank Him for this day?" The question, a break from the typical ritual call and response that initiated the mass, seemed to throw the congregation into a moment of confusion, swiftly ended by Father Timothy answering his own question. "I myself shall thank Him for bringing all of us together today. But for us all? Why, let us give thanks that He has seen fit to bring a final end to the reign of terror perpetrated by the Yokohama Sniper! Let us give thanks, brothers and sisters, for His grace!"


"Thanks be to you, Lord Christ," came the fervent response from every other tongue present, Lelouch's included.


Although the thanks would probably be best directed to the IBI, he considered, not that they would be happy to accept such remarks from the likes of us.


"But," Father Timothy's hands fell to his side, "while it is meet and right to thank the Lord for His mercy in ridding us of the vile Eleven scourge, it is equally proper to take the opportunity to mourn for our fallen."


As one, the congregation bowed their heads, the motion smoothly automatic even among the new converts. While the dogma of the state church had changed, the trappings of the rituals had remained all but the same.


Which, Lelouch thought as he angled his face toward the floor, provides a convenient point of familiarity for newcomers to cling onto even as the substance shifts below their feet.


"While the Sniper is felled, the shadow cast by her acts lingers on in absent faces and lives cut short."


Father Timothy paused to cough, the wet hacking forcing its way out of his chest and into the crook of his elbow. But as the coughing fit passed, he raised his hands anew.


"Blood cannot wipe away blood," he intoned, "nor can death wipe away death. We cannot bring back our lost, for that is solely the Lord's domain, instead we must wait until our judgment day to see them again. And so, we mourn the loss of thirty four Britannians, avenged yet still lost to us nonetheless."


"Sixty four," a voice from the congregation interrupted. "Not to contradict you, Father, but we lost sixty four of our own."


That voice… Lelouch turned toward the source of the interruption, eyes widening with surprise. Sergeant Coffin?


And it was Sergeant Coffin whom all in attendance now stared, the burly noncom standing tall and meeting the weight of their gazes squarely, showing no sign of backing down.


This is… unexpected. The man's initial wave of almost drunken zealotry had cooled and hardened into a firm loyalty that had already served Lelouch in good stead as he expanded his efforts to find converts among the garrison forces, but Coffin only rarely ventured an independent opinion, and generally only when directly asked.


For him to interrupt the service like this…


"Forgive me," Father Timothy replied, peering through tired eyes at the soldier, "but all of the reports I have seen placed the final death toll at thirty four. Where are you getting your number from, Brother Roger?"


"Yessah," confirmed Sergeant Coffin, bobbing his head in a brief nod. "That is what all of the talking heads are saying. But what about the Honorary Citizens, eh? That bitch nailed thirty of them; are we not going to remember them as well?"


"Ah yes," Father Timothy replied, his lip wrinkling in clear distaste. "The… Honoraries." The disdain in the old priest's voice was almost palpable.


"The Honoraries, ayup," replied Coffin, his Mainer accent thickening as he glared back at the cleric, seeming not to notice the silent pressure for him to fall back into line. "They're just as much of us as the poor dead Britannians, aren't they now? They took up the Oath, didn't they? Swore to serve in return for citizenship, didn't they? And they were Britannian enough to put a bullet through the Sniper's lousy head, weren't they?"


That last point sent a ripple of murmuring through the crowd. The statement put out by the Bureau of Investigation informing the public of the Sniper's death had been quite clear in the composition of the unit that had hunted her down. Honorary constables had killed the Yokohama Sniper, not Britannian regulars.


Suzaku… It was vanishingly unlikely that his old friend had been involved in the IBI's operation; as far as Lelouch knew, Corporal Kururugi was still serving with the 32nd Honorary Legion. The same formation that Sergeant Coffin serves in…


Lelouch hadn't pursued that connection, despite personal desire. There was, after all, no reason for either "Leland Gelt" or "Brother Alexander" to have any interest in a random Honorary noncom; if Suzaku hadn't brought himself to Sergeant Coffin's attention on his own, then Lelouch had no intention of drawing unwanted attention to his friend.


But for Coffin to feel sufficiently attached to his men that he speaks up on the behalf of their comrades in arms… The knot in Lelouch's chest loosened slightly.


"Be that as it may," Father Timothy replied, just as hard-headed as Sergeant Coffin, "they are not of us, Brother Roger. They swore their Oaths, yes, but they swore them to a usurper emperor and his handmaiden of a church! And what oaths can be held as consecrated and true when sworn by false names and in the honor of perversion? Any oath sworn to Charles, the Man of Blood, cannot be binding, any more than an oath sworn to a foreigner could be. They are not of us."


"But how were they to know as much when they took up the Oath?" Lelouch stepped out from his row and into the cleared "aisle" running between the two blocks of standing worshippers.


Far from coincidentally, his chosen place to stand placed him squarely between Father Timothy and Sergeant Coffin. He looked from one to the other as he extended an arm toward each.


"How were they to know," he repeated, looking at Coffin and the small sea of faces around him, "when they swore their Oath that the ruler they swore to was an evil, twisted mockery of all that is good and right about Britannia? How were they to know that the priest who anointed him as Emperor of Britannia and Head of its Church was a heretic determined to pervert the holy ways with corrupt doctrine?


"How were they to know," Lelouch continued, turning to face Father Timothy, allowing his arms to fall to his sides as he firmly turned his back toward Sergeant Coffin, "when there were none to teach them the correct doctrine, to show them the true way forward? Is ignorance a sin, even in light of such service as killing a foul wolf who preyed upon the innocent fold of our misguided brothers and sisters?"


Milly's gaze was like a brand on his cheek, burning a hole through his face with its intense focus. He kept his eyes focused on Father Timothy, ignoring her stare and the consideration and worry he knew he would see if he turned to meet it. Alone among those present, she knew about Suzaku, knew about his friend in the service, who had sworn his Oath to That Man, and had turned his back on Lelouch and on Japan in the process.


Lelouch fought off the urge to cringe in embarrassment. He'd done it again, dammit! He had seen a golden opportunity and had impulsively seized it, just as he had sworn to himself he would not do. Yes, Milly knew of his motives for seeking reconciliation with the Honorary Britannians; she, alone among those in attendance, also knew his real identity, knew the name nested below Brother Alexander, Leland Gelt, and Lelouch Lamperouge. She certainly knew the kind of risk he was running by publicly drawing attention to himself like this, and by proxy the risk he was posing to her and her family.


I'm sorry, Milly… But I must help Suzaku, and if this Church can pose a safe haven for him… Perhaps I can smuggle him out of the Legion before the worst comes to pass.


So it was with mixed feelings that Lelouch raised his hands again, imploring Father Timothy to hear the sensibility of his words and their weight on his tongue. "I say that, so long as they swore loyalty to Britannia in their hearts, then surely God will know his own! For better or for worse, he will surely acknowledge their pledge and know them by the works of their hands to be true servants of Britannia!"


An unwanted image of Corporal Kururugi glaring at a line of hungry Honoraries queueing up for food served by Japanese hands forced itself into Lelouch's mind. A true servant of Britannia indeed…


There was a rustle of motion to his side and Lelouch knew without looking away from Father Timothy that Milly had stepped up beside him.


"Britannian or Honorary…" the Ashford heiress mused, slipping her hand into his as she spoke. In his mind's eye, Lelouch could imagine what it must look like: The young lovers, standing steadfast in their convictions in the face of convention. It was an admittedly powerful visual narrative, instantly relatable to all and sympathetic to most.


Count on Milly to seize on an opportunity for drama, Lelouch thought wryly, keeping his amusement firmly contained. And, his thoughts continued as her fingers slid between his own, count on Milly to take full advantage of the moment.


"...surely all are equal in death?" Milly paused, giving her audience a moment to consider the matter. "Surely a Britannian soldier and an Honorary soldier, both sworn to the same empire's service, will be counted as equals in the regiments of the Most High? Just as we are all equals, brothers and sisters all, in His earthly service? And," Milly lightly squeezed his hand, "adding the Honoraries to our list of prayers surely costs us little, right? Some of them did manage to put down the Sniper, after all."


Lelouch returned the gentle squeeze, touched by the unspoken message and the implicit understanding of his motives Milly displayed. Clearly, she hadn't forgotten his plea for help for Suzaku. With that in mind, he couldn't begrudge her forwarding their false relationship at all. Not for now, at least.


For his part, Father Timothy looked thoughtful. His distaste still lingered, but clearly he was listening to what they were saying. A traditionalist at heart, the old cleric wouldn't have survived so long if he was too stubborn to notice when the winds of change began to blow. Objections from the senior-most military man recruited so far, from the only recruit with sufficient education and energy to act as a minister as his health flagged, and from the most successful recruiter the church had found so far were enough combined to represent a veritable gust.


"Very well then," he said at last, bowing to the inevitable. "We will remember our Honorary brothers and sisters as well in our prayers. Now," Timothy cleared his throat, "please kneel as we pray."


A murmur of movement coursed through the congregation as men and women, impoverished and merely poor, knelt on ratty cushions. Still out in the aisle between the two blocks of attendees, Lelouch knelt directly on the stained concrete floor of the old basement, Milly joining him a moment later with a pained hiss as her knees met the unyielding and grainy surface.


For his part, as he bowed his head in an empty gesture of reverence to an existence he was agnostic at best toward, Lelouch found himself reveling in the uncomfortable pressure against his kneecaps. It was a welcome distraction from both the hand still firmly wrapped around his own, and from the sure knowledge of what was soon to come for Yokohama.


"Oh God," Father Timothy began, raising his hands in supplication, "whose mercies cannot be numbered, accept our prayers on behalf of your servants, both those born to the Church and those who came to it later, and grant them an entrance into the land of light and joy, in the fellowship of thy saints; through Jesus Christ thy Son our Lord who liveth and reigneth with a rod of iron with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever."


"Amen," chorused the congregation, Lelouch allowing the word to slip limply from between his lips and Milly with surprising vigor.


"For Christ is risen from the dead," Father Timothy continued, painfully lowering himself down to his waiting kneeling cushion, "and with the sword and the rod he laid waste to Hell and conquered it for his own. With the sword he cut the chains of the grave and rose in glory and triumph. He trampled down the Adversary and gave death unto Death, and restored life to the entombed righteous. He will come again in the company of his legions and his saints to judge and to rule again, as he did in the days before the Fall. Amen."


"Amen," replied the assembled people. From behind him, Lelouch heard Coffin's voice, rough from a life of barking orders, brimming with righteous fervor. "Amen."


"Oh Lord God Most Hol-" Timothy stopped, wrapping an arm about his chest as he coughed, his shoulders heaving at the violence of the action. "Oh Lord," he rasped, beginning again, "in the midst of life we are in death, and from whom shall we seek succor, oh Lord, save yourself, who for our sins is greatly angered? Truly, Lord, from you no secrets are hid and to you all sins are known. Spare us, oh God, and deliver us not into the bitterest of death and the scourge everlasting, but let us march beside you and Saint George and Saint Sebastian and all of your martyrs in glory. For this, we pray."


"Amen."


"Speak with me," Father Timothy commanded, "oh brothers and sisters, the affirmation of our faith:"


"Christ has died in suffering," the congregation spoke as one, Father Timothy's thin reed of a voice wavering like a flag over the dull monotone chant, "Christ is risen in glory. Christ will come again in conquest."


"Yea, he shall!" Father Timothy confirmed, spreading out his arms again in reassurance, "and so in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to life eternal through the passion and might of Lord Jesus Christ, we commend all of his martyred servants to Almighty God, Britannian-born and Britannian by Honor alike, and we commit their bodies to the ground or to the flame. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."


"Amen."


"Let us now take a moment, brothers and sisters," Father Timothy wheezed, his shoulders jerking as he fought down another coughing fit, "to remember in silence those who have perished. Britannian and Honorary Britannian alike."


And Japanese, Lelouch added silently, closing his eyes. Proclamation Nine proclaimed that each Britannian death would be repaid a thousandfold. Whether he ever intended to execute the proclamation in earnest or not is irrelevant now; the Purists will demand it, as will the bulk of the rank and file of the commons. After the media whipped them up in the fear of death by sniper for weeks, they'll be hungry for blood, and Clovis is far too cowardly to deny them their wish. And so… the Japanese will pay the price, at least for now…


I know what is coming, and I can do nothing to stop it. Lelouch realized his teeth were grinding, that he was squeezing down far too tightly on Milly's hand. He forced himself to relax, to breathe out his tension. After a moment, she lightly squeezed his hand again, silently asking if he was alright. He squeezed back in reassurance and fell back into his thoughts. More blood on the hands of Clovis… And by extension, more blood on the hands of That Man, more blood that I was too weak to stop from being spilled.


"And now, brothers and sisters," Father Timothy said, breaking the basement's silence, "we make bold to say:"


"Our Father, who art in heaven…"

---

"...Go now in the faith and unity of Christ the King, the only true emperor, and know that his triumph is only an inevitability," Lelouch bid, arms raised to the exact angle used earlier in the service by Father Timothy. "Go forth knowing that your deeds and dedication are heeded, that your faith shall be rewarded, and that one day all will curse by the foul name of the Man of Blood. Amen."


"Amen," came the resounding echo, full of both hope for the future and relief that the service was finally over.


Lelouch lowered his arms and shot a sideways look to Father Timothy, who nodded his thanks and approval. "Brother Leland" had been invited up to conduct the remainder of the service after the conclusion of the Lord's Prayer, a measure both practical and keenly symbolic. Practical, because the old priest's cough had continued to worsen as he struggled through the prayer, and symbolic, as the parting benediction was generally administered by the ranking cleric in attendance. By waving "Leland" up from the crowd to end the service and to dismiss the congregation, Father Timothy had signaled his rising status yet again. Now, "Leland" stood between the congregation and the pulpit, not quite a priest but certainly not a layman any longer.


With the ritual of the service concluded, the structure of the crowd disintegrated, the illusory rows vanishing as congregants turned to chat with their neighbors, stooped to pick up knee pillows, or began the process of stowing their personal copies of the Book of Common Prayer within jackets, purses, or in one case, in a hollow concealed in the sole of a boot.


Lelouch joined the milling throng and easily fell into a succession of casual conversations, shaking hands and catching up on the daily happenings of various acquaintances as, one by one, the hidden church slipped out through the bar or the basement entrance and into the still busy streets. As he gladhanded and chatted, Lelouch felt Father Timothy's eyes linger upon him, weighing his every action and word.


Slowly, the crowd dispersed, until the basement was empty of all save Milly, Father Timothy, and Lelouch. Sensing that the priest had something he wanted to say as clearly as Lelouch, Milly made eye contact with Lelouch and nodded toward the old man before jerking her head up toward the bar. Her message was clear: "Hear him out, and then come tell me what's up. I'll be waiting."


With a confirming nod from Lelouch, Milly vanished up the stairs. Lelouch waited, listening to the old slats creak under her weight, hearing the slight pause as she stooped under the dangling HVAC duct, and then the slight jingle of the bell above signaling that the door into the common room of the taphouse had opened.


Then, he turned to Father Timothy and waited, expectant, as the frail and sickly elder picked his way across the bare concrete floor.


"Good work with the benediction, Brother Alexander," the priest said, coming to a halt in front of Lelouch. "Always send them out on a high note, that's what I was taught all the way back in seminary. You have a natural gift for the pulpit, it seems."


"Thank you, Father," Lelouch replied politely.


"Yes," the old man mused, as if he hadn't heard the response, "you were certainly born for leadership, Brother Alexander… You chose your worship name well, Leland… Chose it well indeed."


Under his thick, bushy gray eyebrows and behind the yellow rheum lining his ancient eyes, a keen and watchful intelligence glittered.


"Thank you, Father," Lelouch repeated, suddenly wary of the man who had served as his introduction to the disparate True Anglican cells scattered around the Tokyo Settlement, the man in whose stead he had acted for months now. "I appreciate your confidence."


"I believe it to be well-placed, Leland." A weary smile crossed Father Timothy's face. "Spending almost two decades on the run teaches a man a thing or two about human character, and how to judge it… And I find myself placing more and more faith in your abilities, Leland… Born to the grandson of a third son, was it? Before you left the Homeland…"


He knows! The thought sent a shock through Lelouch's arms, down to his hands, utterly absurd yet somehow certainly true. Somehow, he knows!


"Yes, Father," Lelouch replied, drawing on his long-ago lessons from court to keep his cool. "A family dispute that led to my pursuit of other opportunities across the Pacific from old Pendragon."


"I see…" Father Timothy seemed to consider something, his eyes boring through Lelouch. "You have done sterling service, ministering to my flock all around the Settlement… You know all of their names now, their problems, and details about each… They come to you, always eager to speak, because they believe that you will lighten their load…"


"They believe the same thing about you," Lelouch pointed out, attempting to deflect the probe. "I noticed as much when I first came here. They all believe in you, believe in your witness and your word."


"And it took long years for me to build that faith," Father Timothy remarked mildly. "Years of hard work and long suffering. Years that you have made up in weeks. I'm not jealous," he said, holding up a staying hand, "not at all… Quite the opposite, in fact. I am…" A tired smile pulled itself across the worn face as Father Timothy paused as if savoring the word. "Relieved."


"Relieved, Father?" Lelouch tilted his head inquiringly, doing his best to involve himself in the conversation as fully as possible to ignore the way his nerves were singing with anxiety. "About what?"


"That though I will die without seeing the True Prince sit the throne in Pendragon, I shall pass on like Moses, content that my successor shall bring an end to the long journey I began eighteen years ago," explained Father Timothy, his voice serene despite its exhaustion. Years fell away for a brief moment, as if the pure relief was burning through the accumulated weight of old age and hard living. "I have devoted my life to this cause, and as the candle of my life began to flicker, I allowed doubt to enter my heart. I see now that I was wrong to do so. Perhaps that is why that candle has begun to gutter."


"You still have years left in you, Father," Lelouch reassured, not believing a word of it. There was, he was certain, nobody worthy of sitting the Britannian throne; anybody with sufficient moral fiber to be proclaimed as such would burn that wretched old chair to ashes before so much as squatting above it.


"I told you at our first meeting," Father Timothy replied, shaking his head, "death is in my bones. I said then that I will not see Christmas; I say now that I will not see August."


"I… I see, Father," said Lelouch, blinking as the thought entered his mind. The timeline would have to be moved up, of course, and he would have to consult with Milly and Sergeant Coffin about their next moves, and perhaps bring Brother Phillip in…


"Yes," Father Timothy nodded approvingly, clearly reading Lelouch's thoughts on his face, "do not let the moment go to waste, my Joshua. Strike while the iron is hot, and let none stand in your way. Within the month, my bones will be cold and my people yours, although they are in truth yours already, are they not? Purple eyes… Fitting for a man born to the purple…"


The comment, delivered so casually, was a whip slashing down on Lelouch's back once again, startling him with the blow. His whole world stopped, the corners of his vision growing dark as his balance shifted and quaked around him. Before him, Father Timothy, Old Tim, stood placidly, not making any attempt to run, to defend himself…


Miraculously, Lelouch held his control firm, keeping his hands flat by his sides. Even more miraculously, he managed to hold his tongue, matching the old man's silent stare with his own stillness.


"I will not live to see the True Prince sit his throne," murmured Father Timothy, eyes distant, his voice growing rough again. "After years of hiding from long knives and running from corner to desolate corner, it won't be the Inquisition that gets me, nor the Bureau, nor even the Army… Just a pair of worn out lungs, drowning in their own phlegm… I will not live to see the True Prince upon his throne, but I have lived long enough to know that the end has come for the Man of Blood. The reign of Charles the Usurper has ended, and he doesn't even know it yet…"


"That seems… premature," Lelouch ventured, doing his best again to ignore the stubborn old priest's talk of thrones as he slowly pushed the clanging anxiety the risky line of conversation invoked back down.


The man hates the Emperor, hates the Britannic Church, Lelouch reassured himself. He's not going to turn anybody over to them now that he's at death's door. Besides, who would believe a sick old man when he claimed he'd found a secret Britannian prince who was a heretic to boot? Especially not if he admitted to being a recalcitrant priest in the same breath.


"Have faith," Father Timothy chided, his smile growing by an extra tooth. "It's a great solace, my son. I have faith. I feared before what would become of my church, once I was no longer around to lead it, but now… Now I know what the future will bring for my church, for the Church, and for the Empire and the world. I know, Brother Alexander, that you are that future, that you will bring the sword and the rod and will guide my people unto the Promised Land. Keep the faith, when I am gone."

---

JULY 14, 2016 ATB
STUDENT COUNCIL ROOM, ASHFORD ACADEMY
1215


It was a beautiful day outside, a rare summer day where a skimming of high altitude clouds and a favorable breeze from Tokyo Bay conspired to reduce the heat and humidity down to balmy perfection. Regrettably, Lelouch was in no position to enjoy the glories of summer.


For multiple reasons. It had been a stressful two weeks. Ever since that damned priest had…


With a quiet growl, Lelouch wrenched his attention back to the teetering stack of printouts, envelopes, and notarized documents towering above his desk, the better part of a month's paperwork come due at last.


And all of it for me. Huzzah. Despite himself, Lelouch found the heap a perverse sanctuary, a balm numbing his frenzied thoughts. No matter how many times he woke in a cold sweat, belly clenched with anxiety, at the end of the day the janitorial staff still needed their payroll run.


Most students of Ashford Academy would, if pressed, admit to an understanding that the Student Council had functions other than acting as Milly Ashford's personal toy. Lelouch suspected that most of the student body would be shocked to learn just how much time and energy serving on the Student Council demanded, and how little of it was spent either playing along with or refusing Milly's various whims.


For some reason best known to himself, Reuben Ashford, once Lord Ashford, had endowed significant administerial responsibilities upon the Student Council some two summers ago in commemoration of his heiress's sixteenth birthday. At the stroke of a pen, the Student Council had become responsible for the entirety of the Academy's discretionary fund, as well as for running the payroll for the janitorial and gardening staff. Perhaps the former aristocrat had seen it as a way of replicating in miniature the old tradition of entrusting an estate to the heir presumptive to give them some managerial experience in advance of their inheritance, perhaps it had been an attempt to occupy some of Milly's boundless energy. Either way, by the time Milly had turned seventeen the previous year, the Student Council had become intimately familiar with the processes of budgetary formation, labor arbitration, and contract remediation.


