For a week, I had settled into a routine.
Mornings were spent running drills with my squadron. Thus far, the structure of the exercises had come in pairs – on the first day, they would practice basic formations and scenarios in small groups. On the second, the individual teams would come together, executing a larger-scale extended scenario based on information I had regarding past Legion patrol groups and invasion forces.
That meant that we had been able to carry out the exercises in three different areas that were of critical importance in the zone that my squadron was assigned to cover. Area 112, Area 254, and Area 183. Combined together, a full forty percent of Legion forces had to pass by those regions at one point or another, based on my analysis of the data I had from Handler logs dating back to eight years ago, when the Juggernauts and Processors were first deployed.
For now, I still had them keeping to their preferred roles, but I was planning on switching things around soon. It was good and all that they specialised – Starfall, for example, had a keen mind for crowd control – but one could not expect to be able to rely solely on one skillset.
In future engagements, adaptability was far more important. It had been the reason why the corps system as an operational formation had been so impactful when it was first developed all those centuries ago. Within a single squadron, they already had smaller subdivisions going, each with their own specialisation – but it would be prudent to balance out their capabilities in piloting the Juggernaut. Brazen daredevils though B-3 and A-2 may be, it would be the height of foolishness for them to charge a Löwe alone as they were now, and they could use some practice with suppressive fire movements and long-range combat.
Today, however, that routine was broken.
I looked at the tactical map. Thirty blips were present – a standard Legion battle group for this sector, that saw relatively less combat than more contested regions. They were still a long distance away – two hundred kilometres, near the limit of long-range radar in the absence of Eintagsfliege jamming. From their angle of approach, however, there was only one likely location where they would definitely converge upon.
Area 112.
I envisioned their movements, predicting the path of enemy travel. From this range, I couldn't yet identify troop compositions, but from past data, units of that size, in that formation, and following this general route of travel at this hour of the day tended to be of a standard mixed composition – Ameise and Grauwolf were likely the majority of their forces, with a few Löwe serving as the heavy-hitters.
It was time to finally begin playing the game. I still did not know all the rules, and my pieces were still horribly handicapped, but this was a match that could not be avoided.
"Para-RAID, activate. Synchronisation target – Third Squadron Processors."
-x-x-x-
After a full week with their hellish Handler, all members of Third Squadron now knew to wake up earlier than they were used to in order to be able to finish their breakfast before Admiral Asshole sent them off to perform whatever inane drills and exercises he had planned for them.
Eden didn't know quite what to think about their new Handler. In many ways, he was the same as all the other white pigs – he didn't see a single one of them as human, didn't bother trying to know them at more than just a superficial level, and was hiding safe and sound behind his walls while all the Eighty-Six fought for their lives.
But then there were differences. His drills – ridiculous though they may be – had been helpful. Under his previous Handler, his squadron had never been trained in the use of the Juggernaut, and all their tactics were whatever their predecessors had managed to pass down to them. Handler One had done this homework, accounting for the local terrain and Legion statistics, and at least pretended to know what the Juggernauts were capable of.
His exercises weren't always the same. For Petra, Raphael, and Leo, he had focused on ensuring that they knew how to pilot their Juggernauts effectively, with using their weaponry as a secondary objective once they were knew enough about the basic fire movements. Eden would begrudgingly acknowledge that he, at least, wasn't actively trying to get them killed on that front.
He would, however, never forgive Handler One for scaring the three younger Processors with exceedingly graphic descriptions of how failure to master movement of the Juggernaut would result in them being 'decapitated, disintegrated, dissolved, dismembered, disembowelled, degraded, destroyed, decimated, desolated', and a string of other related terms until he ran out of words beginning with the letter 'd'.
That, and scaring them all half to death with his use of the interception cannons. If he ever fired them at their squadron again, Eden swore that he would hold nothing back against their Handler.
He was odd. Where his previous Handler had hated being insulted by his Processors over the Para-RAID, which only made him the brunt of even more jokes and taunts, this new Handler always had a retort for when a new one came. Just yesterday, Ygritte had accidentally called him the nickname of 'Admiral Asshole' that they had come up with to his face, forgetting to realise that they were talking over the Para-RAID rather than back in their bunks.
