86 Eighty-Six
“Handler One to Pleiades—Resonance complete. I look forward to working with you today,” she said gently, and the “voice” of a young man, presumably a year or two older than she was, replied.
“Pleiades to Handler One. Resonance is loud and clear.”
The voice was laced with irony. Lena was all alone in the command room, so it wasn’t the someone else with her. It was the voice of Pleiades’s Processor, being transmitted to her through their now-shared sense of hearing.
A voice.
Having been built in a hurry during wartime, Juggernauts weren’t constructed to be able to communicate orally, and they weren’t programmed to have advanced cognitive abilities that would allow them to think or feel. The Para-RAID—Sensory Resonance—linked consciousness via the human collective unconscious; the defense lines’ minefield, despite the enemy using armored units, was set with antipersonnel mines.
The secret behind the front lines where drones fought one another, the battlefield with zero casualties.
“Your polite greetings to us subhuman Eighty-Six are much appreciated, Alba.”
Eighty-Six. As the continent was being swept over by the Legion, the last remaining paradise for the Republic’s citizens was the eighty-five Sectors. The Eighty-Sixth Sector was designated a no-man’s-land, populated by pigs in human form. Despite being born civilians of the Republic, they were decreed to be subhuman, inferior life-forms by the Republic. It was a derogatory name for those Colorata cast outside the Gran Mule to live in internment camps on the front lines.
Nine years earlier, year 358 of the Republic calendar, year 2136 of the global calendar.
The Republic’s eastern neighbor and superpower of the northern continent, the Empire of Giad, declared war on all its neighboring
countries and began attacking with an army of the world’s first completely autonomous unmanned combat drone, Legion.
Faced with the Empire’s overwhelming military strength, the Republic Armed Forces were decimated within half a month. As what was left of the army gathered its remaining forces to stall the invasion via hopeless delay tactics, the Republic’s government made two decisions.
The first was the evacuation of all the Republic’s citizens to the eighty-fifth administrative Sector. The second was Presidential Order #6609. The Special Wartime Peace Preservation Act. This law acknowledged all persons of Colorata descent within the borders of the Republic as inimical characters and supporters of the Empire and allowed the stripping of their civilian rights. They were designated as targets of monitoring and isolated in internment camps outside the eighty-five Sectors.
This act was, of course, in violation of the Republic’s constitution and the spirit of the five-hued flag. The law also did not include Alba, who formerly lived in the Empire. Neither did it spare Colorata who were not originally from the Empire. It was a policy of blatant racism and discrimination.
The Colorata were opposed to the law, of course, but their opposition was silenced by violence at the hands of the government. Some Alba, however few, also cried out against the law, but the majority accepted it. The eighty-five Sectors were far too small to accommodate the sheer number of civilians, and there was nowhere near enough food, land, or labor for everyone. False rumors were spread that the Republic’s defeat in the war came as a result of the Colorata’s spying. Those rumors were far easier for the civilians to accept than coming to terms with their country’s technological inferiority.
But more than anything, in a situation where they were surrounded and isolated by enemies, they needed something, some
one
, to take their frustrations out on. This justification by way of eugenics spread quickly among the populace. The Alba, who founded the country that stood as the foremost advocate of democracy—the greatest, most humane of all forms of government—were the superior race. By contrast, the Colorata, with their outdated, cruel, and inhumane imperialism, were an inferior species—barbaric and foolish subhumans, pigs in human form and the result of an evolutionary blunder.
Thus, all Colorata in the Republic were banished to internment camps where they were forced into labor and conscripted for the sake of constructing the Gran Mule. Their properties and belongings were requisitioned by the government to fund the construction of the wall and the war effort, and the Alba civilians who were spared from conscription, labor, and wartime taxes all praised the government’s humane methodology.