Excellent stewardship training for the heir to a fairly sizable estate, Lelouch conceded, initialing a request from the Equestrian Club for a replacement track as their previous training ground had been requisitioned by the ROTC. Or it would be, if Milly actually handled a tenth of the paperwork. Then again, delegation is a valuable skill in a leader as well. Theoretically, anyway.


Always the moneychanger of favors, Milly had cashed in all the evenings she had spent covering for Lelouch's activities at last. She had, as she put it, tolerated being a walking smokescreen for all of her free evenings, so now he could handle her share of the backlogged paperwork.


"And here I thought you'd finally brought me in on your illicit gambling operation, Lulu! Instead, all you did was take me to church!" had been her pouting comment on the matter, before dropping her faux annoyance in favor of a devilish grin. "You owe me big, Mister Vice President!"


So here he was, wasting away and trying to find some room in the discretionary budget to pay stabling and track fees for the Equestrian Club's mounts at some estate outside of the Tokyo Settlement instead of enjoying the summer's day with Nunnally.


His sister had uncharacteristically left Ashford for the day, venturing forth for a day of shopping and fun in the Concession in the company of a few of her friends, the ever dutiful Sayoko standing ready at his darling sister's elbow. The presence of the secret bodyguard, keen awareness of the ever accumulating stack of paperwork waiting for his attention, and his sister's clear eagerness for a moment of freedom from the confines of the Academy had conspired against Lelouch, and he hadn't offered even token resistance to Nunnally's plan.


I do hope she remembered her sunscreen, though… Lelouch sighed, the anxiety he always felt whenever Nunnally left Ashford's protective embrace heightened by a week's worth of nights haunted by dreams of thrones and ermine robes. Sayoko will handle it, he told himself, crushing the anxious thoughts down. She is a professional and highly skilled. Nunnally is safe. All is well.


For a moment, Lelouch sat still in his chair, fingers poised above the keyboard. He strained, trying to resist the temptation, trying to hold the line… His traitor mind served up an image of Nunnally with sunburns on her poor sweet face, skin peeling from her delicate nose. In moments his phone was unlocked and in his hand. Thirty seconds later, a text reminding Sayoko to remind Nunnally that the SPF 70 was in the kitchen drawer right by the refrigerator was sent.


A minute and a half after sending his text, Lelouch felt incredibly silly as a reply definitely not written by Sayoko arrived, the slight grammatical errors betraying the aid of a speech-to-text program.


Nunnally, as was so often the case, kindly thanked her dear big brother for his concern but assured him that she was only blind and not braindead. Her wish for him to butt out and allow her to enjoy her afternoon of freedom undisturbed was as loud as it was unspoken.


Not that Lelouch was at all upset by this. She was a teenager now, he reminded himself, in the midst of her rebellious phase. Such disregard for pseudo-parental worry was only to be expected, at least in private.


With perhaps slightly more force than was required, Lelouch rubbed the approval ink-stamp on its pad and brought it down on the Equestrian Club's proposal, tossing the document into his Out Tray. Whenever Rivalz finished fiddling around with his motorcycle, the Student Council's secretary would enter the outlay from the proposal into the budgetary software and then file the document away. Shirley would finally approve the amended budget item and the Equestrian Club would receive permission to start hunting for a new stable.


Bully for them, he thought with knee-jerk resentment toward anybody not stuck inside handling paperwork. But perhaps that would be an opportunity…? Moving all of the horses would require several trips in large vehicles, all with appropriate paperwork and probably reeking of manure…


Shelving the idea for later reflection, Lelouch reached for the next item in his overflowing In Tray. Before he could snag the next proposal, complaint, or memo from the stack, the door to the Student Council room swung open.


Did Rivalz finish tuning up his bike already, Lelouch wondered as he looked up from his paper-strewn desk, or maybe Milly "let it slip" to Shirley that I'm alone in the Council Room? Either way, they just volunteered to help with the backlog.


Instead of the Student Council's Secretary or its Treasurer, Lelouch's number one source of heartburn short of That Man's continued existence slipped into the room and pulled the door firmly shut behind her.


By the time the latch clicked in the frame, all thoughts of budgets and paperwork had slipped from Lelouch's mind. He was in danger, he knew; any moment he was alone with Kallen Stadtfeld represented a significant risk to his well-being. While the detente he had forged between them still held, strengthened by Milly's sincere apology to Kallen and her good behavior toward the Stadtfeld heiress over the last two months, Lelouch had not forgotten the peril the probable rebel posed.


Nor had he forgotten the potential she represented. A natural-born prodigy pilot is worth a bit of risk on her own, but a plug into the heart of the Japanese Underground and a potential connection to the weapons and resources flowing from Chinese and European hands into Area 11 would be worth a great deal.


That had been his decision two months ago; every time they met, Lelouch recalculated that risk, weighing up the stakes. So far, his initial decision held.


"Ah, Kallen," greeted Lelouch, nodding a friendly welcome and taking care to rest his hands on the desk in clear view of his guest. "I thought you weren't going to be here today? Major Pitt has you marked down as excused absent, you know."


"Oh?" Kallen blinked, disinterested. "Good to know, I guess. But, no, I'm not here today, not officially. I'm just here to drop this off." She glanced down at his desk and blinked again, this time surprised. "The… custodial payroll?"


Following her eyes, Lelouch looked down at the document he had retrieved from his In Tray just as Kallen entered the room and saw those exact words printed across the top.


"What of it?" he blandly asked, meeting her eyes once again and lifting an inquisitive eyebrow.


"Isn't that women's work, balancing the accounts?" Kallen asked, her slight smirk tugging at her lips. "I mean," she continued, her voice dripping with faux innocence, "that's what my st… my mother always insists during our lessons."


"What of it?" Lelouch repeated, the second eyebrow rising to join its predecessor. "It's all Milly's work, if it makes you feel any better. She called in a favor," he hastily added, noticing how Kallen's gaze began to heat at the implication that Milly was abusing her power over someone else. "I asked for her help with something and agreed to her price of assistance with the paperwork."


"Alright," said Kallen, subsiding slightly. "But really, Lelouch… the payroll? Are… Are you sure you don't find it demeaning or whatever…?"


She sounds almost intrigued, Lelouch noted, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. I wonder how angry she would be if I pointed out how similarly the majority of Ashford's female population reacted when I was introduced as the belle of the Crossdresser's Ball last autumn?


"Not in the slightest," he replied, completely sincere. "Honestly, I think I lost my capacity for shame in this specific context after the fourth time she crammed me into a dress. Didn't you have something to drop off, Kallen?"


"Oh, yeah," Kallen tore her fascinated gaze away from the hour sheet on his desk. "One second…"


As she reached into the purse dangling from her shoulder, Lelouch clenched his teeth, forcing his smile to remain in place, his eyes to stay interested and guileless, his hands to keep loose and still. To his great relief, she retrieved only an envelope, which she deposited neatly on top of the summit of his In Tray.


Waiting until she'd finished and after it was clear that her addition had not triggered a paperwork avalanche, Lelouch slowly reached out across the desk toward the envelope, keeping his eyes locked on Kallen's face, searching for any warnings that the crimson viper on the other side of the table was about to strike. Her eyes narrowed slightly as he touched the envelope, but she relaxed again as his hand retreated, letter in tow.


She really needs to work on governing her microexpressions, Lelouch reflected as he carefully reached for a letter opener, and then rethought his course of action as he noticed a slight tightening of the muscles around her jaw. She's still far too easily read. Which I suppose I should be thankful for, at least for now.


The envelope, stamped with the Stadtfeld coat of arms, contained a single, tersely worded page. Between the usual salutations and the formulaic farewell, the letter announced that Lady Kallen Stadtfeld would be taking a sabbatical from Ashford Academy and her obligations as a member of the Student Council for the remainder of the summer. Interestingly, the letter also stated that the Lady Kallen would also be discharging her duties as a Cadet "under special supervision" for that same period of time.


The letter was signed by Alvin, Baron New Leicester and Lord Stadtfeld, Patriarch of House Stadtfeld, and co-signed by the noble staring cooly down at Lelouch from across his desk.


I wonder what the chances are that the good Lord Stadtfeld actually signed this? Lelouch turned the idea around in his head, pretending to reread the letter as he thought. If the signature is authentic, that implies Kallen's father has come to Area 11, which is… interesting, I suppose, but not really important. If she forged his signature and is taking a vacation on her own recognizance, though… I wonder where she could be going?


"So," Lelouch began, breaking the silence as he refolded the letter, "a summer-long sabbatical, is it? Sounds like an excellent idea!"


He attempted a gormless smile, aiming for a jolly note.


Kallen didn't return it.


Lelouch's eyes narrowed. Something wasn't right. Something had changed.


Why is she being so prickly all of a sudden? She was more than content to join Milly and me for lunch yesterday, and she even unbent far enough to be the fourth so Rivalz, Milly, and I could play a hand of Bridge the day before. It is as if she regressed a month overnight.


The idea that Kallen could be trying to get away from the Academy suddenly seemed much more likely. She was certainly hiding something.


"Do you have any plans for your sabbatical?" The question was meant to sound innocuous, a puff question that blanketed his first gentle probe. Under Kallen's blank stare, it hung impotently in the air. Patience abruptly departing, Lelouch rammed the probe home. "With your father, I mean. It is his signature on the letter, is it not?" Lelouch asked, shifting to a pointed, rudely direct, inquiry.


Again the itching in his palms as a Pacific gaze, cold and dark, sized him up, searching for something Lelouch couldn't guess. Lelouch met Kallen's eyes directly, refusing to back down. It was stupid, pointlessly risky, but it had been a trying fortnight, and he had work to do.


Fortunately, whatever Kallen had been searching for, she had apparently found. Her hands stayed in the open as well, blissfully knife-free.


"We will be going on a tour," the young noble replied, the delay between question and answer just slightly too long to be comfortable or natural, "of Area 11."


"A tour of Area 11," Lelouch repeated, rolling the Britannian name, no, name was giving too much credit, the Britannian designation, over his tongue and noting the flash of distaste that crossed Kallen's face at the sound. In her mouth, the official name for the conquered archipelago had sounded almost natural. Perhaps she was learning.


A point toward this vacation not being her idea, he noted, adding a mental tally to the appropriate imaginary column. That or she still has yet to realize just how subpar her acting skills are. Perhaps both.


"That sounds like an excellent idea," Lelouch smoothly continued, smiling broadly as he leaned back in his chair, feigning relaxation while carefully keeping his hands in sight. "The Sapporo Settlement must be splendid this time of year, certainly less humid than Tokyo. Perhaps Karafuto would be even better?"


"Probably," Kallen shrugged, the gesture comparatively unguarded. "I've never been further north than Sendai. Ah," she corrected herself, a muscle twitching minutely in her cheek, "the Sendai Settlement, I mean."


A swing and a miss, Lelouch considered, noting how the stress had ebbed completely from Kallen's voice. It seemed like the option most obvious to a radical part-time journalist with access to the internet, though. If I wanted support for an anti-Britannian insurgent group in Japan, and especially if I had sympathy for an empire purporting to hold the freedom of the press as sacred, I would reach out to the European-aligned groups operating out of Vladivostok long before I went south to find an agent of the Chinese-backed government in exile.


Which, he concluded, likely means that this isn't connected to her actions as a rebel, and so the signature on the letter is presumably authentic.


"Well, in any case," Lelouch levered himself back upright in his chair and flipped the ink pad open again, reaching for his stamp, "kindly pass on my regards to Baron New Leicester and a welcome on behalf of the Ashford Academy Student Council to Area 11."


He brought the stamp down on first the letter, then its envelope with a muted thump-thump before slipping the former back into the latter and tossing the result into his Out Tray where it ceased to be his problem.


"Now," Lelouch continued, his anxiety ebbing minutely at the sensation of completing something in his ever mounting pile of responsibilities, "was there anything else I could help you with, Kallen? If not, well…" he motioned vaguely toward his mountain of paperwork and then the door she had entered from. "I wish you a thoroughly enjoyable and informative sabbatical."


Kallen followed his hand enough to glance at the door, but she remained firmly rooted in place across his desk. "Actually," she said, turning to look back at the door again, "there was one other thing I wanted to ask you about, Lelouch…?"


"Oh?" Palms itching once more, and damn Kallen and her hot-and-cold attitude, Lelouch forced a smile equal parts welcoming and helpful. "What would that be?"


"A few months back, when I was first 'invited' to join the Student Council," Kallen grimaced slightly, presumably at the memory of what had preceded that invitation, "you mentioned that you'd edited my files?"


Lelouch very carefully didn't let his eyes narrow or his smile stiffen. Of all the things she could have asked about… why this one?


"On the Ashford Academy server, yes," he confirmed, nodding authoritatively. "As I explained, the Ministry of Education's database updates automatically, drawing from the databases of each constituent educational institute in the Area."


"Right," Kallen nodded, "I remember that. And… that's as far as you went when you were 'correcting' my files, right? Just using Milly's credentials to get into the Academy's servers and letting the Ministry's own automatic update handle the rest?"


She's trying to maneuver me into admitting something, Lelouch realized. Quite audacious of her. But why? Blackmailing me over the database tampering is a losing proposition for her; doing so would expose the edits I made, drawing undue attention to her heritage and activities in Shinjuku. Even if her father's connections are enough to protect her, it would gain her nothing and cost a great deal to hush the matter up.


"More or less," Lelouch admitted, smiling ruefully. "Honestly, it was pretty easy to do. For all that people like to think of hacking as something magical or whatnot, mostly it just involves exploiting flaws in a system's security. That or finding shortcuts some lazy user already made for their own use."


"That's it?" Kallen looked crestfallen. "Just a simple trick like that? That's…" She tilted her head to the side, clearly considering something. "...Less impressive than I'd expected, I guess."


Immediately, Lelouch was forced to wrestle with his pride for control over his tongue. A simple trick? He raged in the security of his skull. You, as an insurgent and a rebel hiding herself behind the mask of a schoolgirl, should understand the advantage of securing a key piece of intelligence to exploit a systemic weakness!


Then he saw the smile. It was only barely noticeable, just a slight upward bowing of her lips, but it was there on Lady Kallen Stadtfeld's face. And it was smug.


She's trying to bait me again. The thought splashed over his inflamed pride like ice water, permitting him control over his faculties once more. Perhaps bait is the wrong word, or at least it might be more adversarial than what she has in mind. I myself noted that Kallen's skills represent a significant enough value that recruitment is worth pursuing. Perhaps she's reciprocating to some degree or is considering what value I could provide?


"As I said," Lelouch began, a patently guileless smile spread across his face, "it certainly isn't magic by any stretch. Just a relatively simple process. That said, I did a bit… more. Just to maintain consistency, you see. It wouldn't have done for some clerk at the Ministry of Education to one day realize your medical records on file diverged significantly from those kept by the Ministry of Health. To that end, a bit of clean up was necessary. A file here or there… Nothing too major."


"I see…" Kallen nodded, mulling that over. "That was a good move, Lelouch. Good thinking."


"Oh, you know," Lelouch said, allowing a touch of well-deserved pride to touch his voice, "I am capable of a bit of foresight every now and again. Not that you would know it, looking at my In Tray!" He forced a laugh at the ritually humorous observation, joined briefly by a pity chuckle from Kallen.


"But seriously," he continued, "you can rest easy about your digital profile. It is entirely consistent with what you and I understand to be your history, Kallen. Your chronic health issues, your biography, everything's been handled. You can rest easy on that score, and," Lelouch smiled, hoping it came off as warmly sympathetic, "you can rest knowing that not a single mention of Shinjuku is present in connection to any file with your name on it. Nor on any of the backups; consistency, after all, must be maintained."


"Ah," Kallen sighed, and for the first time since she'd entered the room, an entirely natural smile found its way to her. To Lelouch, it looked like a knot of tension had eased in the perpetually on-edge Stadtfeld. "That's… a relief. Thanks, I guess… Lelouch."


"It was my pleasure, Kallen," Lelouch replied with complete sincerity. Throwing grit into the gears of the Administration was its own reward. "Now, if there isn't anything else…"


"So," she interrupted, and though the smile was still there, it looked decidedly sharper now. Hungry. And this time, it wasn't his palms that itched; no, this time it was his ankles, as if he had just set his foot into a bear trap and felt the triggering pan under his foot tremble. "Can you enter the Ministry of Justice's servers and edit the contents of their database as well, Lelouch?


"After all," Kallen pressed on relentlessly, raising her voice over his silence, "you did just admit to infiltrating the Ministry of Health as well as the Ministry of Education. So what's one more scalp for your belt, Mister Vice-President?"


Lelouch instantly clamped down on the kneejerk panic flooding his system. Keep calm, he told himself, ice water running through his veins, feeling the steel jaws trembling with tension, eager to snap shut on the leg he had shoved down his throat. She's fishing. She has no evidence.


More likely than not, this is her paranoia speaking. She must think that I have set her up for failure when someone notices that the Ministry of Justice files are different from every other governmental file pertaining to her. Which would be a reasonable fear if I had not, in fact, edited the Ministry of Justice's files. After copying them for myself, of course. They were both extensive and overly protected for the daughter of a mere baron…


"It would be extremely difficult to infiltrate the Ministry of Justice," Lelouch said, resorting to the truth. "They maintain a rigorous cybersecurity regime, at least for a governmental institution. Why do you ask, Kallen?"


"Just recently, I was interrogated in regards to unauthorized changes made to my Ministry file," Kallen revealed, no trace of a smile on her face, only a razor-edged intensity and a terrifying coldness behind her eyes. Lelouch's gaze darted to her hands again and found them still thankfully empty of weapons. "Naturally, as soon as someone started asking about recent updates to my files, I thought of you."


"Hopefully you kept those thoughts to yourself," snapped Lelouch, the sudden terror at the prospect that "Lelouch Lamperouge" had come to the attention of the security services entirely overwhelming his rational fear of the insurgent before him. "Whoever it was who interrogated you was lying. I was not joking in the slightest when I said that the Ministry of Justice takes cybersecurity seriously. The only people who have full access to the edit history and the metadata of a biographic file are the members of the Technical Services Division and high ranking ministerial personnel. I doubt any would have the time or interest to interrogate a baron's daughter sneaking out to the ghetto, Kallen."


For a moment, the air between them thrummed with tension. Lelouch couldn't help but curse himself for his slip-up; he was trying to build rapport with Kallen, to convince her of his utility. If he could join forces with her and her mysterious Japanese connections…!


Snapping at her served none of his goals.


But apologizing now will convey weakness. The training he had received at court was quite clear on that point. The only thing worse than making a mistake was publicly admitting to your error. Weakness be damned, screamed another corner of his mind. What do you think you're doing here? She's dangerous! What, would you go back on your promise and leave Nunnally all alone over a point of pride?


And yet, his tongue was leaden, the apology choked behind his lips.


Thankfully, it proved unnecessary. Just as Kallen began to grudgingly nod her acceptance of the point, the door to the Student Council room banged open, shocking Lelouch to his feet and sending Kallen spinning around into a combat stance, center of gravity low and arms spread wide.


"Milly?" Lelouch and Kallen chorused, identifying the panting intruder. "What are you doing here?" both said as one, before exchanging surprised looks at the momentary synchronization.


"...You know, I was about to ask that," said Milly, looking from one face to the other, "I didn't expect to find anybody here but Lulu. Hello Kallen," she continued, turning fully toward Kallen and bobbing a brief curtsey. "It's good to see you again. Are we still on for tea tomorrow?"


True to the promise she had made via Lelouch, Milly had remained almost painfully respectful and courteous in all of her interactions with Kallen since the other girl had joined the Student Council as the ROTC's representative. Privately, Milly had confessed that the self-censoring this policy required remained something of a strain on her willpower, but to Lelouch it seemed like the effort was already paying off. Kallen had remained true to her word as well and had met Milly halfway, allowing the President to address her by name instead of Lady Kallen after a week.


Now the two of them are practically friends, Lelouch thought, almost smiling, or as close to friends as Kallen's circumstances allow. Which means that she might hesitate for a few heartbeats before knifing Milly. Joy.


"Sorry Milly, but I'll have to cancel," replied Kallen, pairing the remark with a regretful smile as she drew herself up from her stance, brushing her bangs back out of her eyes. "You can ask Lelouch for the details, but I'll be elsewhere for the remainder of the summer. Actually," she looked down at her wristwatch, "I should be heading out; I need to pack my bags."


"Oh." Milly blinked. "Well, in that case, have a… good trip?"


"Meh," Kallen grunted in a distinctly unlady-like, if not unkind, fashion. "Bye Milly, Lelouch. I'll see you in the fall."


"Goodbye," Milly replied to Kallen's retreating back, with Lelouch repeating her farewell a heartbeat later, adding "enjoy your tour!" for good measure.


Just as Kallen's hand fell on the handle of the still-open door, she paused and turned back. "Oh, that reminds me, do either of you know where Rivalz is? I've got one last goodbye to say before I leave."


"Probably still in the Automotive Club's garage," Lelouch said, helpfully adding, "he said something about tuning up his bike for a ride this afternoon. Not that I'm letting him get out of his filing duties that easily."


"I see," Kallen replied. "Thanks, Lelouch… You've been quite helpful."


And then she was gone, the door swinging quietly shut in her wake.


With the click of the latch, Lelouch sank back down into his chair, sparing his still-crowded In Tray a gloomy look before glancing up at Milly, who was still eying the door, worrying at her lip with her teeth.


"Apparently Kallen's father has come to visit," Lelouch said, answering the unspoken question as Milly turned to face him. "He apparently wants to spend the summer touring Japan with his daughter."