All Handler One had done was chuckle, mumble 'Oh, that's a good one', and over the Para-RAID Eden swore he could faintly hear him penning down that phrase.
And so, today, they were ready for the next of his drills.
Right on cue, an illusory heat grew by his ear. Eden saw Althea roll her eyes, rising to her feet, tying her brown hair back in preparation for the incoming set of drills.
"Handler One to Third Squadron. Good morning, Processors."
As squadron leader, Althea took charge. "Alright, what do you have for us today, Brigadier Bastard?"
Collectively, many of the others in the room grinned – they had decided to come up with as many nicknames for their Handler as they could think of, and try them one by one to find something that he at least disapproved of.
Eden had expected him to have another one of his snappy retorts prepared. In most cases, he simply accepted the insult. It annoyed Eden to no end, as though he saw everything as just a big joke.
Today, however, he was different.
"Not a drill today. Legion forces sighted at Area 085, moving southward."
Eden stiffened.
"Unit composition is still undefined, but cross-reference to previous data suggests a high likelihood of a thirty-unit strong battle group."
He saw them again. Wreckage that had once been their vehicles, levelled by the 120mm cannons of Löwe. Processor and Juggernaut alike sliced into pieces by Grauwolf blades.
His friends of his former squadron, all of them annihilated until there were only two survivors left –
"Estimated trajectory of travel has them moving south to Area 102, south-east to 152, before arriving in Republic territory via 242 through 254. Area 112 will serve as the most advantageous interception point."
"You heard Handler One." Althea was alert, putting aside her animosity toward Handler One for now. "We're moving out!"
Steeling himself, Eden rushed out of the living quarters, heading toward the hangar. His blood boiled. Finally, finally, he could destroy the Legion who had taken everything away from him –
He saw them once more. Destroyed Juggernauts. Remains that could barely even be identified.
– and a deathly chill promptly seized control of his body.
He stumbled mid-way to the hangar, and it was only Gareth steadying him that prevented him from falling down completely.
"What's wrong?" he asked quietly, concerned.
What was wrong with him? This was finally his chance for revenge. This was finally the time when he could fight just as his friends had done.
But if so, why was he trembling? Why was his heart pounding, and why couldn't he hear anyone speaking? Why couldn't he move his limbs?
I'm scared.
Numbly, he moved forward, as though in a stupor. When had he even made it into his Juggernaut? When had he begun moving the craft, following the general direction of the same place that Handler One had sent them for their drills just a week ago?
He heard his callsign, and his world returned into focus once more. "– B-3, A-2, and B-4, the three of you will act as the primary vanguard after the enemy forces are split, and –"
"Handler One," Althea cut in curtly. "B-3 is – he's not in good shape to act as vanguard right now."
'I can fight!' every fibre in him screamed. He could do it – he had to prove himself; to prove that their sacrifices had not been in vain, that he would carry on their memories and bring death to the Legion on their behalf –
"I can do it," he wanted to say, but the words merely came out as a whisper.
There was a pause.
"Understood. All Processors, continue heading to Area 112. B-3, you switch with C-3. If you missed it, you're with E-4. At current rate of travel, you will be on site fifteen minutes prior to Legion arrival. I can confirm now that the enemy forces are thirty in number – sixteen Ameise, ten Grauwolf, four Löwe. Given clear skies, I do not anticipate enemy Skorpion support."
"But –"
"B-3." The name sounded so foreign and out-of-place, coming from Althea. But this was the Para-RAID channel, and they had no desire for the Handler to know their names. "You don't need to force yourself. Switch positions with C-3."
Any argument he had died on his lips when Althea gave the order. Eden scrambled his craft, moving over to where Claude had been. He was now with Leopold – acting as secondary support… and one of the least critical roles in the entire formation.
How could he live up to his deceased comrades who had placed their trust in him like this?
He didn't know. He still felt scared. Even though Leopold had been terrified of their Handler previously, and was still coming to grips with piloting the Juggernaut, he was now moving onward toward the death that awaited them with determination.
How could he – with a few months of experience, be so stunned by terror that he couldn't even begin to move?
If even Leo could do it, then so could he.
Soon, the Legion came within sight. Fear gradually faded, morphing into a burning rage. He would live up to their memories.
And then the order came in –
"Starfall, C-1, E-1; engage."