The Alba mocked the Colorata as a lesser species, calling them the Eighty-Six. This discriminatory approach ultimately manifested two years later with the introduction of drones manned by living soldiers—and all those soldiers were of the Eighty-Six. Despite pouring all their efforts into producing a Republic-made unmanned drone, no attempt ever achieved the level where it could withstand live combat. But there was no way the superior Alba could admit to failing to produce such a machine when the inferior Empire could.
Since the Eighty-Six were not considered human, having one pilot the machine would categorize it not as a mounted craft but as an unmanned drone.
The Republic Militarized Autonomous Drone known as the Juggernaut, manufactured by Republic Military Industries (RMI), was lauded by the civilians upon its release as an innovative, cutting-edge, and humane weapon system that minimized human casualties to zero. The Eighty-Six who served as pilots were designated information-processing units—Processors—making the Juggernaut an Operated Drone.
The year 367 of the Republic calendar. Yet another day dawned when soldiers, who were treated as nothing more than mechanical parts, set out to suffer deaths that would not be counted as deaths, on a battlefield without casualties.
Confirming that the Legion’s red blips were retreating east—into the depths of their territory—Lena finally felt the tension begin to leave her body. In exchange for this retreat, her third squadron lost seven units.
A bitter taste filled her mouth. Seven Juggernauts detonated, exploding along with the Processors who piloted them. None survived.
Juggernaut—the name the so-called intellectual developers gave to this machine, drawing on the name of a god from a foreign land’s mythos. Countless people would gather before this tank in search of salvation and would be run over by its wheels and crushed to death in its wake.
“…Handler One to Pleiades. We’ve confirmed the enemy forces’ retreat.”
She communicated this to Pleiades’s Processor—the Eighty-Six pilot who agreed to serve on the field of battle for five years in exchange for the restoration of his family’s civil rights—via Para-RAID.
Sensory Resonance allowed them to hear each other’s voices as well as the sounds of their surroundings. It was truly a groundbreaking means of communication that rendered radio transmissions (which were susceptible to interference by distance, weather conditions, and terrain—not to mention the electromagnetic jamming of the Eintagsfliege clouds) completely obsolete.
Theoretically, all five senses could be linked via Para-RAID, but typically, users chose to link only their sense of hearing. The amount of data shared by linking eyesight via Para-RAID was often overwhelming and could result in sensory overload, risking serious damage to the user. Hearing, on the other hand, gave one a solid grasp of the situation on the other side with minimal data. In terms of actual experience, it wasn’t much different from communication via radio or telephone, but there were comparatively fewer disturbances.
Lena believed those weren’t the only reasons. Refusing to link eyesight spared the Handler from having to see many things: the awe-inspiring sight of the enemy charging toward you, the sight of one’s comrades being ruthlessly blown to bits in every direction, the color of viscera and blood spilling from one’s own eviscerated body.
“The fourth squadron will take over lookout duties. Third squadron, please return to base.”
“Acknowledged, Pleiades… Hope you enjoyed watching us pigs squabble through your little telescope, Handler One.”
The scathing irony that never left his voice from start to finish made Lena look at the floor. She knew they couldn’t help but hate her. She was an Alba—and one of their oppressors. And just like he said, keeping watch over them was part of her role as Handler.
“Good job today, Pleiades. And to all other units, too, and the seven who were lost… I’m so, so sorry.”
“…”
A certain coldness, like that of a sword being drawn from its scabbard, mixed into the silence on the other side of the Resonance. The Para-RAID linked only their hearing, but since the Resonance was conducted via their consciousness, feelings that would normally come across only in face-to-face conversations were also transmitted.
“…Thank you for all the kind words you always offer us, Handler One.”
Cold contempt and hatred were sprinkled into those words. But there was something to the coldness that went beyond the kind of obvious hatred and indignation one would feel toward their oppressor. Something that left Lena confused and bewildered.