"Kallen's dad is here?" Milly asked, surprise writ large across her face. "The Baron of New Leicester? That's… honestly not as out of character as I first thought." At Lelouch's inquisitive look, she elaborated. "I mean, he recognized Kallen as his heiress, despite her heritage, long before anybody could have guessed that she'd be a genius in a Knightmare simulator. He must care for her as his child; if he didn't, he could have taken a few fertile wives and made some trueborn scions. It's not like there's any doubt that Kallen's his daughter, not unless her mother was sleeping with his brothers or something. The family resemblance is far too strong for it to be anything else."


"Which he presumably would have noticed," Lelouch replied lightly, ignoring the way his gut seized halfway through Milly's explanation. "So him flying halfway across the world is not out of character on the grounds that… he actually wanted to spend quality time with his daughter?"


"Sometimes the simplest answer makes the most sense," Milly replied, "no matter how strange to us the concepts might be."


Lelouch carefully didn't acknowledge the way Milly's face had tightened as she spoke, nor how hollow her familiar laughing smile, returned once Kallen had left, had grown. Though it wasn't his business, he knew that some tension had entered the lives of the Ashford family once Reuban had proclaimed his granddaughter as his heiress, rather than his son. It wasn't his business how Milly's relationship with her parents had developed in the wake of that announcement, and he doubted she would appreciate him involving himself in the matter.


He also carefully didn't notice how she had included him in her last statement. Some things were left best unsaid, and some scars weren't to be picked at.


"Putting Kallen and her fascinating dynamic with her father aside," he said instead, "what was it you wanted? Surely you almost rushed face-first into Kallen for a reason."


"Eh?" Milly blinked again, shook her head, and smiled again, returning to the track of comfortable conversation. "Oh, right!" She pointed an accusing finger across the desk. "You haven't been answering your phone, Lulu!"


"I…" he hesitated, glancing guiltily at the drawer he had crammed his phone into after he'd read Nunnally's text. "I wanted to minimize distractions," he extemporized, waving at his burdened desk. "There is a great deal that requires our attention, and I for one want to catch up on the paperwork as soon as is feasible."


"Liar," Milly replied, offhandedly dismissive. "You were nagging Nunnally again, weren't you?"


"I…" Lelouch gritted his teeth, feeling his upset stomach churn at the mention of his sister's name.


If there is even a trace of a burn on her face, Sayoko had best prepare to give an account of herself!


Unable to defend himself against Milly's knowing smirk, Lelouch opted for an offensive instead. "Did you come here for a purpose or not?" he asked irritably. "If you just came here to disrupt Council business, Madame President, then I'm sure you wouldn't mind reviewing the latest outlays filed by the landscapers! Who could have guessed that constructing a Knightmare maneuver course on short notice and maintaining the blasted thing would cost extra?"


"Sounds important!" Milly cheerfully replied with an impudent smile. "I sure am lucky to have such a capable and dedicated fiance to handle it all, aren't I, Leland?"


"Not here, Milly," Lelouch chided, eyes darting instinctually towards the closed door. "Look, you surely had a reason to come disturb my work; out with it."


"Ah." And suddenly, Lelouch noted, Milly's smile didn't look quite as vivacious as usual, nor as sincere. "Lelouch… you really should pay more attention to your phone."


The hairs on the back of Lelouch's neck rose as Milly's smile faded rapidly away.


Seeing the wet pearls beading in the corners of her eyes, Lelouch kept his voice gentle and soft as he asked, "What did I miss, Milly?"


"Phillip's been trying to get ahold of you for half an hour," Milly replied, her voice brittle with checked emotion threatening to slip her control. "When you didn't answer, he called me instead."


"Phillip?" Lelouch frowned at the name of his first acquaintance among the True Anglicans, the one who had shared his book of rituals with him the night of the first post-trivia service. "What was he looking for?"


"It's…" Milly drew in a breath, hands curling into fists by her side. "It's time, Lelouch. Old Tim… He couldn't get out of bed this morning, and according to Phillip, he's having trouble breathing. He's barely awake, but… He asked for you. He…" She looked away, licked her lips, and forced her eyes back onto Lelouch's. "He wants you to say the words over him."


Once again, the old man was right, Lelouch marveled. It looks like he will not be seeing August after all, just as he said.


And just as he said, he is passing his mantle over to me. This time for keeps, this time in the eyes of the congregation. By saying the words over his body at his request, my leadership over the Church will be set in stone.


My time has come. The thought was supposed to have been triumphant. Finally he would achieve a place of power. This was to be the moment where he tasted victory.


Instead all he tasted was ash.


"I see," he said out loud, feeling a weight hanging from his back as he climbed to his feet, the same weight he had carried since he walked through a dead city six years back. "Call Phillip back, please, Milly. Let him know…" he hesitated, then committed. "Let him know that I'm on my way."


"Will do," Milly nodded. "Some reason you're not calling him yourself?"


"Yes," Lelouch smiled thinly back, opening the desk drawer and retrieving his phone. "I doubt Sayoko will accept a call from another number and, before I do this, I need to let Nunnally know. She has demanded updates on any major developments." His smile tightened. "I would say this counts."


"Ah," said Milly, instant understanding flooding her eyes as she nodded again, clearly in favor of anything that saved her from another velvet-soft, razor-edged dressing down, courtesy of the younger vi Britannia. "I'll just step out to let Phillip know, then, shall I?"


Lelouch nodded absently, scarcely noticing when she left the Council room.


This is not a final victory, he knew, not even as the undisputed master of the True Anglicans. But Father Timothy has set the stage for me to cement their loyalty to me, first as Brother Alexander, and perhaps eventually as their True Prince. Not my final victory… But at last, I have a weapon I can use against That Man. At last, I have found people who hate him just as much as I. All I have to do now is turn that discontentment and rage into a dagger to drive right through his rotten spine!


As Lelouch thumbed Sayoko's number into his phone, raising the device to his ear just in time to hear Nunnally's protector pick up on the first ring; he didn't realize that he was grinning until he heard the smile in his own voice.

---

JULY 31, 2016 ATB
ALBERT'S TAPHOUSE, KITA WARD, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
2000


Curtains drawn, the dingy room over the taphouse was stiflingly hot in the absence of any stray breezes that might break up the sultry evening air. Turning impotently, an ancient rotary fan oscillated from side to side, the decrepit motor barely strong enough to move its blades. From the corner of the room, an equally old standing lamp shed just enough light to qualify the impromptu office as "dimly lit".


All of this was immaterial to Lelouch. He was, at the moment, entirely fixated on his laptop and the evening's operation, already well-underway.


Compared to playing cat and mouse with the Ministry of Justice's anti-infiltration measures, cracking the servers of the Diocese of Tokyo had been child's play. Almost before the operation began, Lelouch had spread their contents wide open, ready for his perusal. The security measures guarding the database of the Britannic Church in Area 11 were adequate at best, their limited effectiveness degraded by diocesan staff who took digital security guidelines as suggestions and who updated their security software on a schedule best described as haphazard.


After all, why wouldn't they be smugly complacent? Lelouch grinned to himself, watching as his rootkit finished installing itself and began loading a prepared list of account numbers. Who would steal from the Church, after all? If not for the risk of their eternal soul, surely fear of Lazaro Pulst's vengeance would cower any would-be thieves.


Sadly for them, His Eminence will soon be beyond such petty mortal disputes.


Almost before Father Timothy's body had time to cool in its grave, unmarked by the side of a Chiba road save for an unpainted cross, Lelouch had put the first steps of his new plan into motion. For the moment, he had momentum on his side; Father Timothy's last request had passed the mantle of leadership to him in as smooth of a succession as any underground group could hope for. Lelouch had spent every available minute of the last two weeks taking merciless advantage of the old man's legacy, traveling to every fractured cell and clandestine congregation in the Tokyo region to re-introduce himself as the new head of the True Anglican congregation.


For the most part, this announcement had been met with acquiescence. Lelouch had met most of the congregation before and formed personal connections with as many leading figures in the disparate fragments as he could. Now, he drew upon those connections and upon the work he had done on behalf of each congregation, pointing out when he had sourced funds for new clothes or anticongestants during hay fever season or when he had helped write a letter to the electric company clarifying the matter of an unpaid bill after the power to a congregant's apartment had been shut off.


And for now, his inherited authority was holding. For now. The dual flaws in the foundation of his inherited priestly authority were blatant to Lelouch and, he was certain, to his followers. Well spoken and intelligent though he was, he was both not a priest and still only sixteen. This later fact wasn't known to his followers, but they all knew that he was young, far younger than most of them.


He was, in short, riding toward an authority shortfall. Short of somehow becoming ordained in the defunct pre-Archbishop Warren Britannic Church, drastic measures were necessary.


Besides, Lelouch admitted to himself, toying with a pen as white text scrolled faster than the eye could follow across his console, there is only so long a revolutionary movement, or really a reactionary movement, can squat in a basement before it loses any vigor it may have once possessed. Better to burn the powder now than wait for it to degrade entirely.


From that seed, Lelouch's plan had sprung. He had no priestly credentials to fall back upon, nor the appearance of wisdom and temperance that Father Timothy's advanced age and years on the run had brought the old man. He would have to manufacture his own authority through actions, through victories, through giving the double-handful of people who were his now fresh hope. Hope not only of survival, but hope that their long-awaited triumph would soon stoop upon the earth.


There was really only one target suitable to deliver all of that.


And by happy coincidence, that target is perhaps the only man holding Clovis's entire rotten Administration together. Only to advance his own graft, but the sheer power vacuum his absence would open is guaranteed to prompt infighting.


By not-so-sheer coincidence, that same target had been the subject of Lelouch's thankfully forgotten abortive poster campaign.


Lazaro Pulst, Bishop of Tokyo and Minister of Economic Development. The Viceregal-Governor's economic advisor and the widely hated "Fattest Man in Area 11" made for a natural target, but one too well-protected for his legion of malcontents to do anything but mutter about.


Or that had been the case until Lelouch had brought organization and planning to the members of his congregation most willing to risk direct action.


The first stage of his plan to topple the Fattest Man from his episcopal throne had been inspired by Kallen. Her curiosity regarding his hacks into the Administration's various databases had lit the spark. Almost on an impulse, Lelouch had tried his hand at cracking into the Diocese's financial database. The dummy donation he made to the "widows and orphans fund" complete with an almost unnoticeable worm piggybacking on the entry had, to his muted surprise, led to the discovery of a veritable world of graft.


And the embezzlement of donations and smudged lines between the Diocesian coffers and the Bishop's personal accounts had only been the start of what Lelouch had found in his first dive into the thoroughly cooked Church books. Over a fevered, sleepless night, he traced accounts, cross-referenced names against recent news items from the society page, and, later, checked for some of those same entries in digitized police blotters and Army incident records.


"The scale of it is shocking," he had told Nunnally and Milly over coffee, "though the content is sadly typically exploitative. Trafficking in 'conscripted' Elevens, buying up debts owed by poor citizens and immediately declaring the markers due, operating multiple brothels…


"None of that is particularly shocking, not really, not to anybody with even the most cursory of windows into the sleaze oozing below the Settlement's gilded facade. Rather, the sheer scope of the operation is the surprise here, and how hollowed out the Diocese has truly become. Truthfully, I think that Pulst and his ilk simply grew too greedy in their efforts to skim the fat and now the Church here in Area 11 is little but a carcass. Only the bloat of its own rot gives it any substance, held in check only by a thin skin of propriety." Lelouch had shook his head, almost dismayed by his own findings. "Pulst is sitting on a bomb, and I doubt he has even the slightest of clues."


"So… what're you going to do?" Milly had asked curiously. "Gonna leak it to the press or something? Prick the skin and pop the bubble all over the Fattest Man in Tokyo's face?"


"Why bother?" Lelouch had snorted. "Viceregal-Governor la Britannia effectively owns all the press in the Area, so I doubt any would be interested in running the story. Sending it back across the Pacific would be equally pointless; the entire story is local to Area 11, so nobody who matters in the Homeland will care."


"The news is always quite complimentary of brother Clovis," Nunnally had sighed, gently replacing her teacup on its saucer. "Still though, Brother, I am sure you have no intention of giving up and allowing this abuse to continue, do you?"


His darling sister's comment had only technically been a question. The implicit command had been as clear as it was already unnecessary.


After all, Lelouch thought, mentally patting himself on the back as he typed in the next string in his prepared list into the prompt, when a man as important as His Rotundity offers up such a plum opportunity, it would be rude to refuse.


The real question, he had found, was what to do with the remaining funds in the Diocese's coffers and slush funds. His initial knee-jerk response had been to divert them into one of his own illicit accounts. Stolen Church money could cover his and Nunnally's expenses for a very long time, to say nothing of improving the lots of his parishioners. His second thought had been on how easily traceable such digital diversions of funds were, especially if the Exchequer smelled an opportunity to appropriate untaxed and dirty money for their own ends.


As Nunnally had provided the question, she likewise also provided the answer.


"Give it away," his darling sister had said after he laid out his predicament, looking up from her muesli to smile at him from long habit, her forever closed eyes oriented just to his right. "It was donated to the Church in the name of protecting the helpless and needy, was it not? Send it where it was meant to go."


"What makes you think that the Administration would allow whichever lucky charities benefit from the surprise donation to keep their new wealth?" Lelouch had inquired, mildly incredulous at the suggestion.


"Absolutely nothing, dear brother," Nunnally had replied with a sharper smile. "Other than how much our dear brother Clovis wishes to be seen as a kind and benevolent prince. As you mentioned, he owns the Area's media, and they cannot cease singing the praises of his humanitarian deeds. No doubt at his prompting. A kind and benevolent prince does not snatch bread from the mouths of poor veterans and orphans, at least not where there is any chance someone might find out."


And with that, the next piece of the plan had clicked into place.


Dirty laundry aired, funds distributed to the poor, and the third, all important, leg of the plan. Which, Lelouch glanced down to the corner of the screen, checking the time, should be reaching its crescendo any minute now.


Somewhere in the massive pile of steel, glass, and concrete that enjoyed the name of the Bishop's Palace, built adjacent to the equally ugly Tokyo Cathedral and only a stone's throw from the Viceregal Palace in the heart of the Britannian Concession, the last stages of that third leg would be unfolding. Havelock, his old trivia partner, had shaved his easily identifiable sideburns and donned a carefully crafted replica of the uniform worn by Diocesan stewards. Even now, he would be padding through the no doubt decadently decorated hallways of the bishop's private apartments, pushing a cart laden with freshly laundered bedding.


Wrapped around his narrow waist below the steward's tailcoat was a sedated Western Taipan, straight from Area 9 and freshly liberated from the Clovisland Zoo Reptile House.


In just under two hours, the sedatives will wear off. Lelouch was quite certain of that point; he had been the one to calculate the dosage necessary to incapacitate the incredibly deadly reptile and had been in the room when the snake had been very carefully injected with the pilfered drug. By which point Havelock should have long since made the bishop's bed and continued on with his rounds, just another servant among hundreds. Assuming Pulst's nighttime entertainments conclude before midnight, he'll be leaving the Concession just as Pulst is slipping between the sheets…


It was not the most practical of plans; Lelouch could freely admit as much. It would have been much simpler to rig a grenade below the bishop's official vehicle or, if push came to shove, to simply shoot the cleric in mid-sermon.


But in such matters, optics are everything. Blowing Pulst up would be a mere political act, while desecrating a chapel, even a state church chapel, with bloodshed would elevate Pulst's name posthumously on the wings of martyrdom.


Being bit by a snake, however, the archetypal symbol of evil and corruption… Lips quirked in a cruel smile, gone in a flash. Well, that's just the devil taking his due, isn't it?


In Lelouch's opinion, it was an easy narrative to follow and to understand, with undeniable symbolism and a clear message. It was also a clear attack on the legitimacy of the Britannic Church, and thus would certainly be covered up by the official media to the greatest extent possible.


Which was why Lelouch had no intention of conceding control over the narrative to the Viceregal-Governor's lickspittles.


The door to the sweltering apartment over the bar creaked open and Milly slipped inside, closing the door behind her.


And speaking of narrative control…


"Ah, Milly," Lelouch said, glancing up from his laptop to greet his confederate. "Is it ready?"


Wordlessly, the Ashford heiress placed a small drive down on his temporary desk, the aluminum casing clicking against scored wood. "It's here," she confirmed, her voice uncharacteristically toneless. "Just as you asked."


Frowning, Lelouch looked back up from his computer and gave Milly a critical once-over. In the room's poor lighting, she scarcely looked herself.


Beyond her guise as Milly Ashland, she looks… tired. Tired and anxious.


Lelouch couldn't blame her; it was only natural for a young lady shielded from the fullness of court life to blanch at premeditated murder.


"It will be alright, Milly," he said reassuringly, standing from his chair and pacing around the desk to stand beside her, half to convey his support and half to massage life back into his cramped legs after too long behind his screen. "I am certain you did an excellent job with the credit and denunciation video. You really do have a knack for this kind of work; you'll definitely be a wonderful anchorwoman some day."


"I…" Milly forced a tremulous smile. "...Thanks, Lulu. But…" the smile cracked. "That's… not really why I'm concerned."


"Oh?" Lelouch quirked an eyebrow, remaining confident though he felt a sudden wave of concern at the prospect that he had overlooked something. "What's the matter then, Milly? Everything's going smoothly so far." He paused, then added more gently, "Having second thoughts, Pres?"


"Yeah…" Milly sighed at the admission and turned slightly so she could rest against the edge of the desk.


A moment later, Lelouch joined her, holding his tongue in companionable silence.


"...It's not Pulst that's making me worry," she said after a quiet minute had passed. "As a man, he's absolute garbage. What he's done, the abuses he's committed, facilitated, and covered up…" She pulled a face, a grotesque expression of theatrical disgust. "We should be applauded for killing him! It's a public service, really!"


"The prospect of becoming accessory to a murder doesn't trouble you?" Lelouch asked, gently prodding as Milly fell silent again. "Make no mistake, I would not hold it against you if it did."


After all, he reflected, it's also my first time being directly responsible for the death of another human being… I wonder if my lack of feeling about that should be a cause for concern? Pulst has a family, presumably; even corrupt, bloviating bastards have those. Perhaps they will miss him, but I simply cannot bring myself to feel any regret for their loss…


"Well, I'm not thrilled about it," Milly admitted, grimacing slightly. "But… No, at the end of the day, there's just some people the world could do without, and I think he's one of them."


Lelouch nodded carefully, keeping quiet. Something was clearly weighing down on Milly, and if it wasn't the murder, then she had yet to mention what the real source of her concerns was.


"Hell, the only one I'm worried for tonight, like, right at this moment is Havelock," Milly continued, looking up at the water-stained ceiling as she spoke. "Assuming the snake doesn't bite him or nobody realizes that he's not actually on the staff, he should be alright… It would be really unlucky if a random police patrol picked him up on the way home, but he should be okay…"


"Havelock knows what he's doing," Lelouch said soothingly. "All of his papers are in order, he's got more than enough cash on hand to handle any shakedowns, and I even made sure he knows how to apply the false sideburns he'll be wearing for the next few days."


He also knows exactly what is expected of him in the event that some unforeseen factor complicates his escape beyond recovery. Even knowing full well what would have to be done, he still volunteered… And all he requested was that I say the last words with him before he left this afternoon.


"Yeah," Milly agreed, "he'll be fine. For today at least, probably. But," she looked back toward Lelouch, meeting his eyes squarely, "what about tomorrow? Or a month from now? What about everybody else?"


"Impossible to say," Lelouch conceded. "The Church already has plenty of experience keeping a low profile and relying on codes and signs to pass messages, but if the security services actually take an interest in us, who knows how effective those will be. The Bureau setting up a permanent field office down in Hiroshima is undeniably worrying, but the other option is just to continue hiding until we dwindle into irrelevancy. Ultimately," he shrugged, "I can plan as much as I like, but I cannot see the future, Milly."


"...I'm not really saying this right," Milly mumbled, then sighed with exasperation. "I get all that. I know all that. I heard you say as much to Nunnally, remember? Look, I'm not… worried… about our physical safety. Well," she caveated, "I am, but that's not… Ugh!"


She shook her head vigorously, carefully pinned blonde tresses escaping their bindings, and turned back to fix Lelouch with a skewering focus. "Look, Lulu, I just gotta ask… Do you think what we're doing here is right?"


"You said it yourself, didn't you? Killing Pulst would be a public service. But…" Lelouch frowned, peering into Milly's cornflower blue eyes, "this isn't about Pulst, is it?"


"Who cares about that tub of lard?" Milly snorted dismissively, before quickly sobering up once more. "No, Lelouch, I'm talking about how you… we… are manipulating the members of the church. I mean…" she took a breath, held it, and exhaled. "I mean, do you really… believe all of this? Not just the God stuff, but that the True Anglicans will ever return to power? 'True Prince' or not, Leland, you've gotta admit that an actual victory like that is a very long shot, but you're selling it as an inevitability. Selling them hope is what you're doing, and… and I don't know if you have any intention of ever delivering."


And that's Milly Ashford right there, Lelouch thought, calmly meeting his friend's imploring eyes. She likes to have fun, likes to tease and play jokes, but at the end of the day she's an intensely caring person. Moreover, she's an intensely responsible person; once she moves past her jokes and recognizes her responsibility. It seems like she's taken responsibility for the welfare of the congregation, and… probably because she helped recruit some of them, a sense of responsibility for my promises.


If not handled delicately, this could be an issue.


"Big questions indeed, Milly," he said at last, unflinchingly meeting her gaze. "Truthfully, I have been struggling with some of them myself."


Pushing off of the desk, Lelouch rose to his full height and stretched, rolling his shoulders back as he tried to loosen his back after hours hunching over his laptop, buying time in the process.


"Starting from the easiest question… I'd say I'm ambivalent on the 'God stuff' as you put it. Whether or not there is a god or an afterlife matters very little when Britannia is free to do as it wishes in this life. I won't lie, the prospect of That Man spending the remainder of eternity burning in Hell is pleasing, but ultimately it matters very little. God, I assume," Lelouch added, "will presumably tend to that while leaving the small matter of sending That Man to his just reward up to me."