-x-x-x-
A familiar thrill was singing to me again.
Chess had become boring when the only opponent I could play with was myself. Legionbreak was fun with Gunther, but really, the board game was meant for a party of eight.
Here and now, however, there was at last a real opponent to be had. I never played against someone like the Legion before; a vast, nigh infinite enemy with an intelligence that was not quite human.
Twenty Processors and their Juggernauts, up against thirty Legion drones.
"Starfall, C-1, E-1; engage."
I saw how the rain of artillery fire from Starfall's vantage point scattered the Legion troops in two. C-1 and E-1 were sniping them from afar. The alpha strike took them by surprise, but now, they were retaliating.
"Proceed as planned," I called out.
Two teams emerged from their hiding locations. These were the hit-and-run experts I had picked out, the ones best suited for a fighting retreat as they moved from cover to cover. I hadn't expected for B-3 to be unable to be in the vanguard, which necessitated his replacement with C-3, but it should not hinder plans too much. They weren't as well suited to their new roles, but it should be enough for this engagement if all went as planned.
"Covering fire!" B-4 shouted. "A-2, move, move!"
I had my map spread out, hanging just beside my monitor displaying the tactical grid. I crossed my eyes, letting them overlay onto one another. Inhale, exhale.
…28657, 46368, 75025, 121393, 196418, 317811, ...
And there I was again. The imaginary battlefield within my mind. Every few moments, I crossed worlds; flitting in and out of what was real and what was not. I saw it all – saw how the Legion forces were divided, saw how the Löwe at the core of the formation became exposed. I was dimly aware of the shouting in my ears, and the responses I gave in turn.
No, you can't engage the Löwe yet, you need to wait for them to become more divided –
Starfall, change vantage points; transition from suppression of bulk forces to splitting the Löwe –
B-4, continued retreat for 500 metres; C-1, cover her. E-1, swoop around; they're starting to catch on to your angle –
It was the most thrilling game I had ever played. The image I conjured was so life-like, far more alive than my imagination of chess, or Legionbreak, or King of the Hill had ever been. With the sounds over the Para-RAID, the tactical grid on display, and the map I had of the battlefield, ingrained firmly in my mind from the time I prepared the drills for this area, there was nothing out of place.
From this place born of both reality and illusion, I saw the battlefield from above, as one of the Eintagsfliege might, little red and blue circles moving in formation on the ground below as the battle raged on. Simultaneously, I was in the midst of my Processors, flitting about the warzone, calling out things that they couldn't see, providing them with orders I deemed most optimal when their efficiency dimmed.
With the din of battle coming into my ears, the sounds of heaving breath as they danced across the battlefield, and even the thumping of heartbeats among some of them, projecting myself into their shoes was easier than ever. I had been keeping up with practising in a Juggernaut, useless though the skill may be – and this was now paying dividends as the hazy shapes materialised into far more clarity than pawns, rooks, bishops, knights, kings, or queens had ever been.
I gave a wry smile. If people had thought I was crazy before, this would certainly be enough to see me institutionalised. It was a picture of beauty, as drills and practices that had been playing out for the past week were finally brought into fruition.
It was the point of it, really. A Legion fighting force of almost exactly this composition and formation had been the basis for which I had drawn them up.
But then it went wrong.
"I'm going in!"
A voice that hadn't been there for most of the fight declared loudly. In one world, I saw a blip move to join the vanguard, and in the other, I saw a lone Juggernaut break free from the rear group to the east of the formation, circling westward and heading north to where the collection of Löwe were.
In both worlds, I saw where this would lead – and there would only be scant instants to stop the consequences it would entail.
B-3.
"B-3, get back into position right now!"
"Screw you and your ego, Handler One! I won't let their deaths be in vain! I won't let them fight alone! I can fight!"
Stunned and confused, it took me a few moments to figure out what he had said, and what his motivations were.
He thought that I had singled him out into an unimportant position?
It couldn't be further from the truth. I couldn't explain it quickly enough, though.
"Get back, now! That's an order, B-3!"
Another few seconds passed. No response.
Too late now. The clock was ticking. I couldn't appeal to his senses. He had travelled too far, moved too fast to reposition and intercept without himself being caught in firing range of the Löwe.