The following morning’s news once again spoke of how vast the enemy’s losses were, how light the damage to the Republic’s side was, and how there were—as always—no casualties. The announcer once again praised the Republic’s cutting edge and humane tactics, how the enemy’s defeat must be close at hand, and so on and so forth. Lena sometimes wondered whether the news was actually a recording being broadcast over and over. This was a government-sponsored broadcast, with an emblem of a sword and shattered chains in the background. These stood for the overthrowing of sovereign rule and the fall of oppression and were the symbol of Saint Magnolia, patron saint of the revolution.
“…In preparation for the cessation of hostilities in two years’ time, the government has decided to gradually reduce the military budget. As a precursor to that, the seventeenth ward of the southern front will be abolished, and all forces stationed there dissolved and discharged—”
Lena sighed. They probably surrendered the seventeenth ward. This certainly wasn’t the kind of news they could afford to simply gloss over. Not only had they lost territory, they were giving up on trying to reclaim it and choosing to disarm themselves on top of that. The government had used up all the Eighty-Six properties a long time ago, and now the voices of the civilians demanding they reduce the vast war budget and disarm in favor of welfare and public works were becoming gradually harder to ignore.
Sitting across from her, dressed in an antiquated gown, Lena’s mother opened her perfectly rouged lips to speak.
“…What’s the matter, Lena? Put away your troubles and have something to eat.”
The dining room table was set with breakfast, but the majority of it was factory-made synthetic food. Having lost half its land, the Republic was running out of space as its population increased by 80 percent—with the exception of the Eighty-Six. And the eighty-five Sectors didn’t have the farmland required to support the population. They were also cut off from other foreign countries by the Legion’s Eintagsfliege jamming, which meant that trading, diplomatic relationships, or even confirming whether any such countries
still existed
was impossible.
Lena took a sip of tea that was different from the tea she hazily remembered from the past and cut a piece of synthetic meat, made from wheat proteins and created to replicate natural meat’s appearance and flavor. The only natural thing about her meal was the compote she added to her tea, made from raspberries they grew in the garden. But even this was a commodity not seen in the Republic’s average household, which didn’t even have room for a flowerpot, much less a garden, making it fairly valuable.
Her mother smiled.
“Lena, isn’t it about time you quit the army and find a groom from a good family?”
Lena sighed internally. This conversation was repeated word for word every day, same as the news broadcast. Pedigree. Status. Standing. Lineage. Superior bloodline. This silk dress, which became antiquated and obsolete the moment you stepped outside. This mansion, built in the days when the Milizé household was still considered nobility. Preserved
relics of a blessed era long gone, standing frozen in time, enveloping themselves in sweet dreams and refusing to look outside.
“The Legion and the Eighty-Six are hardly matters the daughter of the great Milizé household should concern herself with. I know your late father was a soldier, but the war is behind us now.”
How could the war be behind them if they were in the middle of fighting the Legion even now? The battlefield was just far and out of sight, and those who went to war never returned to speak of it. As far as the civilians were concerned, the war was nothing more than a collection of fictional events in a movie, with no sense of reality or involvement on their part.
“Protecting the motherland is a Republic citizen’s duty and pride, Mother. And please don’t call them Eighty-Six. They’re respectable citizens of the Republic, same as you and me.”
A wrinkle ran across her mother’s thin, refined nose.
“How can you consider them members of the Republic when they’re stained with those filthy colors? Honestly, even if you must feed livestock to have it do your bidding, what is the government thinking, letting those animals set foot on Republic soil?”
The Eighty-Six who agreed to engage in combat were granted the restoration of civil rights for themselves and their families. To protect them from the severe persecution and discrimination of the eighty-five Sectors, their whereabouts were kept confidential, but it’d been nine years since the beginning of the war. Surely some of them had returned to live in their old homes by now.
This was the just reward they received for their dedication to the state. Sadly, those in power could not see the justification for such a reward and merely shook their heads at the deplorable state of affairs.
“Ah, how dreadful. It was only ten years ago that they were loitering about Liberté et Égalité as if they owned the place. And to think, they may actually return… To what extent will our Republic’s freedom and equality have to be sullied before they’re satisfied…?”