"I don't think there is a God," Milly admitted, almost offhandedly, and then looked shocked at her own words. "Er, I mean-! I-it's just… If there is, He doesn't really seem to do very much, does He? And if that's the case… Well… isn't that basically the same as there not being one at all?"


"I will admit that it is difficult to argue that point," Lelouch chuckled, before continuing. "As for the real meat of your questions, about whether or not I am deceiving the True Anglicans… I do not believe that I am."


"You think you can win." Milly's voice was incredulously flat.


"How can I believe otherwise and still function?" Lelouch asked, an old weight hanging on his back, his stomach knotting with a hunger long since sated and nostrils full of the remembered scent of corpses sweltering in the summer's heat. "If I cannot win, if the world truly is immovable and cruel, if there is no chance of ever tearing down Britannia and building a world worthy of Nunnally from the ashes, then why bother getting up each morning?"


"That's not an answer," Milly accused. "It's inspirational, sure, but an affirmation isn't an answer."


"True," Lelouch nodded, "it isn't. But like you said, a final triumph is a long shot. We have to have hope, and hope is built from the belief that there is a chance of victory. Do I believe that triumph is inevitable? No, but that does not mean that I am any less dedicated to doing all in my power to pave a road toward that glorious conclusion. Do I think it is probable that the True Anglicans shall again preach from the pulpit of Rochester Cathedral? It is not probable, but it is possible.


"You are right, Milly, in your silent but pertinent point: I am manipulating the True Anglicans. But I ask you, do you think that they don't know this? Don't accept this? They know just as well as you or I how many they number, how scarce their resources are. They know that victory is a dream, at least for now. But that hope I sell them is the same hope I feel, the same hope I sell myself. I know how great and terrible That Man is, Milly, and I know how cold, uncaring, and awful the world can be.


"But," Lelouch continued, his voice quieting, losing none of its vigor as volume bled away, "I will not give up. One way or another, either I will die or I will be victorious. Britannia will burn, Milly, or I will burn myself up. Too much has happened. Too much cannot be undone. If I am selling hope to the True Anglicans, then it is only because I am hooked on that same hope already. Call me a liar for telling them that they will be the winners when this all shakes out, but then I am a liar twice-over because that is the same lie I tell myself whenever I gaze into a mirror.


Pausing, Lelouch looked away from Milly, giving himself some time to collect himself as the previous silence returned to the room. It thickened in the sultry air as Lelouch waited for his co-conspirator's reply, seeming to condense into some dreadful unseen fog as the long seconds ticked by. When he could stand it no longer, Lelouch mustered up his courage and, dragging his eyes back down to hers, asked:


"Does that answer your question?"


"Y-" Milly stopped, her voice quavering and her eyes wide and staring, as if she had never seen him before, and coughed. "Yeah," she tried again, "it does… Whew…"


A hint of a smile, a touch of a blush, and something like her usual mischievous sparkle returned to Milly as she took a deep, heaving breath. "You sure do talk fancy, Mister Leland…" Her lips parted into a devil-may-care grin. "You always have dreamt big, haven't you? Jeez… Well, there's worse ambitions for a son of Britannia, I suppose? After all, isn't it the most Britannian ambition of all to destroy Britannia once and for all?"


Lelouch stifled the flinch that last comment evoked. The idea that everything he was doing was only playing into the lies That Man spread about the nature of humanity, the nature of Britannia… He pushed the disconcerting thought away entirely and focused back on Milly. At least Milly saw he wanted to destroy the throne instead of claiming it for himself, that was something.


"All that aside," he said, "are you still with me, Milly? You asked if I was certain that I can deliver victory, and I have admitted that I am not. Does that shake your confidence? If you want out, I will not hold it against you."


"Oh, you're not escaping our engagement that easily, Leland~" Milly sang back, Ashford peeping through Ashland even as she clung to her disguise's backstory. "Sorry, but you're stuck with me. From now until… Until the end, I guess."


"Keep up with the jokes," Lelouch replied with a smile, stepping back and away from Milly to return to his computer, checking on his program's progress. "It's good for morale. But, Milly?" He looked back up, catching her eyes once again. "Thank you. You and your family have done… so much, so very much, for us. It will not be forgotten, I promise you."


"You make a lot of promises," Milly mused, rising from the desk. "But… I'll take your word on it." A smile touched her lips as she turned toward the door, Lelouch only catching a glimpse of the expression. "Lord Lelouch… Remember me when you come into your kingdom."


A joke, Lelouch knew, and knew that it wasn't.


Several minutes after Milly left, Lelouch's phone pulsed against the side of his leg.


"Havelock?" he said, recognizing the number. "How was your shift?"


"Complete dogshit," came the reassuring counter-phrase, affirming that, paradoxically, all was well. "Just another day on deck, you know how it goes. Having to deal with another smug pig in a suit work'n us boys to the bone. Just stepped out for a smoke break to see how the kiddos are."


"Polly's well," Lelouch replied, informing him that the first prong of the offensive, the hack, was already well underway. "Megan's just gone to bed." The second prong was ready for deployment.


"Well at least there's that," Havelock said, relieved, and Lelouch heard the sound of a lighter clicking in the background as Havelock made good on his cover. "Ahh, hits the spot, that. Long shift tonight. Miguel was shifty as hell tonight, but I saw him off just fine. Hopefully that holds."


The snake was in the bishop's bed and the sedation had already been wearing off when Havelock had put it there. Nobody had noticed that anything was amiss yet.


"That's good," Lelouch said, feeling quite relieved himself. So far, everything was going splendidly. "Well, hang in there. You don't have much longer left on the clock, so just keep your head down and stay away from that guy. He's a troublemaker." He hesitated, then asked, "do you need a ride home?"


Stay in place for the remainder of your scheduled shift, and leave with the rest of the evening shift when they clock out. Do nothing to draw attention to yourself. Are you on track for exfiltration?


"Nah," Havelock demurred, "I'll be taking the train home. Smells like piss, but it gets the job done, dunnit?"


"Alright," Lelouch nodded, "hang in there. See you back at the bar; first round's on me."


Hanging up, Lelouch turned back to the computer and busied himself preparing Milly's video for distribution, giving it a quick viewing himself. It was short, only a few minutes long, but it was quite punchy. It aped the ritual of excommunication, listing Pulst's many and varied sins while flashing between photos of news items, shots of the crooked ledgers, and numbers and names of those wronged by Pulst, before building to a thundering climax, first declaring Pulst defrocked and expelled from the company of the Saved, then levying a forced penance upon him. "Blood shall pay for blood, and only blood shall wipe away your sin, Lazaro Pulst!"


Milly really does good work, Lelouch thought, uploading the video to a blind server located in Australia before mirroring the video to a number of servers distributed across the EU and the Britannian Heartland Areas. And of course, so does Nunnally. Nobody would think that the thundering voice came from a wheelchair-bound thirteen year old girl with a voice changer. Maybe she's got a career in voice acting?


As the computer dinged a merry notification that the uploads were complete, Lelouch pulled the virtual machine he was running the hack from back onto his screen. A quick check proved that all was ready. A single keystroke would lock the Diocese's servers, giving Lelouch's manufactured credentials administrator privileges and stripping access from all other accounts. Another keystroke would initiate millions of involuntary micro-donations from the Diocese of Tokyo to thirty selected charities, each transferring between one and ten pounds. Each donation would be made out "in honor of Timothy Hamilton, late of Bainbridge."


And with the tap of Enter, Lelouch thought, smiling as he pressed that key, I have eviscerated the Bishopric of Tokyo. Now, he thought, minimizing the window as he began uploading his collection of evidence of the crimes of Lazaro Pulst to a number of file sharing sites, to salt the wound.


The door to the office swung back open, and to Lelouch's surprise, Milly re-entered the room, pushing a rolling office chair laden with a light blanket ahead of her.


"Milly?" Lelouch asked, blinking at the intrusion. "I thought you had left."


"Why would you think something as silly as that, Leland?" came the arch reply. "What kind of fiance would I be if I left my man all alone in the office, slaving over a hot computer?"


"...A perfectly ordinary person with her own life to lead?" Lelouch tried, before sighing. "You know, it's just us here. Even Fred's gone home for the night. You can let the joke rest for now."


"Mmm…" Milly put a finger to her lips and made a production of looking upwards, miming contemplation. "Nah!" she said at last, scooting her chair up beside Lelouch's. "You're already too serious, Lulu, and if I can't force you into a dress for a crossdresser's ball, I'll have to resort to the next best option!"


"Pretending that we're together?" Lelouch asked wryly as Milly shook the blanket out. "Tame by your standards, Milly."


"Who said I'm pretending?" she rejoined, dropping down into her chair. Somehow, she had maneuvered it behind the desk so it directly abutted Lelouch's own tired swivel chair, and Lelouch couldn't help but notice that her knee was pressing up against his own. As was her thigh. "But if you want to let it rest for now, Lelouch… That's fine. Be a party pooper. I'll just take a nap instead of putting up with your no-fun anti-antics."


Killing a bishop doesn't count as an antic? Lelouch thought incredulously, but held his tongue even as Milly spread the blanket over them both and leaned into his shoulder. After all she had done to help him, well… I'll let her have her fun for now.


And she had provided an abundance of help over the last few months. While Lelouch could travel freely through the Settlement and the Concession, a Britannian among Britannians, a lone man was suspicious, especially if he kept stopping in bars, coffee shops, and churches. A man roaming with a pretty girl on his arm, however, was a man about town, taking his lover out on a date. That said date had a handbag full of True Anglican literature that she slipped under placemats and between the leaves of hymnals and library books was lost completely on whatever eyes might have noticed her.


And that doesn't even touch on her efficacy as a recruiter.


As it turned out, soldiers, clerks, and workers were all eager to open their hearts to a pretty and attentive girl who seemed not only receptive but happy to listen to their gripes and concerns. The knowledge of which she always passed to Lelouch, who tailored his recruitment pitch to each prospective recruit individually.


For all of that… She can have my shoulder for an hour, he decided, looking down at the apparently already sleeping Milly. She had been up late the night before, he knew, working hard editing the video that would announce the death of Lazaro Pulst and the resurrection of the True Church from the graveyard of history. With that in mind… It's the least I can do.


An hour passed, and then another. Just as the clock ticked toward midnight and Lelouch's swelling unease grew almost uncontrollable, the phone rang again. This time, the phone number was Sergeant Coffin's.


"Alexander," the noncom said as soon as Lelouch picked up, sirens wailing in the background, "headquarters has declared a state of lockdown across all installations manned by the 32nd. Scuttlebutt has it that it's just the Honorary barracks going into lockdown for now, but that might change. No explanations given so far. I'll get back to you if that changes."


The line went dead before Lelouch could reply. "Best of luck, Roger," he said to the empty room anyway, putting the phone back down on the desk. "Best of luck to us all."


Ironically enough, determining whether or not the assassination attempt had been successful was perhaps the greatest blind spot in Lelouch's entire plan. Havelock would be long gone from the scene by the time the bishop slipped between the sheets, and any stranger lingering outside the Bishop's Palace to monitor traffic would soon have cause to regret it from within their new holding cell.


Ultimately, "Father Alexander" had commanded the soldiers and low-ranking bureaucrats of his congregation to alert him of any unusual developments. Coffin's heads-up about an entire Honorary Legion being placed into lockdown was just an example of just such an unusual development that could mark the successful assassination of Bishop Lazaro.


But it could also mark the failed assassination of that same worthy, Lelouch considered, drumming his fingers against the desk. Or it could be in regards to something entirely independent of our operation. Putting out the announcement claiming responsibility without certain proof of success is a gamble, both because the True Anglican cause would look foolish if Pulst takes to the pulpit at Tokyo Cathedral tomorrow, alive and healthy, and because it would spoil the element of surprise.


On the other hand, the attempt has already been made and the Diocese's coffers are rapidly being emptied. It's a little late to hedge my bets.


As Milly's artfully assembled video announcing the excommunication of Bishop Lazaro from both the company of the faithful and the mortal coil went live on half a dozen sites simultaneously, with multiple download links to the trove of evidence Lelouch had retrieved posted in the comments, Lelouch wondered how Viceregal-Governor la Britannia, the Third Prince Clovis, would respond to the death of one of his closest advisors.


Whatever he decides, Lelouch knew, it's all but guaranteed that Clovis will find some new and innovative way to fuck it all up.


Content with the night's work, Lelouch allowed himself to lean back into Milly, his eyes slipping shut. They'd have to wake early, he knew, to sneak back to Ashford's campus before they were missed, but for now…


For now, let us rest, content that the fruits of our labor are coming to fruition at last.

---

AUGUST 1, 2016 ATB
PRINCE CLOVIS'S PERSONAL STUDY, VICEREGAL PALACE, BRITANNIAN CONCESSION, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
0455


"-And thankfully one of the maids managed to behead the serpent before it could bite anyone else or escape," said the Agent, flipping his notebook shut. "As soon as the snake, a Western Taipan, we believe, was killed, paramedics evacuated His Eminence to the Nunnally vi Britannia Memorial Hospital where the receiving doctors declared him dead on arrival."


The Viceregal-Governor, hollow-eyed despite four cups of coffee after a sleepless night and slumped so far over that he was practically sliding out of his chair, nodded jerkily and beckoned the Agent to continue.


The contrast to the ramrod straight posture of the Royal Guard standing vigilantly at a stiff parade rest directly behind the prince's armchair drove the pathetic display up to the very line of farce.


"Investigations are of course still underway," reported the Agent, smothering his momentary amusement at the state of his "natural superior", "both in regards to the exact circumstances leading up to His Eminence's unfortunate demise and the… video released in the wake of his passing."


Which had been, in the Agent's opinion, a brilliant move. Not only had the brief video been extremely memorable, but the soundtrack that played over the opening and closing moments had been simple enough that anybody could hum it and incredibly catchy. Paired with the continued lack of success in scrubbing the thing from the internet, half of the Area's population had likely watched the video at least once already.


Even if we somehow managed to remove it from the public's view entirely, the horse has already fled the stable. The narrative has been set.


"Heretics…" Clovis snarled, outrage breathing temporary vitality into his fatigued, hungover frame. "Heretics here, in my Area!" He glared balefully at the Agent, who met the prince's eyes with bland equanimity. "Why didn't the Inquisitors know about this infestation?"


Because, as intelligence operatives, they are entirely worthless, the Agent silently answered, sure that similar thoughts were passing through the mute Guard's mind as well. Because their methods, rewarding false accusations and pursuing confessions through whatever means necessary, are best used to terrorize a population back into line rather than to actually identify and disrupt organized opposition.


"The Holy Office has assured the Directorate that the heretic population is quite negligible and entirely confined to the lower orders," the Agent replied smoothly, neatly deflecting the blame. "The Purges were, of course, quite thorough, and the benefits the reformed creed endowed upon the nobility obvious. As such, the ranking inquisitor for the Area decided that the Holy Office's resources were best devoted to hunting crypto-Papists hiding amongst the commoner populations hailing from the Old Areas."


"Well, that certainly was a wonderful choice, wasn't it?" The Viceregal-Governor said with biting sarcasm, throwing up his hands with a touch of his usual theatricality. "First they couldn't find anything on that jumped up Honorary, and now they dropped the ball so hard their own bishop got killed!"


"I cannot speak to the efficacy of my colleagues in the Holy Office," said the Agent, pausing pointedly to convey his unspoken opinion about that efficacy, "but I can assure you that the Directorate has already begun our analysis of the alleged evidence released, presumably by the perpetrators of the murder, in concert with the propaganda video."


And what a damning packet it is, that evidence. Every sin of the Church, every blemish on her face, all laid bare in the microcosm of the actions of a single bishop. The secret Leveller shook his head, amazed despite himself. Lunatic zealots they might be, this "True Church of Britannia" has just released the single greatest argument against canon law and canon courts we could hope for. Clerical hands, rich with stolen lucre, dismissing their own crimes from the judge's chair with prejudice and tasking the in-house enforcers with harassing those who would stand against them… Absurd.


"Regrettably," the Agent continued at Clovis's irate prompting gestures, "none of the material seems to be falsified in any way we can distinguish. Our analysts have yet to complete the process of cross-checking names and numbers, of course, but from what progress they have achieved thus far, the Diocese of Tokyo was almost certainly responsible for one of the largest money laundering operations I have ever heard of in the service of tax evasion. Beyond laundering the money of others, the Diocese and Bishop Lazaro appear to have misappropriated tens of millions of pounds, both from donations and from Bishop Lazaro's ministerial budget."


"Bah," Clovis waved dismissively, still frowning though the Agent noticed how he relaxed in his chair. "All money problems. Nobody will care about something so grimey and base. Everybody will have forgotten about all of this nastiness within a week."


"Unfortunately, Your Highness, I doubt we will be so lucky," the Agent said, shaking his head regretfully. "It also seems like the Bishopric of Tokyo was deeply involved in the misappropriation and unlicensed trafficking of conscripted Numbers as well. While the bulk of the conscripted labor was put on the usual tasks, it seems like a fair number were assigned to a number of companies that do not, in fact, exist."


"And?" Clovis blinked, his near-stupor resuming as his interest in the conversation waned again. "Who cares? There's no end to the Numbers. If we want more, we can find them. A handful going missing here or there doesn't matter."


"Generally, you would be correct, Your Highness," the Agent conceded, bowing his head. "However, one of those shell companies was also the listed purchaser for a large consignment of medical and surgical supplies. The Directorate noted this in the context of a different investigation, so the company's name is flagged. This combination of medical supplies and disposable bodies in a single entity raises worrying questions."


And now, the Agent noted, His Ineptness has gone quite still in his chair; he isn't bored now, nor half-asleep. Interesting…


"Hmph," Clovis snorted condescendingly a moment late, his usual impeccable stage timing notably off. "Sounds like nothing more outlandish than a simple harvesting operation. But… oh, fine. I suppose if the rabble got wind of this detail, they might raise a fuss. So many weeds in my garden… It's so difficult to stay on top of them all!" His eyes flashed to the Agent, intense and fearful despite the bravado. "I will be expecting another briefing on this… shell company… no later than this afternoon! Instruct the analysts that discovering the extent of this rot is a priority! Understood?"


"Yes, Your Highness," the Agent replied, raising fist to chest. "It will be done. Every available analyst will be tasked with following this lead."


"Good, good…" Clovis sank back into his chair, his hand questing toward a steaming cup of coffee waiting on a table nearby, where another soldier from the Guard had left the carafe before taking up a station outside the door. Clovis, it seemed, wasn't feeling particularly trusting toward his household staff at the moment. "Be off with you, then. I have… Much to attend to."


"By your leave, Your Highness," murmured the Agent, backing out of the room and closing the door behind him. He was eager to carry out the Viceregal-Governor's instructions, though not for reasons Clovis was likely to appreciate.


Unlike most of my interactions with the man, the Agent thought, nodding to the brace of Royal Guards stationed in front of the door, who didn't return the gesture, that conversation lacked an audience beyond his bodyguard. As we are both his sworn and trusty servants, it's unlikely that Clovis was manufacturing his reactions; why would he bother, after all? So his reactions were likely sincere, most especially his sudden interest in the company purchasing human meat and medical supplies.


Now, Clovis could be correct about its nature as an organ harvesting operation, the Agent conceded as he made his way through the Viceroy's Palace, returning to the sub-basement domain of the Directorate. It would explain both of the purchases, but the reaction from the Royal Pain doesn't match something so pedestrian.


And, the Agent thought, turning his mind back toward a meeting months in the past, all the way back in the April springtime, Clovis is always talking to General Aspirus of the Special Weapons Corps, isn't he? They are good friends… Perhaps good enough friends that Aspirus was able to convince Clovis to sign off on some special project sufficiently secret or grotesque that it had to be kept off even the Corps' official books? If Clovis didn't know about Pulst's operation or didn't know the full expanse of that operation, he could have simply told his most trusted advisor to handle the matter. But if he was fully aware of Pulst's operation, a conspirator rather than a dupe… Perhaps he used the machine Pulst had built to launder both money and responsibility?


But why? What could possibly justify such secrecy?


The mind boggled at the implications.


If it is something that the prince wants to hide, the Leveller resolved, then it is something that the people must learn about. To protect the common welfare, this investigation must proceed, and as soon as the prince tells us to stop… That's when the real work shall begin.

 

[Daemon Targaryen]

more blood that I was too weak to stop from being spilled.
.

Click to shrink...

I hope y'all liked it, I am the one who added it (I don't add much lines so the ones I do are more noteworthy to me)


The key thing with Lelouch is that he's as broken as he's empathetic, and it's fun to do his character.

 

[islamy96]

instead of nationalistic group, lelouch now lead zealot. the rising sun zealot and true anglican zealot fight is inevitable.
meanwhile tanya dream of clerk job under staddfelt is more far away.

 

[BF110C4]

instead of nationalistic group, lelouch now lead zealot. the rising sun zealot and true anglican zealot fight is inevitable.
meanwhile tanya dream of clerk job under staddfelt is more far away.

Click to shrink...

And britannian zealots, even commoners open a lot more doors and allow far more stealthy tactics than Angry Japanese Banzai Soldiers which a good percentage of the original Black Knights were, maybe allowing enough underhanded tricks to reproduce some of Zero's less extreme Geass sheannigans.

 

[Scopas]

(Alright, it's been a while. I had a move and a bunch of other stuff, so please excuse the delay. This is a somewhat unconventional chapter, but it describes a pivotal event that happens offscreen from the main action. I hope you enjoy it, since I had a real blast outlining it. A big thank you to Sunny, MetalDragon, Larc, Rakkis157, Rain and Aemon for their editing and beta-reading. Thank you to Koreanwriter for his research and ideas. Thank you to Mazerka for the new TvTropes page.)