I couldn't move Starfall. The Löwe would decimate the rest of the flanking team. I couldn't move my fire support and snipers, since they had to support the vanguard. If so, the next best possibility was –
It was then that I saw my premonition happen.
Too late.
On either flank, these two so-called unimportant groups were providing zones of controls, tightening the net that kept the separated Legion units where they were. They consisted mostly of Processors with less combat experience, since all I needed there was the threat they represented, rather than their actual performance in battle. Still, I had B-3 as an experienced member on one side, and C-2 on the other, just in case someone needed to defend the newly drafted E-2, E-3, and E-4.
With B-3 gone, that net was torn – and the Legion noticed at once, and capitalised on it.
A single Grauwolf disengaged from one of the split-up teams, noticing the weakness in the formation that B-3 had previously been covering.
And it was turning around – and looking right at E-4.
"E-4, turn to your five o'clock and run as fast as you can!"
"Wha –"
"Do it! Grauwolf has disengaged from enemy east division! It's heading right for you!"
There were loud gasps on the Para-RAID. I ignored them. E-4 was moving, travelling in the indicated direction – but the Grauwolf was chasing him, traveling in a diagonal toward him.
"I'll go back!"
"B-3, you'll be right in enemy line of fire," I snapped. "You disobeyed my orders once, don't screw things up even further."
Think, think…
"C-4, I need you to run an interception course; loop around eastward to avoid the main group, get to E-4 now! Hurry, before the Grauwolf –"
"I can fight my way through –"
"You won't even make it halfway there through that crowd; do as I tell you!"
"I'll move and cut it off –"
"Stick on the remaining Löwe, Starfall, or B-2, B-5, and C-2 are all dead!"
"But –"
On the map, the enemy dot stopped for a brief instant. In my lifelike world of illusions, I saw it angle itself upward, taking aim with its rocket launcher.
"E-4, hard bank to your left!"
I saw the rocket travel through the air, descending in an arc to where E-4 would have been had he not violently jerked his craft to the left. I heard an explosion. It missed – his Juggernaut still registered on my system, but…
In the world only I could see, I witnessed the damage that had been dealt.
E-4 stopped moving – and the Grauwolf was advancing at speeds exceeding a hundred kilometres per hour, high-frequency blades whirring.
"I – I can't see! It's all dark!"
In my mind's eye, clear as day, the Juggernaut had escaped intact – but the periphery of the explosion had destroyed the sole optical sensor of the Juggernaut. And from my time piloting the craft, I knew that no light would make it past the opaque walls of the aluminium coffin.
Without a means of retreat, C-4 would never intercept the Grauwolf in time.
"Can you open the cockpit?"
"I - It's stuck!"
"E-4!"
I closed my eyes. I focused on his breathing, his panic. The darkness I now saw was exactly the same as his own.
In a heartbeat, the world faded away. I soared, ascended past the clouds, just as I always did. There would be no provision of help from any other members of Third Squadron – they were all too far away for that, even if they managed to break through the Legion ranks. This would have to come from E-4 himself.
From the skies, I descended upon his Juggernaut. As a ghost, I walked straight through the walls of his craft, sat where he sat, and envisioned myself in his position. Like him, I was not skilled at aiming or shooting – almost the whole of the past week had been spent focusing on movement, where Gunther was already firing with deadly accuracy. I knew what it was like for E-4.
And then, in between heartbeats, flitting between real and illusory worlds, as time raced on, I saw a single faint possibility blossom into being.
I acted.
-x-x-x-
"E-4!"
Althea didn't know who it was who had screamed. Had it been her, or was that Sonia? Ygritte? Camilla? Petra, or Raphael? Eden, or Dariel?
It didn't matter. Right in front of her eyes, little Leo was going to be killed – and there was nothing she could do about it. Handler One was right. If she stopped providing artillery support, then Harriet, Camilla, and Dariel would all be dead. She was all that was preventing the remaining Löwe from firing on them while they took them out one by one with the formation they had practiced time and time again over the past week.
She hated it. Hated how it was the right course of action. Hated how Handler One could deny all of them from going to help Leo, using his damned bloody reason to convince them.
She hated how it was the only good course of action, for an eleven-year-old boy to die just like this, barely a week into his role as a Processor.