“…If anything is sullying the ideas of freedom and equality, Mother, it would be the words you just spoke.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Seeing her mother’s astonished expression, Lena truly did sigh this time. She just didn’t understand. She honestly, truly, didn’t understand. And it wasn’t just her mother. Civilians throughout the Republic took pride in the five-hued flag and its values of freedom, equality, brotherhood, justice, and nobility. They believed they had learned from history and loathed tyranny, resented exploitation, scorned discrimination, and avoided murder and atrocities, seeing these as the devil’s deeds.
But they simply did not understand that the Republic was committing those very same atrocities right now. And if you were to attempt to point that out, they would merely look at you with pity and ask, “Can’t you tell pigs apart from people?” Lena bit her lip. Words truly were convenient. They could gloss over the truth so easily. All it took was a simple rewrite of a name tag, and you could reduce a human to a pig.
Her mother looked at her with a troubled expression but eventually smiled as if she’d come to a realization.
“Your father took pity on the livestock, and now you’re taking after him. Is that it?”
“N-no, that’s not…”
Lena did deeply respect her father, who’d greatly objected to the Eighty-Six’s internment until the very end. But she didn’t quite intend to follow in his footsteps. Because she could still remember that silhouette of a quadruped spider, the crest of a headless skeletal knight etched upon its armor, the extended hand that had saved her from disaster, those shades of brilliant red and jet-black he’d borne since birth.
We are Republic citizens. We were born in this country and raised in this country. And that’s why…
Her mother’s presumptuous voice pulled Lena out of her memories.
“But you should know, Lena. You should know to treat livestock as livestock. You simply cannot get those barbarian Eighty-Six to understand human ideals and nobility. It only makes sense that we confine them to their cages and manage their lives.”
Lena wordlessly finished her breakfast, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and stood up.
“I’m off, Mother.”
“You’re changing my assigned squadron…?”
The golden wallpaper, streaked with dark-red stripes, gave the division commander’s office a profound, dignified atmosphere. Lena blinked her silver eyes, her gaze fixed on the notice of personnel change she’d received from the division commander seated behind the antiquated desk, Commodore Karlstahl.
Squadron reorganizations and, by extension, changes of a Handler’s assigned squadron actually happened fairly often. As they participated in battle after battle, squadrons gradually took increased losses to the point where continued combat became impossible. As such, squadrons were routinely integrated into one another, reorganized, abolished, and formed anew. Even transfers owing to the complete obliteration of a squadron were common, albeit a circumstance Lena had neither experienced personally nor had any desire to.
The Legion were simply that strong.
Having developed them with full ferocity and technological superiority, the militant Giadian Empire spared no expense when outfitting the Legion with the most advanced weapons and allowing them the utmost mobility possible, as well as capacity for autonomous thought so advanced it was hard to believe it was a product of this age’s technology. On top of that, since they were truly unmanned drones, the Legion never tired, never disobeyed orders, and never knew fear. And no matter how many were destroyed, fully automated production and repair factories lay scattered across the depths of their territories, rolling out new units like the black smoke spewing from their chimneys.
Contrary to what the civilians believed, the Juggernaut was far inferior to the Legion in terms of performance, and the idea of getting out of a fight with the Legion with minor losses was unthinkable. Even if the Republic did
inflict great damage on the Legion, they always returned in equal numbers, and the most the Republic could do was maintain a defensive line.
However, the squadron Lena was currently in charge of hadn’t suffered that many losses.
Karlstahl’s scarred cheeks slackened into a smile. His beard gave off a feeling of gentle dignity, and his frame was tall and broad-shouldered.
“Your squadron isn’t getting reorganized or integrated. The truth is another squadron’s Handler recently resigned, and we need to elect a replacement Handler from another squadron as quickly as possible.”
“Is it a defensive unit for some important location?”
Which would mean it was a unit that couldn’t remain on standby until a replacement Handler was found.
“Indeed. It’s the eastern front’s first ward’s first defensive squadron, also known as the Spearhead squadron. It’s a unit that consists of veterans from the eastern front… You could call it an elite unit.”