Elphinstone in Indochina, A Tragedy in Four Parts



SCENE 1: Bite and Hold



NOVEMBER 27, 2015 ATB
VICEREGAL PALACE, SAI GON SETTLEMENT, AREA 10


"To His Grace Field Marshal Joseph Milburn, 6th Duke of Vancouver and by the grace of His Imperial Majesty commander of the 4th Army:


Whereupon it has come to the attention of His Highness Schneizel el Britannia, Second Prince of the Holy Britannian Empire and Chancellor of the same, that progress towards a final victory in Area 10 over the rebellious Numbers and their Chinese backers has been delayed, and whereupon the Districts of Kampuchea and Lao Long remain in a state of rebellion, His Highness has seen it fit to issue a revised order (FO 2015-11-25 #0317) in regards to the Indochina Campaign.


You are ordered to begin construction upon an installation in the Son La Prefecture from whence the forces of His Imperial Majesty may conduct long range anti-insurgent patrols, thereby stabilizing the influence of His Imperial Majesty's government upon the northern prefectures of the District of Annam and curbing the infiltration of rebels from Lao Long. Said installation shall be sufficiently spacious to house and stage a minimum of two brigades, and shall prove a capable mustering ground for an incursion in force into the Lao Long District within a year. Construction shall be completed no later than May the Seventh, 2016 ATB. Schniezel el Britannia commands it to be so.


You are also ordered to begin construction upon a highway connecting the previously mentioned installation in the Son La Prefecture to the Port of Ha Noi, to facilitate the advance, resupply, and reinforcement of His Imperial Majesty's soldiers stationed in the hinterlands and to facilitate anti-rebel actions in the Districts of Annam and Lao Long. Said highway shall be built along the most direct route allowable and have sufficient width that four standard supply trucks may proceed unhindered, two headed westward and two returning east. Construction shall be completed no later than June the Thirtieth, 2016 ATB. Schniezel el Britannia commands it to be so.


In recognition of the imposition these orders imply upon your command, the 4th Army shall be reinforced that it might conduct active patrols in the northern districts of Annam and garrison the new installation therein without weakening our citadels pre-existing in Area 10. The 16th Honorary Legion, late based out of Elizabethtown, Area 5, is due to arrive in Sai Gon no later than February the Twenty-Seventh, 2016 ATB. The 19th Honorary Legion, late based out of Pleasanton, Area 7, is due to arrive in Sai Gon no later than April the Thirteenth, 2016 ATB.


May these reinforcements aid your pursuit of victory against these ungrateful and rebellious Numbers. May Saint George hand you his sword and Saint Charles his rod.


All Hail Britannia!


Kanon Maldini, Earl of New Uxbridge
Private Secretary to His Highness Schniezel el Britannia, Second Prince of the Holy Britannian Empire"


With a sigh of disgust, Joseph Milburn dropped the new orders onto his desk and leaned back, rubbing at his temples. Across the desk, Robert, his aide-de-camp, shifted uneasily from foot to foot, clearly dying to take a look at the new orders himself but not quite willing to breach protocol enough to ask.


"No need to stand on ceremony, man," Joseph growled, waving at the orders. "Read them and weep."


"As you say, Your Grace," the aide responded diffidently, scooping the document, printed on quality paper and dripping with the seals of the Chancellery, the Second Prince, the Earl of New Uxbridge, the Courier Corps, and so forth, up into his hands and eagerly reading.


Joseph watched as a dismay that reflected his own spread over the young captain's face.


"This…" Robert swallowed. "I suppose Sir Harrison finally got his interview with His Highness, then?"


"It certainly seems as much," Joseph grunted sourly. "Don't know anybody else as wedded to the damn-fool fort concept as he is." The field marshal shook his head. "That idiot must think that we're still fighting the Horse Lords, the way he wants to fortify every hill and ridge in the damned Area."


If pressed, Joseph Milburn would admit that Sir Harrison Dunmore, 12th Baron of Morgantown and an old hand in the Ministry of War, was not a complete fool. Indeed, "Mad Horse Harry" occasionally had his moments of brilliance. It was just that those moments were firmly wedded to a personality that stubbornly refused to ever admit to its own fallibility. When challenged, Sir Harrison was fully capable of moving mountains solely to prove that his ideas were correct. Unfortunately, this stubborn refusal to concede extended equally to Sir Harrison's less than brilliant ideas as well.


And it doesn't help that the Dunmores have held title in the Homeland since before it was the Homeland! That carries weight. Coupled with several shrewd matches made with other leading families back before the Emblem of Blood and old Mad Horse has no difficulty finding well-connected friends behind every door at the Ministry. And now the Chancellery as well, it would seem…


"It's a stupid idea," Joseph said, shaking his head as he ground the base of his palm against his aching forehead. He could already feel the resignation washing over him; the prospective "Advanced Fort" plan had clearly progressed from something that could be fought to something that must be endured. "It's a stupid, stupid plan."


"Your Grace?" Robert asked diffidently, more to give him a chance to complain, Joseph knew, rather than out of genuine curiosity. His loyal aide had already heard that particular rant before.


Still, no reason not to take the opportunity.


"A single gigantic fort way out in the boonies is nonsense!" Joseph groaned, feeling the rapidly developing headache spike behind his eye. "What possible use is it, sticking an entire division, plus support elements, out at the end of a nice long road?"


"It would be a serviceable base of operations for the invasion of Lao Long that His Highness appears to be angling for, Your Grace," Robert pointed out, busying himself with copying out the Chancellor's order for dispatch. "Perhaps that's how Sir Harrison sold the concept to His Highness?"


"That's almost certainly the case," Joseph conceded. "That doesn't change the fact that it's still going to be hideously difficult to keep the base supplied, even if we can get the highway built on schedule. For one, if we only have a single viable route to the base, every Ten squatting out in the bush is going to understand exactly where we are vulnerable.


"The whole idea of a single massive base to mount patrols from is ludicrous as well," Joseph continued, aware that he was starting to yell and not caring a whit. "What, do they think that the Tens will be content to just present themselves for slaughter? It's like the idiots learned nothing from the Area 11 Campaign! Mobility won us that war, Robert! By the time the Elevens knew where we were, they were already dead!"


"As you say, Your Grace," his aide consoled. "But perhaps His Highness sees the ongoing menace of the Ten rebels as insignificant compared to the potential gains? I mean," Robert continued, looking up from his copying, "if the Fourth can firm up our grip on northern Annam, you will be ideally placed to apply pressure to Lao Long. If you can apply pressure on Lao Long, then the Chinese will be forced to route supplies and reinforcement destined for Kampuchea and Malaya all the way through Bengal and down through Burma, instead of straight south from Yunnan Province."


"Leading to a glorious toppling of dominoes from here to Sumatra, firming up Britannian control over Area 10 and Area 12 after half a decade of war in a single fell swoop," Joseph sourly concluded. "Yes, I know all about the grand plan the Second Prince has in mind to conclude his Imperial Majesty's adventure in Southeast Asia once and for all. And if it all works, it will be a major feather in His Highness's cap and a boon to the entirety of the Empire."


The unspoken corollary of "but what if it doesn't work?" hung heavily in the air.


"There's just too many ifs for me to feel at all comfortable," Joseph said at last. "If we can site a good location for this base and build it on a timely scale, and if we can build and keep open a highway from it to Ha Noi to keep the base provisioned, and if we can mount sufficient patrols to keep the Tens away from the highway and clear the insurgents out of northern Annam, we might have a good opportunity to invade Lao Long, a district that Chinese regulars have been digging into for the last five years. If we take Lao Long, we might significantly impede Chinese efforts to continue the fight for Area 10, potentially giving Viceregal-Governor McCarthy an entire Area to govern for the first time in his tenure.


"But if we fail to accomplish any of those milestones, somewhere north of a division is going to be stuck out in the ass-end of nowhere, right on the border of China proper, with Chinese forces on three sides, in the middle of a jungle where every tree has a Ten or two hiding behind it."


"But those are His Highness' orders," Robert noted unhappily. "The decision's been made."


And neither of us want the DIS to inquire about our unwillingness to execute our orders, Joseph thought, and nobody would ever mistake Schneizel el Britannia for a particularly forgiving man.


"Summon the corps and divisional commanders," Joseph ordered, bowing to his fate. "Let them know that I'll expect them in two hours. No excuses. Send someone to the Viceroy and let him know he's free to send a representative, if he so chooses." He hesitated, then added, "but first, get me some aspirin for this damned headache!"


SCENE 2: Clipped Wings



JUNE 8, 2016 ATB
FORT AURELIAN, NORTH OF SON LA CITY, SON LA PREFECTURE, AREA 10


Two weeks ago, Warrant Officer Lowrie "Dutch" Kramer had been a proud member of the 13th Support Wing, a storied part of His Imperial Majesty's Army's VTOL forces with a pennant strung with battle honors and dripping with commendations.


More importantly, two weeks ago she had made every flight out to Fort Aurelian or any one of half a dozen lesser but equally embattled outposts studding the mountainous Annam backwater known as Son La confident in the knowledge that a dry bunk and a hot meal were waiting for her back at Air Base Ha Noi.


Then her transport VTOL, never the most agile of birds, had caught a rocket, and Dutch had caught a one-way ticket straight to soggy Hell.


It could have been worse, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time as she scuttled down the duckboard-strewn communications trenches connecting the subterranean headquarters bunker to the outer trenchlines. That rocket could have hit my side of the bird. I made it to the ground in one piece, which is more than Rodney can say.


Warrant Officer Junior Grade Roderick "Rodney" Kapoek had exhibited his characteristic exemplary good sense and died immediately, bailing out on Dutch one last time, just as he had done before so many ill-starred trips out into the "recreational" district just outside the air base. Despite his lackluster skills behind the control yoke of a "Fatty," as the admittedly bulbous PH-173 Transport VTOL was best known, Rodney's overall assessment record was almost as good as Dutch's thanks in large part to all the infractions he had avoided by not being around when the shit hit the fan.


When Dutch had sprinted and splashed her way through the soupy mud of the No Man's Land the valleys surrounding the Hill had become after months of artillery and mortar bombardment, she had left the pulpy thing that had once been Rodney strapped to his chair, the smashed Fatty's final crew.


She had almost joined him in his fate during that desperate run. Bullets had buzzed hornet-like all around her, slashing out of the tattered treeline to the north, on the other side of the man-made mudflat from the rat's nest of trenches and dugouts that were the outermost outpost of Fort Aurelian, dug into the foot of the central Hill itself. Dutch had arrived at those shallow trenches facefirst, throwing herself ass over tits straight into the huddle of muddy, half-drowned infantry oiks cowering in the meager shelter, periodically lifting a wary eye over the soggy parapet to send a few return shots winging towards the hidden enemy.


Another graceful landing, Dutch thought as she left the deeper trenches of the central network and stooped lower, lifting her knees high as the mud sucked at her boots; the embarrassment she had felt at the moment turned into wry amusement with the passage of time. Just another drop into Fort Aurelian.


"Dutchie," a corporal guarding a junction in the trenches by the shattered remains of a prefabricated concrete pillbox said with a nod of recognition, the stylized numerals of the 35th Infantry Division glimmering gold under the spatter of dried orange mud coating his gray fatigues. "Keep your head down. The Chinamen have been noisy today."


"You know it," Dutch promised with a nod. "What's the weather like today, wouldja say?"


"What's it ever like?" the guard laughed, the laugh turning almost immediately into a pained cough. "Sunny as the petals of a smilin' daisy. Best keep your head way down, is what I'd say."


Grimacing, Dutch nodded again and clapped the corporal on his shoulder. "Thanks for the warning. See ya around, Corp."


"Later, Dutchie."


The teeth exposed by the man's grin were stained yellow from the crystalized coffee that came with each packaged meal ration. As water had run short, the soldiers trapped at Fort Aurelian and their support staff had taken to simply pouring the crystals straight into their mouths and crunching them down dry. The effect, surrounded by the corporal's dirty beard, grown out despite regulations since razors had grown more precious than gold, was like a vein of amber sap oozing out from a crack in blackened bark.


In Dutch's considered opinion, Fort Aurelian was cursed. When the 4th Army's engineers had set to work building the ill-starred installation, they must have knocked down some heathen temple or disturbed a whole pile of Ten graves or something. Whatever they had done, it had clearly cursed the whole wretched place.


Not that the curse had to do all the work. The Tens were happy to lend a hand.


From what she'd heard from her fellow internees trapped in the humid open-air prison of Fort Aurelian, the attacks had begun before the engineers had even finished clearing the broad, low hill just outside of the village of Muong Bu that had been chosen as the site of the new fort. Probably by the unhappy former inhabitants of Muong Bu, all of whom had been evicted as the lead elements of the 35th arrived to protect the engineer detachment.


Dutch could understand why someone who had never been to that hill would think that it was an ideal place for a fortification: The creek that wound past the western flank of the installation joined the Da River only a mile to the north, meaning that water would be abundant, and the pre-existing Prefectural Route 110 meant that the planned highway would have its path proverbially pathed before it. The low valleys to the north, west, and south meant that Fort Aurelian's future defenders would have clear fields of fire against any attacking elements.


The fort had been completed in record time. The top of the hill, formerly a tea plantation, had been cleared to make way for an airstrip, and VTOLs lumbering under the weight of prefabricated buildings had come in an endless stream.


Dutch's first trip out to Fort Aurelian had been as a part of that great airborne convoy, her Fatty groaning under the weight of construction supplies and tools. When she'd landed on the graveled airstrip in the middle of a pounding monsoon rain, the landing gear of her VTOL had sunk straight through the thin layer of gravel and into the thick, slurping mud below. The sound of the mud relinquishing her bird's feet had been clearly audible even over the whine of the gyroscopes.


The consequence of this rushed construction had been that every corner conceivable had been cut and that the construction had gone way, way over budget. Worse yet, somehow the genius responsible for planning the fort had only accounted for the fighting strength of the division destined to take the Fort Aurelian slot, and had not accounted for that division's support staff, its storage, its handful of dependents, or the camp followers that always somehow arrived at any installation. The discovery of this oversight had prompted a second rush of construction and, Dutch hoped, several executions.


When construction of Fort Aurelian was finally completed, three extra cantonments had sprouted up to the west, south, and east of the main hill, crammed full of still more prefabricated concrete buildings as well as an abundance of tents and unofficial shanties that popped up on any exposed patch of ground like mushrooms.


The overdrawn budget and the rushed accessory constructions had conspired to slow construction of the all-important highway from Ha Noi to Fort Aurelian. That crucial artery was woefully behind schedule. Last Dutch had heard, only fifty miles of the planned hundred and twenty-seven mile stretch had been completed. That royal deadline had been left dead in the water. The importance of the airstrip had consequently grown ever more prominent as the primary route of supply.


Worst of all, while so much water had fallen on Fort Aurelian back during the monsoon months that Dutch had felt like she was drowning when she'd flown in and out of the airstrip, the garrison was now finding itself high and dry.


It was all, she had learned, a result of the rushed construction and unplanned expansions Fort Aurelian suffered from. The initial plan for the installation had called for a pressurized waterline leading from the creek, which would supply the bulk of the fort's needs for drinking water as well as water for showers, sinks, latrines, and kitchens. Whatever shortfalls occurred would be compensated for by great filtering cisterns that would retain monsoon rains for the dry season.


Most of those cisterns were gone now, battered down and broken open by the hails of shells, the precious few survivors converted into sub-surface retaining chambers fed by ramshackle raincatches. The fancy waterline was likewise gone, first compressed by the unexpected weight of the cantonment walls and then broken completely by the regular shelling that had pulped the outer cantonments.


Making matters worse, the hill and the area surrounding it had been cleared completely for construction and for the killzone, and now everything not covered by intact cement or corrugated metal was mud. Not on the surface, which had been sunbaked to a crisp, but as anyone who lived in the holes studding the slopes of Fort Aurelian could tell you, the mud was still there, waiting just below the surface.


Which all contributed to the current situation. No matter how much water the garrison had schlepped in from the creek to the west or how much rainwater they filtered, potable water was in critically short supply. Even before shit had well and truly hit the fan, the deliveries from the pipe system had proven frighteningly irregular and entirely insufficient, meaning the majority of the fort's water had to be either flown in from Ha Noi or trucked up the narrow, poorly maintained roads connecting the Son La Prefecture to Britannia's northern foothold.


And that was before it all went to shit, Dutch thought, stopping by the timber-clad mouth of a dugout to knead an aching muscle in her back. Before the-


Suddenly, Dutch was in motion, hurling herself bodily into the earthen shelter of the dugout, subconscious reflexes made hypersensitive by the events of the previous week identifying the shriek of incoming artillery before her waking self had even noticed the warning whine. She landed hard on the packed clay floor, knees and palms screaming with immediate pain that the grounded pilot ruthlessly shoved away.


It's close! Too close! Terror clawed at her throat as she desperately tried to pinpoint the exact moment she'd first heard the dreaded whistle, trying to estimate just how long she had until impact.


Even as her thoughts ran in frantic, useless circles, Dutch's hindbrain took ruthless control, determined to survive. Scrambling forwards on bruised knees and elbows, she pushed herself deeper into the dugout until she hit the back wall, where she pressed herself against the join of wall and floor.


As she scrambled, she clapped her filthy hands to her face, thumbs plugging her ears and eyes covered by her remaining fingers. She left her mouth wide open, following the advice imparted to her by a soldier of the 35th shortly after the crash landing that had marooned her at Fort Aurelian.


"When the Daily Ration is served, just 'cause you're underground doesn't mean you're safe," the teenaged private had advised, the boy with his patchy beard now a veteran of months worth of those daily shellings from the guns concealed in the thick foliage of the surrounding hills. "If a shell comes down close enough, the overblast will gitcha just as much as the shrapnel will. If it's too close, well…" he shrugged, almost philosophical. "Then that's just bad luck. But if it doesn't just come down on your head, just the force of it can still fuck your day right up."


Intrigued, Dutch had asked for further details, which had been immediately forthcoming.


"If you're too close to the blast and you don't take precautions, your eyes will burst, your eardrums will pop, and your teeth will shatter like glass," the private had explained. "Seen it myself, y'know. One of the heavy shells came down only ten yards away from one of the dugouts. All the survivors were bleedin' from the ears and the eyes, and the sergeant didn't have any teeth. Must've clenched his jaw when he heard the shell come down."


That image had stuck in Dutch's mind even before she had seen it for herself. Soldiers and trapped civilians alike, staggering up from deceptive subterranean sanctuaries, empty sockets gaping over yawning jaws, mouths full of frothy blood and white shards of shattered teeth, lurched in her dreams and disturbed her sleep, even when the distant krump of nighttime artillery didn't trouble her.


And so, openmouthed and blind, Dutch did her best to push herself into the wall, to do anything she could to get further away from the mouth of the dugout. Distantly, she noted pressure against her legs, and kicked out savagely. It was probably some other soldier, some comrade in arms, but that didn't matter, not when they were trying to force their way into her tiny slice of wall.


Then, the world fell apart at the seams.


It was impossible to describe, to fully capture in words the moment when the shells shook the order and stability of the world to pieces. When up became down, and when the solid ground became liquid from the shock of overlapping explosions and the air became a solid mass of unrelenting noise.


As the shocks rolled over her, each overlapping with its predecessor and fighting against the hungry successors that bit at its tail, Dutch flopped, fishlike, as detonations ripped their way across the moonscape feet above her head. From the dugout's rough ceiling, dirt fell in clods and showers, the ground shuddering with the concussive force of the Daily Ration.


I wonder if the ceiling will give in?


Dutch had seen it before in these hellish weeks, had stood in mute witness as squads had dug into the collapsed walls of trenches and into basements below the ruined foundations of buildings with hands and with shovels in desperate attempts to retrieve comrades buried alive by dugouts turned into tombs.


Sometimes, the rescue attempts were successful, unearthing wildeyed men and women from the clutching clay, their uniforms a ruin of mud and their chests flailing in shocked hyperventilation. More often, the attempts came too late or never had any chance to begin with, all of the buried crushed by the collapsing soil, timber, and concrete or asphyxiated as tiny pockets of trapped air ran out.


God… Your Imperial Majesty, she prayed, pressing her hands down over her eyes and ears with renewed firmness as a particularly close call sent the ground bucking below her, please don't let me die in the dirt! Please! I'm a pilot! I should die in the sky, not buried alive!


She vomited, then, her stomach spasming and forcing its scarce contents out between her parted lips in an acid burp. Dutch hardly noticed the spasm in her gut; all of her muscles were twitching spasmodically, save for her clamping hands. Her legs kicked out again, slamming into whatever or whoever else was sharing her dugout. Only the bitter taste and the syrupy sensation of thick fluid seeping over her lips and chin told her of her lost breakfast.


Dammit… Dutch moaned, absurdly vexed by the comparatively minor inconvenience. That was the last of my chocolate too…


Apparently, the sacrifice of her calories for the day was enough to buy an end to the Daily Ration. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the bombardment ceased. The flow of shells, the heavier howitzers interspaced with the lighter mortars, stopped all at once, leaving an almost echoing silence behind.


Slowly, Dutch forced her hands away from her face, blinking the spots away from her eyes as she ran her tongue over her puke-dripping teeth, checking to make sure that they were all still there. When she found that her inventory was complete, and that she could still both hear and see, she spat once, then twice into the dirt inches from her face, trying to rid her mouth of the taste of the vomit.


"Here," a piping voice said, and a canteen appeared under her nose.


Rising up onto her knees, Dutch gratefully took the canteen, swigging from the stale, metallic water within after she scrubbed the vomit from her face with her shirtsleeve. Taking a second drink, she regretfully passed the canteen back to its owner, a scrawny infantryman with an already purpling cheek.


"Ah, sorry about that," Dutch muttered, suddenly feeling guilty about her panicked kicking. "Thanks for the water."


"'Snot a problem," the reedy-voiced soldier replied, wiping the rim of his canteen and taking a careful sip. "It happens. Not the first time, hopefully not the last."


Because caring about a bruise means that I'm still alive, went unspoken.


"What," Dutch asked, forcing a smile as she stabbed for comic relief. "Like getting stepped on by girls or something? Wouldn't have jumped into this hole if I knew it was filled with pervs."


"Hey," a second, deeper voice objected. "Don't lump us in with him! This is a good clean dugout. Family friendly, if you count spiders as kin!"