The Grauwolf's rockets had a fairly lengthy time between consecutive firings, but they were fast, and they had high-frequency blades. With the optical sensor of Leo's Juggernaut disabled as it was, he could not outmanoeuvre them.
All he could do was remain there, hyperventilating, not even knowing when death would come to claim him. Blind, lost, and panicked, he would die.
Her vision was blurred, as she unloaded another salvo of explosive rounds to cut off a pair of Löwe that were attempting to assist the one that was being destroyed by her fellow Processors.
"Leo…" she heard Eden whisper faintly, so soft it would be missed by anyone else, whose crafts were in the very thick of action. "I – I'm sorry –"
"E-4."
Suddenly, Handler One cut in – and his tone had changed completely. There was a focus in his words, and yet it sounded strangely detached, even more than it usually was.
"Do exactly as I say, no matter what your team says. Focus only on my voice. Right stick forward, maximum speed."
"Yes!" The word came out as a shrill squeak, terror, determination, hope, fear, and a hundred competing emotions coalescing all at once.
She dared chance a sideward glance. Leo had begun to move. But on level ground, the Grauwolf was faster yet, there was no way that Leo could outrun it. The distance between them was still closing.
And now, seeing that its prey was moving once more, it decided to begin firing its rockets.
"Hard left, now!"
Leo dodged.
"Don't kill your speed! Turn your craft right – faster; stop! Adjust left – a little more – stop! Keep moving forward!"
What… is this?
"Keep moving, keep moving – left adjustment, stop! – move, move! Get ready, it's going to fire in another three seconds – don't dodge yet!"
And sure enough, within another few heartbeats, the Grauwolf slowed slightly, took aim, and –
"Hard right!"
Again, Leo dodged.
How was he doing this?
"Thirty-five hundred metres… take the difference, divide by… and at the approximated angle, would be – twenty – and at that acceleration… estimated tension is – which brings arc of travel – and that would allow – yes, and so – margin of error –"
Handler One was muttering to himself, thoughts disjointed, as though his words could not keep up with the pace that they were being formed and discarded.
Did he have a plan? He had initially ordered for Kenta to cut the Grauwolf off, but with the direction he was making Leo run in, that would be impossible. The pair was now out of the range of both the Legion units and the rest of their squadron.
… was it possible for Handler One to let Leo take the Grauwolf out himself?
She didn't dare speak – almost didn't even dare to breathe – so as not to break Handler One out of whatever fugue state he had suddenly entered. There was no witty remark, no condescending opinion; merely a series of orders and instructions that Leo dutifully followed.
Twice more, the Grauwolf fired. Twice more, Leo dodged, listening to the Handler's barked orders. They moved further and further away from the current battlefield, toward where she had been engaged in one of the Handler's drills on the very first day he took charge of their squadron.
"…the hard part's coming up, E-4. This will be something only you can do. When the time comes, I will give six orders – jump, turn, stop, fire, retract, and disengage." He paused for a second. "For jump, you jump. For turn, move your steering stick as fast and far to the left as possible, and when I tell you to stop, you return it to neutral position immediately. For the last three orders, you will fire, retract, or disengage your wire anchors respectively. Clear?"
What was the plan? She turned, trying to imagine it, but the Löwe's continued presence prevented her from doing that. No matter what, she had to stay on task, or her teammates would die.
Whatever Handler One was doing – it was the only chance of saving Leo.
Still… the distance between them was being cut again. The Grauwolf was faster than the Juggernaut in open territory. Sensing that there was no means that Leo could avoid its clutches, now that they were well and truly separated from the fight, it had stopped using its rockets, content with waiting until it could reach its prey and carve him apart with its blade.
"Am I clear, E-4? You know where all the controls are?"
"Yes!"
… it was suicide. Even if it was possible for that to happen, and if he actually had a plan in mind, Leo wouldn't be able to move. The Grauwolf would still get to him. And he was supposed to somehow execute all of this while he had no visual input.
"Handler One, you –"
"Starfall, stay on objective. Same goes for all of you." He cut her off without a trace of emotion. "E-4, all you need to do is follow my orders. Be ready."
There was silence on the line. No one spoke. Though engaged with destroying the remaining Legion – with the tactics he had come up with – she could sense their doubt and uncertainty, warring with the faintest stirring of hope after Leo had somehow dodged four consecutive rockets while effectively blind, guided by the commands of their Handler.