That made Lena’s beautiful features contort into a frown. The first ward was certainly an important location; it was an imperative defensive position where the Legion’s advance was the fiercest. And the first defensive squadron was a significant unit that was single-handedly responsible for the first ward’s defense. The duties placed on it, such as night patrol and serving as support, were entirely different compared to the second, third, and fourth squadrons, which served as backup in case the first wasn’t able to sortie.
“I think this is too much responsibility to place on a novice like me, sir…”
Karlstahl smiled wryly.
“Is that something a talented, aspiring officer who was the youngest and first to be promoted to major out of ninety-one alumni should say? Being too modest can buy you others’ ire, Lena.”
“I-I’m sorry, Uncle Jérôme.”
Karlstahl referred to Lena by her first name, and she responded by lowering her head in a manner unlike that of a subordinate. Karlstahl had been best friends with Lena’s late father, who had fought alongside him nine years ago as part of the now demolished Republic Armed Forces. The two were among its sole survivors. He would come to visit often when
Lena was small and play with her, and after her father’s passing, he helped arrange the funeral, as well as support Lena and her family in various ways.
“I’ll be frank with you… We don’t have any other candidates for the Spearhead squadron’s Handler.”
“Didn’t you say they were an elite unit? I would think being put in charge of that would be a great honor for any Republic soldier.”
Not all Handlers took their jobs seriously, however. Some would watch television or play video games in the command room or leave it unattended altogether. Others would give their Processors terrible orders or not provide them information at all and watch as they died, as if it were just some movie. Others would place bets with their colleagues on whose squadron would get wiped out first. Lena knew that, of course. If anything, those who took their jobs seriously were the stark minority, but that was beside the point.
“Ah, well, it is an elite unit, but…”
Karlstahl seemed hesitant for a second.
“It’s the Spearhead squadron’s captain unit, Personal Name: Undertaker. He has something of, shall we say, a history.”
Undertaker. What an odd name.
“The Handlers who know him seem to call him the Reaper and are all frightened of him… It seems he has a tendency to…
break
his Handlers.”
“Huh?”
Lena replied in surprise despite herself. If it had been the other way around, that wouldn’t have been so odd, but a Processor breaking a Handler?
How?
“Are you sure this isn’t some kind of ghost story, sir?”
“I guarantee you I haven’t had the luxury to call my subordinates over to discuss gossip, my dear… It’s a fact that an unusually high number of Handlers who were in charge of Undertaker’s squadrons have put in requests to change their assignments or requested to resign from service altogether. Some have requested transfers immediately after their first sortie, and while we’re unsure as to whether it’s related, some have committed suicide after resigning.”
“Suicide, sir…?”
“It’s rather hard to believe, but…they claimed they could ‘hear the ghosts’ voices’ and were haunted by them even after retiring from service.”
“…”
It didn’t sound like anything but a ghost story, after all. Karlstahl cocked his head, anxiously trying to discern what Lena was thinking.
“If you’re against the idea, feel free to refuse, Lena. You can stay in command of your current squadron, and as I’ve said, Spearhead is a gathering of veterans. From what I hear, Resonating with them during sorties isn’t advised, so we could very well leave command to those on the field and provide minimal monitoring—”
Lena pursed her lips tensely.
“I’ll do it. I’ll put all my efforts into serving as the Spearhead squadron’s commanding officer.”
Protecting the motherland was a Republic citizen’s duty and pride. Being put in charge of a unit that stood as the vanguard of the war effort was all she could ask for, and letting this opportunity pass by was unacceptable.
Karlstahl smiled at her fondly.
Really, this girl is simply too much…
“You can do the absolute minimum. There’s no need to do anything unnecessary… And also, refrain from interacting with the Processors too much.”
“Knowing one’s subordinates is part of a commanding officer’s duties. So long as they don’t reject me, I will make every effort to interact with them.”