Turning, Dutch realized that she had, in fact, shared the sanctuary of the dugout with three other people, two in the same army gray that she wore and one, the other woman present, an apparent civilian.


"I'll… Take your word for it," Dutch replied, staggering to her feet as a ridiculous feeling of being an intruder washed over her. "Thanks for sharing your dugout. It's…" she looked around, taking in the filthy bedding the woman was sitting on, the bucket in one corner that had survived the bombardment without overturning thanks to the rocks wedged below it, and the shreds of ration packing scattered liberally around the hole. "...Homey," she finished lamely. "Would love to stick around, but…"


"Places to go, things to see," the soldier with the canteen nodded. "Plenty to see at scenic Fort Aurelian. Remember us when you plan your next vacation! Now, if you'll excuse me…"


Walking on rubbery legs, Dutch quickly exited the dugout and returned to the communications trench, ducking her head back down just in case.


At least they were friendly, she mused as she resumed her trip out to the West Cantonment. Could've stumbled into another impromptu heroin den… or an active murder… or the suicide bunker… Jumping into a threesome's nothing at all, compared to that.


Swallowing her still-acrid saliva, Dutch pressed on. She had a job to do.


When she had first found herself without a Fatty to fly or supply runs to make, Dutch had been at loose ends. Lost in the sea of the fifteen thousand surviving Britannians trapped in Fort Aurelian, Dutch had drifted through the tiny, bizarre world of an isolated, overcrowded base entering its fifth week under siege. Eventually, she had found herself attached to the divisional staff as a runner, carrying orders from the headquarters bunker out to the peripheral command posts and back.


Runners like herself had become a necessity as the generators burned through the stockpile of Sakuradite and the supply of batteries fell perilously low. Out of necessity, use of any powered device, radios included, had to be rationed. Every day a wire would be run up a temporary antenna to broadcast a report back to Ha Noi, but aside from that necessity the use of radio communication was held back for the frequent attempts by the surrounding enemy to overrun the outer lines of the fort.


Today, Dutch had drawn the boobie prize in her task to collect a mid-morning report from the command post halfway up the hillside from the ruined West Cantonment.


The west of the fort was the side closest to the creek, Fort Aurelian's nominal water supply. Dutch suspected that the "nominal" part of that designation was doing a bunch of the heavy lifting, considering that the creek lay almost half a mile from the foot of the fort's central hill with a major artery of local traffic running between the fort and its water. When the necessity for new additions to house the overflow from the hilltop barracks had prompted the construction of the three cantonments, the West Cantonment had been the first to complete construction and had stretched all the way the base of the hill to Prefectural Route 106's roadbed, on the creek's shore.


Now, the flat expanse between the creek and the hill was muddy ruin, the Cantonment's broken walls and crumbling prefabs jutting up irregularly from the flat swampy stew.


A few of those holes weren't there yesterday, Dutch noted as she cautiously followed the switchbacking communication trench over the crest of the hilltop. That's probably all the report I need… I could probably just turn back here and now and report back in… But it's not like I've got much on the schedule for the rest of the day…


With a suppressed sigh, Dutch ducked back behind the meager parapet topping the trench once more, returning to the clasping clay.


At least the command post is only halfway down… Not like I have to go all the way down to the waterboys…


The thought of setting foot down in the swampy, flooded trenches at the foot of the hill, full of knee-deep stagnant water and the parts and pieces of the unburied dead, sent a shudder through the pilot turned messenger.


While death came easily in all manner of forms across Fort Aurelian, nowhere outside of the medical tents was the misery so condensed then among the outermost ring of defenseworks at the hill's foot. By day, snipers hiding in the dense jungle across the creek or in the hills were a constant menace, as were the Daily Rations and the similarly hidden machine-gunners. This was true all across Fort Aurelian, as were the malarial fevers, the septic wounds, and the parching, unrelenting thirst. By night, however, a special horror would descend on the waterboys in the outer rings as Ten insurgents creeped across the sodden moonscape to slip into trenches and foxholes, slitting the throats of unwary sentries and sleeping soldiers taken in their dugout barracks.


Dutch hated going down to the Outer Ring and thanked her lucky stars and her warrant officer's tabs that she had lucked into a position at Divisional Headquarters instead of filling some dead sergeant's boots down in the swamp.


Not that there aren't even worse options than that…


The West Hill Post was just as Dutch remembered it from her previous trips to the sector: Centered around what had been intended as a checkpoint between the West Cantonment and the core of Fort Aurelian and better known as "Water Street" – as it was on the way to the swampy hell of the outer ring, better known as the "Bog" – the succession of staff officers from the various regiments and battalions of the 35th had excavated something like a sunken pit in the hillside, the hillward wall of which hosted a trio of entrances into a network of tunnels dug out from the red clay of the hill. The tunnels terminated in a room carved from the rocky bones of the hill and reinforced with rebar scavenged from the Cantonment's ruin. A single dingy bulb connected to a noisily chugging generator in another room lit a table matted with scribbled reports and stained maps.


Inside that room, Dutch found the usual knot of junior officers, most of whom were sitting around the edges of the wall without even finding a useless task to busy themselves with. She couldn't blame them for taking advantage of their ranks to elbow their way into the command room itself, rather than trying to find a place to squat in the less finished dugouts with the rank and file. Not only was the command room far drier than the crusty mud outside, the rocky ceiling and twenty feet of dirt atop it offered superb protection from any stray mortar shells the Tens or the Chinese might be inclined to send their way.


Standing out amidst the knot of useless lumps were two men, only one of whom she recognized. As both wore captain's ranks, Dutch turned to the devil she knew first.


"Captain Parker," she said, offering the customary battlefield greeting of a firm nod in place of the rear echelon salute. "How are things looking today in these parts?"


"As expected, Dutchie," came Silus Parker's tense reply. "Had a brisk night last night. Two platoons, plus the mules. Poor bastards."


The "Water Street" command post, as the only open area in the sector with anything approaching security, was the jump-off point for the nightly "water runs" conducted by particularly unlucky units. It was a horribly dangerous task, but deeply necessary; Fort Aurelian, for all the rain that had fallen upon the hill during construction and later in air-dropped steel jugs, was a profoundly thirsty place, now that it was cut away from its main water supply.


Two solutions to the problem had presented themselves. The best solution, more airdrops, had been thwarted by the concentrated anti-air capacity of the besieging enemies, the same capacity that had brought Dutch low. The "water runs" had thus become the default solution to the endless thirst upon the hill. When night fell, the remaining heavy machine guns and mortars mounted on the hillcrest would lay suppressing fire down into the jungle while the chosen platoons and their unlucky civilian "mules" would run out across the ruins of the West Cantonment down to the stream, where they would fill heavy jugs with muddy streamwater before running back to the Britannian lines for more jugs.


The Chinese and Tens would, of course, do everything they could to prevent these runs from succeeding. Which was why the West was so particularly pockmarked with artillery craters and strewn with minced corpses.


In fact, according to the scuttlebutt Dutch had heard, the shelling of that particularly half-mile square area of the old Cantonment had been so thorough that the ground itself had broken. While footing was tricky but still generally solid below the first few inches of mud to the north, east, and south of Fort Aurelian, between the old Route 106 roadbed and the defensive lines the mud was deep and soupy.


"'Slike oatmeal," a private had said, all but wailing his disgust. "You put your foot in ten paces past the parapet and you sink balls-deep in the muck!"


Trying to cross that slick, sucking, deep mud with heavy panniers, heavy when empty and heavier with sloshing water, was a practical death sentence.


But without water, we all die.


"Brisk night," Dutch agreed, her eyes lingering on the fresh coat of mud drying on the captain's trousers, a new layer atop the dried layers of previous forays down past Water Street. "So, uh… Did they manage to get us a drink, at least?"


"About fifty gallons," Parker replied, his face grim. As well he should be; with the daily ration of a pint of water per soldier and half that for civilians, that accounted for the intake of only two companies or so, three at tops.


Enough water for four hundred men, in a fort with around twelve thousand survivors…


The second, unnamed captain winced slightly at the number, but to Dutch's eagle eye it looked a bit too theatrical. A reaction that had been feigned to meet expectations, not one springing from sincerity.


And now that I look closer, Dutch thought, peering at the other officer, he's hardly got any mud at all on him. Damn near could be up in Headquarters, the way he looks. And… Wait a second, he's not wearing the 35th's patch…


"Hey Parks," she said, turning back to Captain Parker, a man she had grown passing familiar with during her month of messenger duties, "who's this guy? Where the hell did he pop up from?"


"Not popped up," the other man said, in an accent that practically screamed Area 4 to Dutch's West Coast ears, "but dropped down." He smiled, pleased with his own joke. "James Yates, Captain James Yates, of the Lucky 13th Division, at your service. I parachuted in last night."


"Sir," Dutch replied woodenly, wondering what kind of an idiot would voluntarily jump out of a perfectly good VTOL – like her Fatty – when it wasn't actively on fire. Especially when the destination for that jump was Fort Aurelian. "Isn't the 13th holding Sai Gon for us all? What're you doing up here in the north?"


"Word's gotten out that you could use a hand or two up here," Captain Yates smoothly replied, a grin bubbling up to his lips. "I figured Fort Aurelian would be a good place for a man of my skills, so I volunteered to lend my help."


Bewildered, Dutch glanced to Parks, looking for an explanation. The veteran's face was resolutely stony, any opinion he might own up to concealed behind the grim facade. Disappointed, she looked back to the still smiling Captain Yates.


Maybe I misheard.


"You… volunteered?" Her question was careful, probing. "Because of your… skills? Sir," she added, a tad belatedly.


"Oh yes, quite," Captain Yates replied agreeably. "Been a soldier all my live-long life, just like my father was and his father before him. To tell you the truth, when I first heard His Highness's orders about the new 'northern fort' bit, I was really hoping it would be the Lucky 13th tapped to fill the slot!" He chuckled for a reason beyond Dutch's tired comprehension. "Of course, Iron Pants Wyman was having none of that, so you 35thers managed to snag our spot instead!"


Iron Pants Wyman… Dutch blinked; she doubted she'd ever have the bravery to refer to Lieutenant General Joyce Denton Wyman, Countess of Hartford and the commander of 9th Corps as well as the second in command of the 4th Army as Iron Pants.


Not like there aren't probably a few DIS or MI types hidden in the ranks… I'm beginning to understand why he volunteered.


"I see…" she said, stalling for time. "So… Why are you… Here?" Her wave took in both the specific command post and, more broadly, all of Fort Aurelian. "You volunteered?"


"Oh, quite!" The chuckle came again. Dutch was rapidly finding it quite irritating. It was just so satisfied. "Not much glory in garrison duty, you know, and majorities don't just earn themselves. A spot of action here in the balmy Son La seemed like just the ticket to get my Crown and Cross!"


The crown and cross being a major's rank tab… Right.


"Actually," Yates squinted at her collar and frowned at what he saw. "You aren't a 35ther either, are you… Ah, Dutchie, was it?" He blinked. "Is that your… given name?"


"Chief Warrant Officer Two Lowrie Kramer, late of the 13th Support Wing," she replied, a bit testily. "No sir, Dutchie isn't my given name. Most people call me Dutch, on account of the last name."


"Ah, so you're a 13-er too, eh?" Yates' grin widened by a tooth, clearly pleased with himself. "After a fashion, I suppose. A thirteen on the wing!"


"She's a 35ther," Captain Parker, Parks, broke in, his voice tired. "She's also here to take a report, isn't she?"


"Yes," Dutch agreed, seizing the offered out with both hands. "I need to run the numbers back up to Divisional toot sweet. What were you saying just now, Parks?"


"But she's not one of yours though," Captain Yates objected, clearly not finished with the conversation nor willing to let a point rest. "What, did you parachute in too, Chief? Or do you prefer Dutch? Dutchie?"


"She's a 35ther," Parker growled, rounding back on Yates, "on account of her havin' been on this fucking stupid excuse of a fort for weeks, after she spent months flying in the food and ammo."


"I got shot down," Dutch said, taking a step between the two captains. "Sorry, Captain, can't say I was brave enough to volunteer to be here like you. I'm just unlucky, that's all. Captain Parker," she continued, turning back to the man with the 35th Division's patch, "the numbers?"


"Two platoons and ten civvies came on through last night," Parks ground out, glaring at Yates, "and twenty three passed back through, most of them injured."


"Ah." This time, Dutch did wince. Those were bad numbers. At forty soldiers to a platoon, less than a quarter of those who had ventured over the parapet last night had returned. "A bad night, eh?"


"Starshell," Parker agreed with a nod. "Lit the whole place up. They must've hauled a machine gun right to the treeline."


"Ah." There wasn't really much else to say to that.


"Sort of a net win though, isn't it?" Both Parker and Dutch turned to stare at Yates, who rolled a shoulder in a half-shrugging motion. "They brought back enough water for ten platoons, all told. With the losses, especially the civilian losses scratched…"


"More water for us," Parker finished, nodding with unwilling agreement.


"Still not enough," Dutch muttered unhappily. "The water runs… They just aren't working out."


"Men are cheaper than VTOLs," Yates pointed out, "though I'm sure you don't need me to tell you as much, eh, Dutchie?"


"Dutch will work," she replied curtly. "Thank you for your report, Captain Parker. I will pass it on to the duty officer immediately. Captain Yates."


Turning on her heel, she strode out of the rude bunker at the heart of Water Street and back out into the muck of the trench network.


Which, for all the mud and the shit and the blood, not to mention the tiny bits of the unlucky recipients of the Daily Ration everywhere, has the advantage of lacking Captain Yates completely.


Back at Divisional Headquarters, safely below the hilltop in one of the few purpose-built bunkers available at Fort Aurelian, the mood was little better. Despite being hundreds of yards away from the Water Street command post and further yet from the suffering soldiers trapped in the muddy hell of the West Cantonment and the outer ring defenses, the eyes were all the same. Exhausted, thirsty, and desperate for any good news, the major who took Dutch's report visibly sagged in his chair at the report that only fifty gallons had made the trip from the creek to the fort the previous night.


"Fifty gallons, Emperor preserve us…" The duty officer took his glasses off and rubbed at his bleary red eyes. "That's nothing, next to nothing…"


"Yessir," Dutch acknowledged. "Captain Parker noted the use of a starshell by enemy forces once the water party was out beyond our defensive lines. He also indicated that they had placed a machine-gun at the treeline. They knew where we were going."


"Of course they knew where we were going," the major snapped. "We go to the same damned creek every bloody night!"


"Yessir," Dutch agreed. "Perhaps we should stop?"


"...Perhaps we should." The major sagged deeper into his chair. "But then what, Warrant Officer? Every pint we can't pull out of the creek comes from our stockpiled rainwater or the reserve from the last airdrop. You more than anybody short of Baron Traub should know just how deep those reserves are, and how few drops have been successful of late…"


Before Dutch could find an answer to that comment, the door to the duty room burst open.


"Message from the Radio Room, sir," the corporal who ran into the room announced, brandishing a scrap of paper torn from a notebook. "The daily from Ha Noi just came in! Reinforcements are coming!"


"Reinforcements?" Dutch breathed, turning to stare at the soldier. "They're coming to relieve Fort Aurelian?"


"Just so!" came the enthusiastic reply. "The Knightmare Corps landed in Ha Noi, a whole brigade of them! They'll be linking up with the 23rd and the 3rd Honorary, then they're all marching up-country to crack the damned Chinamen wide open around us!"


The 23rd Infantry Division and the 3rd Honorary Legion… Dutch's mind reeled at this sudden turn of events. The 23rd was the 35th's sister division, the other half of the 17th Corps, while the 3rd Honorary Legion was one of the oldest Honorary units and one of the few considered on par with true Britannian units. It was also a division-sized unit in its own right. Plus a full brigade of Knightmares, that's at least thirty-five thousand men and three hundred Knightmares, rolling to our rescue.


That's one hell of a relief force!


"Well then," the major remarked caustically, cramming his glasses back onto his face, "in that case, they'd better be bringing their own damned water, because the 35th certainly isn't going to share!"


The deflating comment, perhaps made by the duty officer to prevent his own long-numbed hopes from rising anew, passed far below Dutch's feet. All of a sudden, though she was still in the bunker room, still entombed in the open-air graveyard that was Fort Aurelian, the grounded VTOL pilot's head was in the clouds.


Back where she belonged.


She knew it was foolish, especially at this first news of a relief that might not arrive for days or even weeks, but Dutch couldn't help herself.


After so long spent in the stinking, sodden horror of Fort Aurelian, after sprinting away from her burning Fatty and away from the charred thing that had been her sensible, trusty copilot…


After days of cowering under the pounding Chinese artillery and thirsty nights spent sucking on stones in a vain attempt to soothe a thirst so dire that it kept her awake…


After watching men and women die gutshot, shrapnel-ridden, malarial, and suicidal, watching doughty soldiers scream and gibber under the incessent shelling and watching cheeks hollow and eyes sink after foodless days…


For a moment, Lowrie Kramer allowed herself to believe that, one blessed day, her clipped wings would spread once more and would carry her up, up into the clouds, and she would leave the jungle mud of Fort Aurelian far below her and far, far away.


SCENE 3: Futility



AUGUST 10, 2016 ATB
A PASS IN THE TA XUA MOUNTAINS NEAR NGHIA LO, FORTY MILES EAST OF FORT AURELIAN, YEN BAI PREFECTURE, AREA 10



Six weeks hence, a great and terrible beast had ventured forth from its lair in Ha Noi; a great tentacle in Britannian gray and navy had reached out across floodplains and mountains, rice paddies and the endless jungle. Now brought to bear and bleeding from a thousand cuts, the monster was too worn down and exhausted now to even roar defiance.


The initial leg had been all triumph, a near parade up the unfinished Imperial Highway 27, the landspinners and boots of His Grace the Duke of New Lancaster Sir Stewart Cavendish's mighty Relief Column marching with regimental precision along the broad elevated spans of the great road. Unstained by mud, the beast had sauntered forth arrogantly, confident in the awe its purple might would inspire in the Numbers who bore witness to its majesty.


Said Euan Cameron, a private of the 23rd: "It was incredible. I had never seen anything like it before, not back in the Heartland and certainly not in the two years I had spent humping my way through rice fields north of Da Nang. 'At long last,' I remember thinking, 'we're finally getting tough on the Chinamen bastards.'"


Private Cameron's impression was common to almost all who witnessed that triumphant exit. This was, after all, a Britannian field army in all but name. An entire corps-worth of soldiers marched, two divisions of infantry supported by engineers and doctors, mechanics and drivers, cooks and intelligencers and technicians and generals. A fully mechanized force, the 23rd Infantry Division advanced in an endless procession of lightly armored personnel carriers, while the 3rd Honorary Legion followed in their wake, making do with the same model of truck their fully Britannian comrades used to haul supplies for transport.


Behind the main body of mechanized infantry, still more trucks followed, heaped with provisions and ammunition and all the other necessities for a Britannian Army in the field. Towed artillery jolted behind some trucks, and field kitchen trucks rattled and banged. Almost endless fuel trucks, loaded with diesel for the trucks and carefully padded Sakuradite fuel cells for the more exotic machines, swelled the train still further. In sheer quantity, the supply train made up the body of the great monstrous column, with each division's support elements outnumbering the combined transport vehicles of both.


The great and ponderous supply train was further reinforced by the support elements attached to the most distinctive unit in the column, the spearhead that the lieutenant general commanding the army was depending upon to force a path through the forces encircling the invested Fort Aurelian.


Said unit was found, for the first leg of the journey at least, at the very head of the column. In rank upon neatly dressed rank, as if rolling down Saint Darwin Street for His Imperial Majesty's birthday celebration, the three hundred Sutherlands of the 7th Armored Brigade had led the way out of the Ha Noi Settlement to the enthusiastic cheers of thousands of Britannian settlers and Honorary Britannians.


When it left Ha Noi, New Lancaster's Relief Column had been the single largest concentration of Britannian forces seen in Area 10 since the initial conquest just over seven years ago. The idea that a force of conscripted Chinese and ragged Tens could stand against such a magnificent relief, even a force that Military Intelligence estimated at almost twice the size of the Relief Column itself, had been ludicrous.


The idea had remained ludicrous for the first fifty miles of the planned one hundred and twenty seven mile track to Fort Aurelian.


Then, with startling abruptness, the finished stretch of Highway 27 terminated, and with the end of the elevated highway came the high water mark for the Relief Column.


Immediately, the hithertofore silky smooth logistics devolved into a hopeless traffic jam stretching back almost all the way to the gates of Ha Noi itself. Highway 27 had been an impressive four lanes wide, freshly paved, and elevated over all the pesky mud and vegetation. Some had quietly criticized the use of the traditional pillared skyway structure as opposed to a cheaper highway built on a roadbed atop a graded mount of fill, citing that a less sweeping structure could have been finished with greater speed and lower cost, but such dissent was kept quiet for the road contractors were close friends of Area 10's Viceregal-Governor.


In stark contrast to Highway 27, the unimproved expanse of Prefectural Route 32, the best road past the end of the Imperial Highway, consisted of a mere two lanes of irregularly paved track whose muddy shoulders narrowed perilously when passing by rivers, through mountain passes, and in the stretches between the tiny hamlets full of warily watching Tens.


"The Highway was a huge disappointment," Colonel Javier Gutierrez, commander of the 3rd Honorary Legion's 2nd Regiment and ranking prisoner taken during the campaign, complained after his eventual escape from Chinese custody. "Not the finished road itself, but that less than half of the planned length of Highway 27 was completed by the time we left Ha Noi. Whoever thought that diverting funding and manpower towards completing Fort Aurelian before work finished on the supply route necessary to keep that damned base functional deserves to be wheeled."


It had taken a full week for the Relief Column to begin moving up the strictured route, a week of reorganization and slimming. The Honorary Legion was obligated to reduce its truckload, forcing the infantry to walk from here-on out. They would soon be joined by increasing numbers of their Britannian colleagues in the summer humidity of Indochina as the armored personnel carriers and fighting vehicles began to break down, as did the first of the supply trucks.