And then it happened.
"JUMP!"
Barely less than even an instant later, a rapid series of orders came. "Turn! STOP! Fire! RETRACT!"
Less than a heartbeat, and –
"DISENGAGE!"
Then there was the sound of an explosion.
Her breath caught.
"…Leo?" she whispered. Then, she raised her voice, shouting. "E-4, are you there?"
Silence.
Damn it. Damn it!
Then –
"Starfall," a voice spoke, disoriented and confused, but awed. Leo's voice. "I'm still alive…"
"How?" she whispered.
"Huh," Handler One spoke, and now, his voice had returned to how it always had been. Comfortable with himself, as though everything was just a huge joke to him. "That actually worked."
-x-x-x-
In some ways, the fact that my terrible plan had even worked was beyond fortuitous – but at the same time, the only reason it had happened was because it was E-4 who had been caught out. It was only the fact that it was him that it worked, but also because it was him that I had been forced to use it.
The more experienced members would have been able to match a Grauwolf in single combat. They would have been able to comfortably dodge its attacks, without losing the sole optical feed that had utterly crippled E-4's craft. And yet, because it was E-4 – with whatever uncanny skill of his it was that let him handle g-forces without feeling strained, and the fact that his lack of expertise with the craft was similar to my own – the plan had a chance of success. With anyone else, I would have needed an alternative method of approach.
The illusory world I had entered had felt strange. Different. Everything had been lifelike, and now that it was all over, I found that I couldn't even remember what my thought processes had been, or what my eyes and ears had been telling me. Someone could have been screaming bloody murder at me during that time, and I wouldn't even be able to recall.
My finger was still on the button I had pressed moments ago – confirmation for the firing codes I had requested a week ago, on the same day as the first drill. I hadn't expected the report I submitted for the purposes of what amounted to shits and giggles to be of any use, but somehow, it worked.
The plan was simple – I had E-4 leap, turn in mid-air, fire his wire anchors into the side of a hill, and slingshot his way around the hill at high velocity. It was when the Grauwolf lost its speed as it turned to chase E-4 around the hill that I even had the slightest chance of being on target for a static shot, based on the vicinity of the coordinates that Starfall had been in when I made the twenty-eighth tally mark on my sheet. With the unorthodox means of travel, E-4 would preserve most of his speed, and thereby escape the blast radius of the artillery fire, while also using the hill for cover.
It needed to be that precise location. Aside from protecting him from the blast radius, I couldn't risk a misfire destroying my other Processors. Once it was all over, as was the case now, E-4 wouldn't be able to move at all – both due to the loss of optical systems and damage to his craft's suspension and bracing systems – which necessitated moving them both far off-field.
It had been risky, but it was also the only method I saw that could work.
All that was left was finalising the clean-up; to play by the rulebook. If anyone tried to make a fuss about 'unauthorised firing of interception cannons' or 'not adhering to protocol', I would just fling the entire legal mumbo-jumbo of the Special Wartime Peace Preservation Act and the Handler Act at them, alongside the Para-RAID logs.
I cleared my throat.
"That was a warning shot, Starfall," I said.
"Huh?"
I grinned at her confusion. It wasn't just her – apparently, no one had caught on yet, though it had been seconds since I'd last been in the world of my mind's own creation, double-checking to see that I hadn't missed anything. I relished in the feeling; it had been far too long since the last time I managed to pull of an attack like that without my opponents realising their blunder.
Then, she gasped.
"As per the Special Wartime Peace Preservation Act, in response to your choice comments dated one week ago that I have interpreted as amounting to insubordination, I have requested and been approved for the use of interception cannons. See to it that it does not happen again, or there will be progressive penalties."
"What in the hell –" I heard A-2 begin to say, incredulity and realisation – and dare I say it, awe? – entering his voice.
It was no 'thank you', but I didn't expect one. The day that Eighty-Six thanked the Alba would be the day that a pig-blooded idiot like myself became voted in as Supreme Chancellor of the Republic, a position that didn't even exist. To me, the more satisfying thing had been this – the Legion thought that their play was absolute, but I had triumphed over them anyway while keeping to the prescribed rules of the game.