“Good grief…”
Karlstahl sighed with a gentle smile. He opened the desk’s drawer and retrieved a bundle of documents.
“And while we’re on the subject of fault finding, I’ve got something else to say. For heaven’s sake, stop recording the number of casualties in your reports. There are officially no people on the battlefield, so we can’t accept documents regarding data that doesn’t exist… Even if you try to protest like this, there’s no one who will take this matter to heart anymore.”
“Be that as it may, I cannot simply ignore this… There’s no basis for confining the Colorata anymore.”
The Empire of Giad took the continent by storm with their army of
Legion. But for some reason, it seemed to have fallen into ruin four years ago. The Empire transmissions the Republic was able to intercept in between waves of Eintagsfliege jamming suddenly ceased, and they had been unable to intercept them since. It was uncertain why the Empire fell; did the Legion turn against them, or was there some other reason? Whatever the case, one fact was abundantly clear: The Empire had certainly fallen.
The Eighty-Six were detained for being “progeny of the Empire,” but now that the Empire was gone, there was no justification for their continued internment. However, having tasted the perks of their blatant discrimination, the Republic’s civilians were loath to change their ways. Trampling others granted them the illusion of superiority, and having a group to oppress made them feel like they were the victors. Having been trapped, humiliated, and thrust into a state of emergency by the Empire and its superior weaponry, this was merely a form of escapism that allowed them to delude themselves, rather than confront the issue.
“Being tolerant of such wrongs is tantamount to supporting them. Doing this isn’t something that should be allowed in the—”
“Lena.”
That gentle invocation made Lena hold her tongue.
“Your pursuit of ideals is a bit too spirited, regardless of whether the ideals are your own or someone else’s. Ideals are precious
precisely because they are unreachable
.”
“…But…”
Karlstahl’s silver eyes wavered with bittersweet nostalgia.
“You really do take after Václav… Now then, Major Vladilena Milizé. I hereby appoint you to the role of commanding officer for the eastern front’s first ward’s first defensive squadron, effective as of today. I expect you to do your finest.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“…So you accepted the offer in the end? You really are a weirdo, Lena.”
Taking command of a new squadron meant quite a number of things would have to be changed as well, and one of those things was the target
data for her Para-RAID. Annette was the officer in charge of the Para-RAID development team, so all requests regarding adjusting Lena’s Sensory Resonance settings were handled by her. She also suggested they may as well have Lena come in for a medical inspection while they were at it, and Lena was in the middle of changing back into her uniform when Annette chastised her.
After putting the patient gown neatly on a coat hanger, Lena replied to Annette from the other side of the medical room’s reinforced glass window, still buttoning her blouse. The medical ward’s building had once been a royal villa during the monarchy age, so its exterior was that of a chic, classy Middle Ages estate. But on the inside, it had a certain tasteless, futuristic sort of design, defined by metal and glass panes that gave off a robotic, inorganic feeling. One of the glass screens had a video of tropical fish and coral reefs projected onto it.
“I mean, it’s just a ghost story, Annette. An excuse soldiers cooked up to skip work.”
Fastening both her stockings up with her garters, Lena felt her lips loosen with a smile. She did her periodic Para-RAID medical inspections regularly, so there was no need for Annette to worry. But she was a busybody, after all…
“The part about some of them committing suicide is true, though.”
Sitting on the other side of the glass wall, Annette casually added this tidbit while inputting the new settings into Lena’s RAID Device and sipping coffee—or rather, some muddy substance that was probably supposed to resemble coffee—from her mug.
“I don’t buy the whole ghost thing. The old guys probably made that up so they’d have something to gossip about. But it’s true. One blew his own head off with a shotgun.”
Having put on her skirt and jacket, Lena turned around, straightening her collar. She brushed back the silver hair that spilled over her shoulders when she bent forward.
“Really?”
“We got a request to check that it wasn’t some Para-RAID malfunction. Resignations aside, word tends to get out when someone kills himself.”
“And what were the results?”