In the midst of the snarl, the behemoth sustained its first few superficial injuries.


A lone Honorary sentry was found with his throat slit by a comrade sent to relieve him; a handful of unlucky Tens were unceremoniously put up against the nearest wall and shot.


Unknown saboteurs snuck into the still column in the middle of the night and set three of the 23rd's supply trucks on fire; six families of Tens were nailed up in their houses, which were set unceremoniously alight.


A Britannian sergeant kicked a paint can out of the road while leading a clearing detail up the shoulder of the Prefectural Route, and lost the leg to a crude black-powder charge concealed within the can; another thirty Tens paid for that insult to His Imperial Majesty's forces with their lives.


"That's how it went," Private Cameron later confirmed. "The Tens knew the rules just as well as we did. We'd been fighting the bastards for years, so we both knew how it went. It was almost an understanding, you know? They'd knife one of ours, so we'd machine-gun ten of theirs. Didn't matter if the paddy-squatters in question were responsible or not. If they hadn't come to us to point out the Viet Trung sympathizers in their village, then they were complicit. Hell," Cameron recalled, smiling with amazed respect, "if we didn't make them complicit in the Trung's lot, the Trung would do it for us! They'd kill one of ours, then tell the villagers that they could join them or wait for Britannian bullets!


"Point is, we both understood one another, us and the Trung and the damned Chinamen."


And on it went. Swatting away annoyances, the beast dragged its way along the poor roads of interior Area 10, heaving its way through Phu Tho Prefecture and through Yen Bai, coming at last to the border of Son La Prefecture, wherein stood Fort Aurelian, weathering now its third month of siege. By the time the Relief Column reached the shore of the Da River, three full weeks had passed since the triumphal exit from Ha Noi.


It was there, as the Column began to cross the shaky, overtaxed Ta Khoa Bridge, that Duke New Lancaster's forces first encountered Chinese resistance.


As would be the routine for the ensuing week, there were no Chinese to be seen, nor hardly any Tens. A sentry might see a flicker of a face through the brush, or perhaps a particularly aggressive patrol might be able to chase down and subdue a living captive for interrogation, but by and large the only Tens the Column encountered in Son La Prefecture were either already dead or soon to be.


After the first woman carrying the swaddled form of what an unwary patrol mistook for a baby detonated in a suicidal blast that took three Honorary legionaries with her, any Ten approaching the Column was shot on sight.


Those Tens the Britannians did see were unimportant compared to the observers they missed, lying prone in the mud and elephant grass and reporting the Column's position back to the Chinese regulars up in the hills or deeper in Son La.


From those hills and hidden bases came the lash of artillery fire. Mortars smuggled close to the Column by grimly determined Ten partisans dropped from above with shrill whistles while Chinese howitzers sent 105 and 120 millimeter shells screaming down upon the long, vulnerable stretch of the Column.


The field artillery attached to the Relief Column of course attempted counter-battery fire, but without observers or really any way of knowing where the unseen tormentors were, the attempted suppression was ineffectual at best. Worst, the need to disconnect the artillery pieces from their towing vehicles and the fury of the Britannian reply to the Chinese fire did nothing but slow the Column still further and provide the hidden observers with the exact locations of Britannian artillery, which they dutifully fed back to the waiting Chinese artillery officers.


Britannian artillery rapidly became an endangered species in Son La Prefecture, as did the attack VTOLs that had buzzed overhead for the first leg of the Relief Column's journey. Tasked with suppressing the harassing artillery, VTOL after VTOL fell prey to waiting anti-air assets squatting in the jungle around artillery emplacements, waiting for just such Britannian impetuousness.


By the start of the fourth week on the march, progress had ground to an effective halt for Sir Stewart's forces. The sound of explosions great and small was an almost constant harrange as Chinese artillery sent irregular and variable bursts of hate slashing down from above, while roadside mines and grenades hurled from the undergrowth by insurgent Tens erupted from the sides. Infantry patrols sent into the bush to clear insurgent fire teams and observers away from the Column vanished into the green maw, while squads of Sutherlands found themselves almost immediately sunk down in the soft red mud, the Tens retreating away and leaving the bogged Knightmares with nothing to do but squelch ignominiously back to the wallowing Column.


That was when supplies began to truly run low.


The Relief was supposed to arrive at Fort Aurelian within two weeks, three at the outside, and the siege was meant to be lifted almost immediately. Duke New Lancaster had sent word back to Ha Noi and ordered the dispatch of further supply, as well as vehicles to convey the wounded back to the Settlement, but the previously tranquil roads of Area 10 now bristled with explosives both improvised and manufactured, while the jungles crawled with snipers and ambushing parties of Tens, armed to the teeth and disinclined to show anything approaching mercy. Ambulance loads of Britannian casualties were hacked to death and left nailed to the trestles of the Imperial Highway. Burnt out trucks and wrecked VTOLs blazed an iron road from Ha Noi to Son La.


Rationing became necessary, not only of fuel but also of spare parts, medical supplies, food, and, increasingly, water.


With the Britannian counter-battery capability degraded, Chinese artillery began to target any concentration of supply vehicles, almost dismissively ignoring the armored personnel carriers and Knightmares in favor of the soft-skinned trucks and support vehicles.


"It got to the point where our captain warned us not to go out alone, or with men from other units," recalled Lieutenant Eddie Bower. "It was too risky, too likely to leave you with a knife in your back and your rations shared out among the bastards who put it there. Our battalion held together, as did most of the 23rd, but in some of the support units and especially among the Honoraries, discipline was all but gone by the end of July."


Morale began to break down.


Officers at all levels of command, from lieutenants commanding platoons all the way up to the lieutenant general commanding the entire Column, the Duke of New Lancaster himself, grew increasingly dubious of the chances of relieving Fort Aurelian. In quiet conferences between trusted brother officers, more and more voices began venturing their thoughts about turning back to Ha Noi "to regroup and replenish."


One particularly daring lieutenant colonel of the 23rd made bold to say that the entire Relief had already failed and they might as well head back to Ha Noi before someone else had to come out to relieve them as well.


For his cowardice, that particular disgrace was quickly shot by the Military Police. His words, the thoughts of many in both the ranks and the officers' mess, were less easily dispatched.


A handful of Honoraries tried to desert. After a night riven by the sound of screaming, an extra-strength patrol sent to bring the deserters back to face military justice found their work already accomplished by the hands of the vengeful Tens.


Unable to flee and unable to handle what was rapidly becoming a siege situation, no matter that the Column was still technically mobile, the suicides began. Singly or in pairs, soldiers found an escape from the roadbound hell.


Discipline began to collapse, prompting officers and Military Policemen to lash out at insubordinate soldiers with mounting brutality.


"Before Indochina, I had ordered a total of three floggings during the entirety of my career with the 3rd Honorary," Colonel Gutierrez admitted. "The entire legion, barring the greenest recruits, were career men, and all were acutely aware of the general regard the 3rd enjoyed as a Honorary unit with a service history more distinguished then most Britannian divisions. In Son La, though… three floggings was a good day, almost outstanding." He chuckled wryly. "We damn near ran out of rope, we were hanging so many barracks-room lawyers and compromisos! We left an orchard in our wake…"


At last, by the end of the fifth week, not even the Duke of New Lancaster could find the optimism necessary to continue the plodding, painful advance. Still ten miles out from Fort Aurelian, the besieged base's hilltop redoubt tantalizingly visible to the advance scouts from their ridgetop positions, the great beast, now wounded, turned back.


It was not permitted to retreat in peace.


Flush with supplies, the unseen Chinese artillerists continued their explosive deluge, endlessly flaying the rearguard with shrapnel and high explosive. Every other tree and shrub seemed to have a Ten lurking behind it, who leaned out of cover only to make a handful of hurried potshots at the Relief Column's flanks before diving back into the jungle under a fusillade of return fire. And always the mines, always the booby-traps, always the tripwires and the buried fuses.


It came as a surprise to the surviving engineers of the Column that the bridge over the Da was intact when Duke New Lancaster's command retraced their footsteps back across its span, and the comparatively intact state of Prefectural Route 37 was also a surprise. By contrast, the network of tiny unpaved roads had been deliberately undermined by the Tens to render them impassible to vehicles, leaving only a single viable route forwards. Attempting to turn and make a stand was not an option; Every village and town between Chieng Sinh and Bac Yen was burnt, the water fouled, the fields left barren of even the green rice.


The already gloomy resignation bit harder as the Relief Column trudged on down a single unbroken line of intact roads towards Ha Noi. Harried on three sides, with every alternative route destroyed and trapped in a land that may as well be a desert for all the food or clean water it offered, it was clear to all in New Lancaster's Column that they were being herded forwards. Even the strength to choose their course had been sapped away, worn by shell, by mine, by endless ambush and constant hunger and thirst.


The Column trudged on, leaving broken down vehicles and dead men in its wake, fleeing an enemy they had yet to see over the course of the short, brutal campaign.


Nobody even pretended to care about Fort Aurelian any longer.


"Fort Aurelian?" Private Cameron chuckled, shaking his head. "Who gave a shit about them? Who could be arsed to give a shit about the men in the next regiment, or even the next battalion?" He leaned forward in his seat, eyes intent. "I'll tell you who gave a shit about the men in the next regiment: The idiots too stupid to survive the retreat from Son La. Want to know who survived? The bastards. The ones who stole rations, who bribed and bullied extra food and ammunition out of the quartermasters, the ones who didn't share their last heels and scraps, that's who survived. On Sir Cavendish's Wild Ride, if you gave a shit about anybody else, you died. They're probably still moldering in that Goddamned jungle, the bleeding hearts are."


Finally, strung out in a pass in the Ta Xua Mountains, just at the border of the damned Son La Prefecture and the cursed Yen Bai Prefecture, the enemy at last showed their face, offering battle only now that the Britannians were almost entirely dismounted, save for the 7th Armored Brigade and their few straggling support vehicles.


"You really can't begin to understand how we felt at that moment, if you weren't there," said Lieutenant Bowers, closing his eyes at the memory. "Six weeks of hell, where the majority of the fighting was in the ranks, between the men, and then… Cresting over that ridge, halfway through the pass, and then… Chinamen. Chinamen on every ridge, on every mountain."


The confrontation, later called the Nghia Lo Massacre despite the battle taking place some distance from the town in question, was the fulfillment of a strategy devised by General Nguyen Minh Hue, leader of the Viet Trung's Northern Department, and Field Marshal Qin Zheyuan of the Southern Command of the Indochina Army, of the Federation of China. Called "tuna hunting" in reference to the traditional practice of funneling schools of tuna into smaller and smaller netted corrals, the Duke of New Lancaster's Relief Column had similarly been guided into an increasingly untenable strategic position during its time in the Son La Prefecture.


Now, its momentum bled away and its supplies stretched to the breaking point, Sir Stewart and his staff were left with a force still thirty-thousand strong yet possessing an almost negligible capacity for combat. The pilots of the 7th Armored Brigade remained eager for their Sutherlands to fulfill their long-anticipated role as a vanguard charging into enemy forces, but were alone in keenness. The formerly mechanized infantry divisions were exhausted, dispirited, under provisioned, dismounted, and stretched out over almost four miles of jungle road all but completely lacking in effective cover.


By contrast, the Chinese forces waiting for them on the slopes and ridges of the Ta Xua range were well rested, well positioned, and in extremely high spirits. They were also running a supremely high risk as they were also on the brink of overextension, though this was unknown to the Britannians.


As the bulk of available Britannian forces in northern Area 10 had bogged down south of Son La City, Field Marshall Qin had sent the majority of his forces marching north and east through northern Yen Bai Prefecture. Though the defenders of Fort Aurelian didn't know it, the force besieging them had been reduced to a bare skeleton of its former strength. Similarly, the units harassing the retreating Relief Column were predominantly Viet Trung, with a double-handful of Chinese artillery units chivvying the retreating Britannians forwards.


It was a spectacular gamble, and one that paid off spectacularly as the Britannian "tuna" swam at last into the narrowest of the nets at the pass near Nghia Lo.


When the leading elements of the 23rd Division and the 7th Armored Brigade crested the pass and looked down into the high mountain valley and the village of Ban Cong, they found the road forwards had been rendered completely impassable. A trench fully sixty feet wide and twenty feet deep had been scoured and blasted across the roadbed, while every ridge, hill, and slight elevation bristled with anti-tank gun emplacements behind earthen fortifications.


Field Marshal Qin's pioneers had been extremely busy.


The situation on the mountain ridges converging on the pass looked no better. Further light artillery had been hauled by gangs of Chinese and Ten soldiers, and now those guns looked down on the head of the column.


The remainder of the Relief Column, stretched out over four miles of unpaved switchbacks, was in an equally dire situation. Driven forwards by harassing machine-gun fire, the infantry and support units were disinclined to retreat back down the slopes towards the dense jungle and its menacing insurgents. Further machine-gun emplacements on the foothills of the Ta Xua mountains, well-guarded against any attempted Britannian VTOL sorties by numerous anti-air units, further discouraged any attempt to balk at the path up into the mountain pass.


Had the infantry pushed back against their Ten pursuers, the encirclement could well have been broken. Due to the requirements of the trap within the mountain valley ahead and the need for manpower to fortify the ridges and peaks of the Ta Xua Range, only a few thousand Viet Trung light infantry, backed by a battalion of Chinese artillery and a few crewed weapons were available to drive the Relief Column forwards.


It is a mark of how far Britannian morale ebbed that breaking out back towards Son La seemingly never entered the minds of the soldiers of the Relief Column, nor their leaders.


Caught between the tightening jaws of a vice and with only a hard, bloody road leading back into the hostile wilderness at their backs, the 7th Armored Brigade, under their Brigadier Sir Aibert Penwright, requested permission from Duke New Lancaster to make an assault upon the enemy's blocking emplacements. Such an assault would necessitate crossing the ditch dug across the roadway, as their Knightmares' landspinners would be ineffective on the mud of the paddies and the thick undergrowth of the Indochinese jungle, but Sir Albert asserted that the Sutherland model's Slash Harkon, significantly upgraded in range and strength from the version fielded by the previous generation Glasgow, would permit a crossing with sufficient speed that the 7th Armored stood a good chance in dislodging the enemy force from the hills within the valley and above the village of Ban Cong.


Lost for ideas, Lieutenant General Sir Stewart granted permission to Sir Albert to make the attempt.


At roughly the same time, Major General Sir Henry Hyde, commander of the 23rd Division, requested permission from Sir Stewart to advance his division forwards, away from both the punishing hail of artillery falling on the trailing end of the Relief Column from the persistent Chinese still attached to the pursuing Viet Trung forces, and from the handful of machine gun emplacements established by the Chinese at the summit of the nearby ridge, whose commanding field of fire allowed the gunners to shoot almost straight down into the cowering infantry trapped out on the muddy, near coverless track up the slope of the pass.


Optimistic regarding the outcome of Sir Albert's Knightmare advance, the Duke of New Lancaster granted permission for Sir Henry to advance as well, with duplicate orders passed on to Major General Alfredo Espinoza, commander of the 3rd Honorary Legion.


As is almost always the case for battles involving field elements of the post-Emblem of Blood Britannian Army, the battle hinged on the moment the Knightmares made their charge. Two hundred and thirty seven Sutherlands, the still-functioning core of an entire armored brigade, who no matter how badly attrited, were still piloting the latest generation mass-production model of Knightmare Frame, plunged down from the lip of the pass, landspinners churning the already degraded unpaved Prefectural Route 112 into slurry.


By all accounts, it was not a textbook perfect charge; the geography conspired against Sir Albert in that regard. The pass was simply too narrow, the ground too variable, to commit to the precisely augmented sweep of regimented formations called for by Knightmare Corps doctrine. Instead, the 7th descended in a near manic avalanche of killing power, blazing suppressive fire at the waiting anti-tank cannon strewn across the folds and hills of the valley floor.


In this moment of chivalry misplaced from the battlefields of the Hundred Years' War, the Knightmares truly lived up to their name. Much like their spiritual predecessors at Crecy and Agincourt, the pilots drove their mounts hard into the oncoming fire, certain that once they pushed out of the geographic obstacle and over the broad trench dug across the road, they would slaughter the puny crews manning the decidedly unchivalrous 100 millimeter towed anti-tank guns.


Perhaps two thirds of the Frames in the initial charge made it across the trench. Sir Albert's estimation of the capacity of the Sutherland's Slash Harkons proved well-founded, although the brigadier did not live to see himself vindicated. Caught by a well-placed shell during the initial rush down from the pass, Sir Albert was killed before his force managed to close with the enemy, leaving Colonel Valentina Smythe in command.


While the 7th made its charge, the 23rd and 3rd Honorary were rapidly advancing up the mountain road towards the pass itself, whose angle they hoped would protect them from the lashes of the heavy machine guns mounted on the slope above, as well as from the artillery, whom they hoped would be forced to reposition in order to shell their new position. In fact, to say that the two divisions "rapidly advanced" to their new position would be quite kind to the units in question, both of whom had admittedly sustained significant losses by this point in the campaign. By Chinese and Ten accounts, some elements broke and fled for the safety of the pass, although others successfully maintained the leapfrogging advance as planned by Major Generals Sir Henry and Espinoza.


"The fucking Honoraries broke," snarled Private Cameron, still clearly angered by the memories of that day. "There we were, walking backwards up that damned hill, giving back to the Tens just as good as they gave to us, when the fucking Honoraries ran for their miserable hides!"


"The Britannians fled," claimed Colonel Gutierrez, flatly denying that soldiers from his legion had routed in the face of the enemy. "They couldn't handle it any longer. They all but pushed us into the hands of the insurgents as they fled, so eager were they to save their hides."


By the time the 7th Armored had forded the trench, leading elements of the 23rd and 3rd Honorary had already begun to bunch up at the mouth of the pass, effectively blocking the Knightmares' sole egress, should retreat prove necessary. As more units straggled up to the mouth and saw the concentration of dug-in Chinese units ahead, the congestion in the pass grew increasingly problematic for both transportation and for cover, as the increasingly packed infantry proved an irresistible target for the southernmost light artillery elements.


Back in the valley, the bulk of the surviving 7th had crossed the trench, but had found themselves minus their original commander. While Colonel Smythe managed to rapidly take control, the momentary pause in the advance disrupted the initial momentum and allowed the anti-tank guns positioned around the rim of the valley to reorient to target the bulk of the Knightmares anew. This proved little consolation for the closest Chinese positions, which were rapidly overrun by individual squads of Knightmares acting at their commanders' own recognisance.


As Colonel Smythe re-established command, she directed the Brigade to advance down the secondary road heading east, towards the Hoa Ban Hostelry located halfway up the valley slope. This position would allow her brigade to gain sufficient elevation to rake the anti-tank positions on the low hills within the valley with their Knightmares' assault rifles and Slash Harkons while both outflanking those same positions and reducing the effective field of fire of the bulk of the cannon mounted on the valley's upper slopes.


The downside of this strategy was that it placed the Knightmares well out of range of any possible support from the infantry units congregating in the pass and left the 7th surrounded on three sides by hostile units.


In this case, however, speed proved sufficient armor for the massed Sutherlands. The outflanking maneuver met with initial success, reducing the volume of incoming fire while providing a range of targets for the Knightmare Frames. Capitalizing on this momentary success, Colonel Smythe ordered independent operation by platoon, increasing the flexibility and dispersion of the 7th as well as chaos on the battlefield while reducing the concentration of her forces. From here on-out, the 7th Armored Brigade began to operate as roughly fifteen units of six to ten Sutherlands apiece.


Back up at the increasingly crowded mouth of the pass, the last straggling units of the 3rd arrived, ceding the road back to Son La entirely to the mostly-illusory pursuers. To the great dismay of the bedraggled, shell-shocked infantry, the lash of Chinese shells followed them right to the lip of the pass, ruthlessly punishing the outermost layers of predominantly Honorary infantrymen. At the same time, as the 7th plunged deeper into the valley, emplacements bypassed by the armored unit's rush turned their focus on the leading elements of the infantry carefully stepping out of the northern side of the pass, forcing their withdrawal back to the dubious shelter of the pass itself.


As the fragments of the 7th began to range out across the valley floor, speeding across the valley and strafing Chinese positions, the final "paddle" of Field Marshal Qin's plan arrived in the form of several wings of attack VTOLs, launched an hour earlier from airfields at Muang Mai, in Lao Long. The arrival of Chinese ground-attack assets came as an immense surprise to all elements of Duke New Lancaster's command, as no such air units had heretofore been deployed by the Chinese during this campaign.


"We should have seen it coming," admitted Lieutenant Bower. "After all, it's not like the Chinamen didn't understand what air power could accomplish – Hell, they had enough anti-air on hand for the entire trip to Son La to shoot down any Fatties trying to resupply us, not to mention our own attack VTOLs. But, well…" He shrugged, clearly embarrassed. "They hadn't thrown a single VTOL against us for so long that we just figured they didn't have them. Stupid, really."


Justifiably wary of the highly capable Sutherlands and perhaps leery of the potential for friendly fire, the VTOLs opted to target the highly concentrated, immobilized infantry instead. There was almost no cover, nor were there any viable escape routes. The slopes were rocky, steep, and bare, the road back down to Son La entirely exposed to artillery and sniper fire, and the road into the valley led down into an increasingly dangerous warzone of dueling Knightmares and light artillery.


It was for this moment, more than any other part of the battle, that the name "Nghia Lo Massacre" was earned. An estimated twenty-seven thousand soldiers, trapped in a space roughly a quarter-mile wide by a half-mile long, were bombarded from east, west, north, south and from straight down all at once.


Machine-guns, mounted on the slopes to either side of the pass, exhausted their entire stock of ammunition, forcing crews to resort to small arms to drive escaping soldiers back down onto the killing floor.


Artillery, zeroed in with precision to the areas directly fore and aft the pass, fell in a constant sleet, pulping soldiers maddened or desperate enough to flee north or south.