Things shouldn't even have been as difficult as it was, since the battle was already going into our favour before B-3 decided to become a hero and mess things up, but I allowed myself a pat on the back for a minor victory.
"Four Legion units remaining on the field." I paused. "Well, three, now. Good shot, Starfall. E-4, stay in position. Your suspension systems and optics are fried, and you can't open your hatch, but you are far from any remaining Legion drones. Sit tight, and someone else will come to cut your hatch open and collect you."
"Okay," his drowsy voice replied. Concussion? "Handler One… th- thank you…"
Yep. Definitely a concussion.
"Third Squadron, check up on E-4 once he is recovered, I suspect a concussion. B-2, B-4, B-5, C-1, good job finishing up with the last target."
"How did you do that?" E-2 asked. "Handler One, you –"
"I would explain it, but that takes too much trouble." Gunther always asked the same, but never appreciated the fine details of my plans whenever we played. "The inner machinations of my mind are an enigma, as the saying goes."
"…yep. Still an asshole."
I gave a tut of mock disapproval. "Really now, Starfall? Have you learned nothing from my beratement? Shall I need to use the interception cannons again?" Playing along, I continued on with a conspiratorial whisper. "Psst. Insult me more, and I get to fire more artillery on the Legion. It's win-win."
"Was this your plan from the very start?" A-3 asked, and like her comrade-in-arms that was A-2, she too was incredulous.
"Hell no," I said. "Do you have any idea what sort of ungodly coincidences had to align in order for the shot to even be on target based on coordinates I submitted a week ago, without risking destroying everyone else in the squadron, and while still keeping E-4 alive?"
I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. "And don't get any funny ideas! This is strictly a one-time thing. The damned lieutenant colonel only just barely approved my application to Handler operations of the Officers Academy!" I paused. "Besides, repeating the same play just wouldn't be elegant."
They were now regrouping with the immobile E-4, Starfall and A-3 already adjacent to his location.
"I really don't get you. How in the world could you pull off something like that, and still see all of this as just a game?"
C-1 didn't sound accusatory, only confused and bewildered. He had been one of the few I had initially put into the group that might be receptive to following orders, and over the last week, had complied with my drills.
The reply was easy, though. Gunther asked me questions along a similar vein on almost a weekly basis.
"That's because I do. The only reason I'm here is because the damned Republic bamboozled me into thinking that the war was actually fought with unmanned drones."
A pause.
"You know, I was almost this close to respecting you, Handler One."
"Lucky save, A-3. I have it under good authority that anyone who does that might have something terribly wrong with their brain. How's E-4 doing?"
Starfall answered. "A little drowsy, but fine. I'll bring him back to base. We'll tow the Juggernaut back for repairs."
"Right. Head back. We'll have a debrief in an hour." I took a slow, deep breath. 3, 9, 27, 81, 243, 729, 2187, 6561, 19683, 59049… I let the simmering anger fade away. "B-3, we will discuss your actions later."
He didn't sound as spirited as he had been on our first communications. Now, he felt small, lost, very much the thirteen-year-old boy that he was. "…understood, Handler One."
"Fine. I'll start writing up a pre-emptive report before my damned bosses probe me as to why I fired the cannon. We'll talk in an hour."
I disconnected from the link. Then, I sighed, stretched my stiff limbs, and dived straight back to work. I would need to analyse the battle data once this was finished as well, and see if I had missed any details over on the side of the others when I had focused in solely on E-4.
-x-x-x-
An hour later, they were all gathered in the common area, awaiting the call from Handler One.
Over the past week, Althea thought she managed to get a read on their phantom Handler, but everything that had happened over the battle had left her once again being unable to understand him. Somehow his tactics worked – they didn't translate directly, but the core principles of his exercises had been the same, and they had managed to execute them perfectly in the field.
Zero casualties. For most squadrons, the initial few sorties tended to accumulate a few losses, because it took time for everyone to get used to working together with a different team. There were also a few who had barely any experience in piloting the Juggernaut, and they were at greatest risk of dying early on.