From above came machine-gun fire in killing hail, supplemented occasionally by air-to-ground unguided missiles. VTOLs launched from Lao Long left, ammunition racks emptied completely, and returned restocked to pour more hate down upon the cowering wretches still crawling maggot-like in the sea of the dead.


"What could we have done?" asked Private Cameron, raising his hands in supplication. It is unclear if this is a rhetorical question or a prayer. "What did I do? I told you, sentimentality was a killer. Is a killer. I found a rock, crawled underneath it, and shot anybody who tried to squeeze me out and themselves within. I was safe and cozy down there, all fourteen hours I spent, till some damn paddy-squatter reached in and pulled me out."


In the valley too, events had begun to turn from bad to worse for the remaining Britannian forces. While the initial wave of Knightmares operating in small units disrupted the Chinese plan to simply deluge the 7th in a sea of artillery, the commanders of the valley-top batteries soon adapted the plan to fit the changing tactical situation. Particular armor squads or platoons venturing into open areas of the valley or within the overlapping ranges of multiple batteries would be pinned in place by coordinated battery fire, with a secondary or tertiary battery firing the kill-shots on the pinned unit.


This approach took time, of course, and a great deal of ammunition, but Field Marshal Qin's plan had originally called for "drowning the Britannian Knightmares in a bottomless well of shells," and so stockpiles more than sufficient were available for the batteries on hand. It was a near-run thing, though: Per witness accounts, "in one day, six month's worth of carefully transported and stored shells were expended, all within the scope of a single valley not more than a hundred kilometers square."


By the second hour of the battle, less than a third of the initial strength of the 7th remained active.


By the eighth hour, as night fell on August 10th, the last surviving Sutherlands powered down, their fuel cells expiring at last. While a handful of the 7th's pilots would be taken alive, mostly those who had been knocked unconscious in the disabled wreckage of their Knightmares, none of the pilots who had danced and dodged until their Knightmares had shut down around them surrendered. Knowing full well the usual fate of pilots who fell into the hands of the Empire's enemies, all including Colonel Smythe opted for suicide via their sidearms to captivity.


By the time the clock ticked over into August 11th, the only living Britannians within the valley and pass of the Ta Xua Range were prisoners. While a few lucky survivors had fled out down the southern slope, willing to take their chances in Son La, few of those survived the solo trek south and east through the Indochinese jungle back to the Britannian holdings along the Annam Coast.


For the first time since the Invasion of Great Britain and the Humiliation at Edinburgh, a Britannian field army had not only been defeated, but had been utterly destroyed. It was a Britannian Cannae, with Lieutenant General Sir Stewart Cavendish, Duke of New Lancaster, a new Lucius Paullus.


And for Japanese and Filipinos, Vietnamese and Malayans, Papuans and Javanese and a dozen other nations who had in living memory been free from the Britannian yoke, Nghia Lo proved both an opportunity and an inspiration. Not only had the single most significant field force in the Pacific Areas had been crushed practically to the last man, but that force had included a full brigade's worth of Knightmares, conclusively defeated in a field engagement.


The Holy Britannian Empire was not unbeatable, and so it was not invincible. Victory might only be a distant possibility, but for the first time since the effortless Conquest of Area 11, hope flared in the hearts of millions of Numbers.


And if freedom was out of reach, vengeance would be a fine consolation.


SCENE 4: Weep for Aurelian



AUGUST 15, 2016 ATB
FORT AURELIAN, NORTH OF SON LA CITY, SON LA PREFECTURE, AREA 10


After so long spent ducking behind parapets and hiding in bunkers, standing out on the pock-marked expanse of Fort Aurelian's battered airfield felt intensely alien to Lowrie "Dutch" Kramer, late of the 13th Support Wing and now of Fort Aurelian.


It was strange, she reflected, for a pilot to become an agoraphobe, but sometime over the months spent dropping to her belly at the crack of an unseen rifle and scurrying for cover at the warning cry of a mortar, Dutch had grown to fear the open air. The sky, once her workplace and personal refuge, had become abominable.


No guns anymore now, no incoming shells… Cracked lips ached as Dutch forced a smile, trying to find a sense of long-awaited relief amid the numb foreboding. That's all over now… It's all over.


Before and behind her, to her left and to her right, the surviving garrison of Fort Aurelian stood in ranks below the open sky. Overgrown hair and lengthy beards hung lank and brittle from withered faces grown pale with hunger. Filthy uniforms, threadbare after months of wear, looked oversized on the soldiers of the 35th, while swollen legs made the worn, holed boots all but impossible to remove.


Bleary-eyed confusion was written large across every face as soldiers and the scant handful of civilian dependents who had survived the siege blinked in the harsh light of a summer's morning. It was the dehydration, Dutch knew, that mostly accounted for those stupified looks, but only mostly. Everybody, herself included, was asking themselves the same question.


"How could it come to this?"


Months of siege, of deprivation, of a heroic struggle against thirst, against malaria, against the damned Tens waiting in the jungles outside of the fort, all for this conclusion. Two months of expectations, so fervently raised when word of the column sent to relieve these loyal sons and daughters of Britannia, all dashed but four nights ago, when word of that column's fate had come through, first from a Ten messenger under a flag of truce and then confirmed by Sai Gon.


How could it come to this?


It didn't matter, Dutch supposed. Somehow, all of the blood and the tears, the courage and desperation, none of it mattered.


They had lost. The siege was being lifted at long last, but only because Major General Sir John Traub, Baron of Rigby and commander of the 35th Division, had sent word to the Tens the day before last that he wanted to discuss terms of surrender.


Bullet in the head if we're lucky, she thought. Beats dying of thirst, I guess. Or fire.


From her place in the ranks, Dutch watched as the small knot of officers, the divisional staff, saluted the flag one last time. At some signal, the Flag of the Holy Cross began its descent down the battered old radio antennae used as a flagpole, one of a long succession of impromptu flagpoles that had borne the Colors of Britannia high over the hill, that had marked Fort Aurelian as a tiny patch of Britannia lost in the verdant, heathen sea of Indochina.


Facing the line of staff officers was another line, a line of cowards, of sneaks, of knives flashing in the dark and bullets whizzing out from the shadows under trees. The Viet Trung had, at last, set their filthy feet upon Fort Aurelian.


It was difficult for Dutch to believe that these were the unseen tormentors, who had kept His Imperial Majesty's forces pinned up here in their private hell for an entire summer. Round-shouldered and stooped, the skinny men and women who ringed the twelve-thousand strong square of surviving Britannian soldiers looked far from intimidating. Nearly as gaunt as the Britannian survivors themselves and dressed in clothing nearly as ragged as their uniforms, only the rifles cradled in their arms looked remotely dangerous.


But then again, I suppose that's really the only thing that matters.


At the head of the formation, someone was talking, though Dutch couldn't make out the words in the flat, still air. Not as her head spun with the familiar dizziness born of months-long chronic dehydration. It took all her focus to keep herself drawn up straight, thumbs in line with where she thought her trouser's seam should be.

There were, she realized, actually two voices coming from the front. The first was garbled nonsense, though she'd heard enough of the Tens' barbaric language to recognize the sound. The second, almost as nonsensical, was an interpreter.


"-will march out a half-mile to the edge of the old road," the interpreter was saying, "where you will divide into companies for processing. All weapons and ammunition are to be surrendered, including side-arms and knives. All food and water are to be surrendered. All valuables are to be surrendered. Any attempt at resistance or concealment will be dealt with stringently."


So that was it, then.


Closing her eyes, Dutch tilted her face up, savoring the sensation of the sun against her skin as she let the meaningless babble of the translator wash over her. None of it mattered. All that mattered was that she was finally, at long last, leaving Fort Aurelian. Not as a heroic defender, greeting the cavalry with a quip and a handshake. Not as a pilot, taking wing once again to leave the earth and all its troubles behind her.


But also not in a body-bag, her more pragmatic side pointed out. It could be worse.


When Dutch had sprinted from her burning VTOL, over fifteen thousand soldiers had manned the defenses of Fort Aurelian. Now, barely twelve thousand stood by to enter captivity. A full fifth of the garrison had died during the last two months, few of them falling to snipers or shellfire. Hunger, thirst, disease, and despair had been the real killers stalking the trenches and bunkers of Fort Aurelian.


And now, I'm leaving it all behind.


Suddenly, the soldier standing in front of her began to move, and Dutch realized that it was her file's time to join the desultory procession off the hill. Half-staggering, she lurched into motion, barely holding herself upright as the world swung around her again. Looking down, she focused on putting one foot in front of the other, step after step, feeling as if she were sleepwalking her way down the hill's gentle slope.


When the bedraggled column snaked its way past Water Street, the old command center dug out halfway up the western slope, Dutch looked up in time to get her first up close view of a Viet Trung. He was young, perhaps fourteen or fifteen at most, but he carried his rifle with an air of long familiarity.


Give him twenty more pounds and put him in Army gray and he'd look just like some of the enlisted did back when I arrived.


Appearing to notice her eyes upon him, the young soldier spat at Dutch's feet and jerked his rifle down the hill, yelling something in the Tens' language. Dimly, the former pilot realized she'd stopped to gawk and, shaking herself, rejoined the stream of humanity flowing downhill, out of Fort Aurelian.


That stream continued to flow past the network of timber-lined communication trenches and over the boards laid over the top of the outer ring defenses as an impromptu bridge, past the half-flooded foxholes and through the ruined swamp of the West Cantonment, all the way to the slight rise that marked the former course of Prefectural Route 106.


Further humiliation awaited the defeated Britannians at the roadbed. Overseen by two hundred or so rifle-toting Tens and who knew how many of their friends lurking under the jungle's cover, twelve thousand sons and daughters of Britannia threw down their rifles and pistols, dropping the coilguns into waiting tarps as an apparent Ten officer tallied the number of each. Grenades were collected with greater care by a trio of insurgents carrying egg cartons. Finally, the survivors of Fort Aurelian were even forced to discard their utility knives and eating utensils, dropping them into another waiting tarp at the shouted direction of an officer bellowing in broken Britannian.


Then, the bastards forced the parched and starving survivors to surrender any food or water they might have.


The circulating boxes came back predictably all but empty, to nobody's great surprise. The fighting spirit of the 35th Division had been eroded by months of sleepless nights and hungry days, but the urge to save a last heel of bread or a carefully husbanded canteen had only been reinforced by long suffering.


At long last, the beatings Dutch had been expecting began. The Tens prowled up and down the lines of captives, yanking anybody they thought might be concealing food out of line. The offender had a chance to turn their pockets out voluntarily. After that…


Feeling numb, Dutch stared blankly ahead as a man wearing sergeant's stripes folded, breath driven from his lungs by a riflebutt's stroke. Another Ten, perhaps the battlebuddy of the woman with the rifle, grabbed the collar of the sergeant's uniform, and then laughed as the rotted cloth tore easily away, taking the back of the threadbare uniform shirt away with it.


The riflebutt came down again, this time on the unfortunate sergeant's neck, and the second Ten joined in, kicking the man to the ground and joining in the beating. Growing bored after a minute, the Tens cut the pockets of the unconscious soldier's uniform open and, finding nothing, waved two more prisoners over to haul the non-com back into line. They did so, carrying the limp man between them, naked to the waist and bleeding from his open mouth.


From somewhere behind Dutch and to her left came a shout, then a gunshot, then laughter.


Maybe someone tried to run. Doesn't sound like it worked.


The heat was relentless; the Tens were moreso.


After an interminable half-hour spent carefully not reacting to the random beatings and occasional gunfire, a great shuffling movement rippled through the assembled Britannians. Slowly, under the incoherent barks of the guards, the increasingly disorganized mob, now bereft of weapons and even the most meager of provisions, were turned back around to face Fort Aurelian.


Looking at it from the outside, it's amazing that anybody would want to fight over it, Dutch reflected.


It was a horrid place, all red mud and bare concrete without a shred of the greenery that grew so thickly over all of the other hills, nature reclaiming the tea plantations abandoned by farmers escaping the crossfire. Surrounded by a wide scar of denuded land, a thin hard-baked crust with sticky mud waiting below like the world's worst shepherd's pie, the central hill of the fort reminded Dutch of nothing less than a vast ingrown hair in the surface of the world, swollen and infected and utterly at odds with the surrounding Indochinese landscape.


In that way, I guess it truly is a little piece of Britannia abroad. If for no other reason then so many Britannians died for it. The thought stirred a tiny shred of defiance in her heart. Yes, she reflected, glaring at the Ten guards from the corner of her eye, enjoy your victory, you damned rebels, but you will never truly take that hill back. It's still Britannian, it will be Britannian again, and it will always be Britannian. We might never see it, but the Holy Empire will triumph! God is with us!


Another barked order, another far away interpreter translating the call and… the great captive force began to stagger back across the Cantonment, back to Fort Aurelian?


Dutch blinked, looking from side to side at her similarly confused comrades, recognizing a dawning horror on their faces that she felt in her heart as she stumbled unwillingly forwards, back towards that little piece of Britannia, that open-air prison.


Why are we going back? Are they making us go back? What's going on?


Up ahead, she saw a handful of Tens filter out, lugging boxes and crates with them. It was only as she passed the party going the opposite way that she recognized those crates as similar to the ones she had once off-loaded from her VTOL in a life that felt like it had belonged to someone else.


The ration stores, Dutch realized, her traitor feet dragging her forwards. They took the last of the stockpiled rations out… They made a point of taking all of our personal rations away…


She glanced around again, finally seeing her captors, as if for the first time. There were so few of them, perhaps only a regiment's worth of the short little pajama-clad bastards. Just enough to keep watch over prisoners stunned by their own surrender and shocked to be outside their ringing fortifications for the first time in months, but nowhere near enough to actually guard a massive column of captives outnumbering them eight to one.


These are Tens, not Chinese regulars! They're jungle fighters, insurgents! They don't have a camp to put us in! But… But they do have the fort…


A fort that had just been stripped of even its paltry stock of food. Drowning in her horror, Dutch was absolutely certain that when someone went to check the water tank that held the rainwater, or the big steel jugs carried in by VTOL, that they would all be holed and empty, the precious drinking water spilled away into the endless mud.


Not enough Tens to march a column of prisoners to some prison compound somewhere, she thought, but definitely enough to shoot anybody who tries to leave the prison we built for ourselves.


When Dutch set foot back on that little patch of Britannia, lost in the green Indochinese sea, it was with the bleak certainty that neither she nor any of the 35th would ever leave Fort Aurelian again.


They had surrendered, and the Chinese and their Ten auxiliaries had acted in a manner directly after her own emperor's heart.


Woe to the vanquished.


Coda: An Early Herald



AUGUST 10, 2016 ATB
LATE EVENING
SHINJUKU GHETTO, TOKYO SETTLEMENT, AREA 11


"I understand," I replied, speaking into the phone's cheap microphone. "Thank you for the warning. Your services are most appreciated, Mister Reid. I wish you a profitable news cycle."


Closing the phone on the turncoat Britannian's no-doubt snarky retort, I allowed the apartment's silence to return as I stared at the abandoned cot that had once been Naoto's.


Diethard had proven his worth yet again tonight, delivering word of the devastating defeat of the Britannian field army in Area 10 at the hands of the Chinese as well as the main gist of the official story due to be aired first thing tomorrow morning. While I had little doubt that Kaguya and the rest of the Kyoto leadership would receive similar reports of the calamity from their own agents, the rest of Japan would remain ignorant of the details of the Britannian reverse. Indeed, I was certain that all but a handful of Britannians in Area 11 would remain similarly ignorant.


That mattered little, from where I was sitting. No matter how the Britannians tried to spin the defeat – Diethard said that the current story would claim that the Britannians had halted their march in order to provide humanitarian aid to local Ten civilians in the wake of wide-spread flooding and had been cruelly attacked by Chinese and Ten collaborators while spread out and unprepared – the two infantry divisions and armored brigade would be no less incapable of reinforcing Britannian garrisons across the East Asian and Pacific spheres.


That should be cause for celebration, I thought glumly, resisting the urge to juice my enhancement suite as my mood plummeted. No, the defeat itself certainly is cause for celebration; the issue is the anticipation that now is the moment to strike, before the Britannians can repair their temporary handicap. And even that isn't necessarily the issue, so much as the fact that we are still so, so far away from true readiness… and that the slaughter in Yokohama has thoroughly discredited any appeal to patience in advance.


Damn you, Chihiro.


Here in this worn-out studio, my home for lack of any other location I could rest my head with any sense of security, I felt trapped. It felt so obvious to me, how things would proceed from this point.


According to Kaguya's excited chatter, Munakata and his conservative faction among Kyoto House had fallen from grace in the wake of Yokohama, and their loss had been to the gain of the nationalist faction headed by Kaguya and her mentor, Lord Taizo. For all of her clear acumen, my impression of Kaguya was that she positively burned with desire to free her country. Asking her to turn back from this opportunity would be all but impossible.


Even if I declined to honor our deal, I doubted she would lack for swords. From all that Major Onoda had told me about his commander, Lieutenant Colonel Kusakabe, I could envision no scenario where the commander of the JLF's 3rd Division declined an attempt to bring about the Day of Liberation he had dreamed of for so long. Based on the colonel's previous acts of gekokujo, General Katase would be at the very least wary of issuing any orders countermanding his powerful subordinate's decision. Indeed, since I had handed Kusakabe an opportunity to take full credit for the only successful operation of scale conducted by the JLF in years, I imagined any such order Katase was nevertheless inclined to give would soon be followed by a changing of the guard in the JLF's leadership.


And to cap it all off, I even gave him a consignment of Knightmare parts, tools, and energy filters. Just what Kusakabe would need to guarantee a successful lightning assault.


And if I decided not to go along with this madness… Perhaps the JLF wouldn't be the only organization to sustain a sudden change in leadership.


That might be simple paranoia or catastrophizing brought on by fatigue, but I couldn't fully discount the possibility. The reluctance to take orders from a hafu had subsided of late, but a sufficiently unpopular order, especially one to hold back from attacking the Britannians in their weakness, could breathe new life into the old resentments. Nishizumi was a snake, of course, but he at least had a certain cynicism that passed for reasonability. What worried me more was the potential for some fresh Chihiro to step out from the crowd some day and fire a bullet straight into my back.


But we simply aren't ready. Am I the only one who sees as much?


With a chill, I realized I might very well be the only person in possession of the facts who had sufficient knowledge of full-scale war to indeed see as much.


The last war the Japanese had fought had been a one-sided slaughter, but for all of its devastation, it had been remarkably quick. Japan had been taken by surprise and its leader had brought the war to a screeching halt with a shocking surrender. Both factors made it easy for angry Japanese to discount the humiliation as the result of perfidy. Not a fair fight, as if such a thing mattered.


The war before that was effectively out of living memory. I doubted many veterans of the First Pacific War had survived the hard years since the Conquest, not as food became scarce and casual cruelty common.


But I stood watch on the Rhine. I captured Orse Fjord. I witnessed the death of Arene, a death delivered by merciless artillery and an encircling military that the partisans and their Francois mage allies could not overcome.


More than any other living Japanese, I know what will happen if Kusakabe gets his way.


In my mind's eye, I saw Shinjuku, that twelve and a half square kilometer prison encircled by walls, home to just over two hundred thousand people, despite the ongoing evacuation up the ratlines. I envisioned howitzers, towed guns lined up wheel to wheel in great lines, barrels heaving and buckling as the caissons jumped and rolled with the recoil. I saw the rotten skyscrapers of dead Tokyo buckling, old steel screaming as the concrete dust rose in plumes from shattered tenements.


The guns… The guns… I shivered at the thought, clenching my upper arms. Somehow, the self-embrace did nothing to push the cold away.


I had seen death in many forms, but few were quite as terrible as death by artillery. The way it pulverized the body, obliterating anything familiar or recognizable… The way it left its victims smashed into the mud, spread out for meters all around… The way men unharmed by the explosion itself were injured by the bone shards, the helmets and bent rifles, the jewelry and shovels and sometimes just by the dismembered limbs all sent flying… Nothing about it smacked of the human.


It was a mechanical death, death by shelling, the final result of a dehumanizing system that stripped the individual first of their rights, then of their autonomy, before finally ripping away any hope for a future and eventually their existence. There was no way to buy one's way free of the thresher, nor any opportunity to reason or plead with some tormentor. It was a faceless enemy, remorseless and deadly. It took everything from you, most especially your dignity, all without giving the poor soldier writhing in the churned mud anything human to rage against. When the iron rain fell, there were no depths of desperation to which a soldier would not sink…


Please, please, please! Help me! Did you want prayer? That's what you wanted, right?! I'll pray to you! I'll use the Type 95! Just please! Help me! Not like this! I don't want to die like this!


Yes, I knew all about artillery.


But how could I convince my people of the folly? How could I tell the girl upon whose largesse my starving people depended that she had to push back against the hotheads who told her that she could finally be free under her own name?


How could I tell any child whose father or mother had died at Britannian hands to keep their calm and play the long game?


…No matter what else, the news will come out soon. Best, I decided, that Shinjuku hear it from me.


There would be celebrations, I knew. People would embrace and laugh with joy. I would laugh and smile with them tonight, for to do anything else would spook them and steal this precious moment of hope away. I had a duty as a leader, and part of that duty was to make the daily horror of our situation into something palatable, and so I could do no less than encourage my people to celebrate and to remember that all empires died some day.


After the celebration, I could continue to find an escape out of this trap I had placed myself within. And if no such escape was possible… I would just have to figure out how to triumph despite myself.

 

[warlock7]

Tanya has insights others all lack.

 

[Scopas]

Tanya has insights others all lack.

Click to shrink...

Story of her life, innit?

 

[Aravis]

Thanks for the chappy! Yeah, this isn't gonna go so well for Tanya... but when does it ever, really? I mean, she typically gets something out of horrible circumstances, but never without cost. So yeah, gruelling fights ahead!

 

[Scopas]

Thanks for the chappy! Yeah, this isn't gonna go so well for Tanya... but when does it ever, really? I mean, she typically gets something out of horrible circumstances, but never without cost. So yeah, gruelling fights ahead!

Click to shrink...

You know it! Nothing worthwhile comes easy, eh?