Just as Leo had been. The boy was seated on the sofa, loudly protesting against the attention that the others were giving to him, claiming that he was recovered by now. It was only after surveying the site where his Juggernaut had ended up in that she realised what Handler One had done. It was not a manoeuvre any sane Processor would perform, and certainlynot someone with a damaged and blind Juggernaut like Leo. In many ways, it had been because he was blind that he even had the courage to pull off a movement like that, based purely on listening to Handler One's instructions.
Eden was subdued. He had apologised – repeatedly – to Leo, but the younger boy had immediately accepted it, and told Eden not to worry. Still, the fact that his disregard for Handler One's orders and his desire to fight had caused Leo to nearly lose his life weighed heavily on him.
…in many ways, she couldn't blame him. Had it been her in his shoes, she might just have done the same. No one was accusing him of anything, but he still blamed himself.
Then, the heat by her ears told her that Handler One was finally re-establishing the Para-RAID link – almost exactlyone hour from the time that he left.
"Well, let's keep this brief, squadron," Handler One said, his voice as nonchalant as it usually was. "First things' first – E-4, you're holding up well?"
"Yes, Handler One! Thank you!"
"Starfall, check him again, I'm certain his mental faculties are still compromised." A few of them snickered. "And the Juggernaut?"
"It's recovered and under repairs. Our base mechanic says it will be ready by tomorrow."
"Excellent; excellent. Barring another Legion raid, we'll be going right back into drills. Well, let's get to addressing the elephant in the room."
He breathed in.
Eden tensed, looking up from where he sat in the chair, though the Handler wasn't present. Althea winced, bracing herself for the dressing down to come. Handler One had been so genuinely angry back when Eden had abandoned his position, and thrown his plans into jeopardy.
There was a pause, then Handler One sighed.
"I had a ten-page-long speech written up and everything, but I really don't feel like shouting. The effect would be lost. Let's pretend I gave an angry tirade here for about ten minutes, involving colourful and creative use of various derogatory phrases typically used for the Eighty-Six, including the likes of 'donkey', 'livestock', 'farm animals', 'subhuman', 'bastard', 'apes', and… you get the picture. There might be inclusion of some acts that are anatomically impossible, and also likely unsuitable for some younger members connected to the Para-RAID.
"I would continue on to berate you for failure to follow my instructions, stress that I know what I'm doing, that your refusal to follow instructions had thrown the entire plan into jeopardy, and that your desire to play the hero in order to live up to self-imposed expectations as a result of your survivor's guilt leads to you making irrational tactical blunders. I would point out that you only ever see a fraction of the battlefield, and focused on the task at hand, your tunnel vision would prevent you from realising the greater picture.
"And… hmm, we'll skip this bit here, that seems rude even for me, and wholly unnecessary – and, wow, did I actually write this? Eh… yeah, the rest of this is just more of the same rhetoric. You get the idea."
… again, Althea absolutely did not understand Handler One.
"Anyway, moral of the story is this – I'm the Handler, you follow my orders. Do that, and we're peachy. Yes, life isn't fair. Deal with it."
"But –" Eden's voice cracked. "But I almost killed –"
"I suppose part of the blame does lie with me as well, since I never stressed the importance of your position within the formation," Handler One mused, as though Eden hadn't said anything. "Can anyone here tell me what role E-4 and B-3 were meant to play back during the battle?"
Silence. Most of the others looked at one another, gesturing and miming.
Then Althea spoke, after seeing that no one was willing to answer. "They were threatening routes of escape for the Legion."
"Bingo! Not too surprised you got it, Starfall; you had to see it like that, considering your role as an artillery specialist."
Surprisingly, the praise actually sounded genuine.
"Yes, B-3 – I will freely admit that your earlier position in the formation will not see much fighting, but that does not make your role any less important than the vanguard's. Without even firing a single shot, you limit the enemy's movements, and I'd say that's far more powerful than duking it out in a dogfight. I will, however, reinstate you into roles with more active combat, now that I know that you are capable of engaging in battle without being paralysed by past traumas."
It was a wonder how Handler One could simultaneously seem worthy of respect, and so damned punchable at the same time. It evened out, and put him right into the 'annoying' label.
"Well, B-3? Can I trust that you'll stay in formation and do your assigned job unless otherwise instructed in the future?"
"Yes, Handler One!" Eden was resolute and determined, looking first at Leo, and then the rest of the team. "I – I won't let anyone die because of me!"
"Hmm. I was expecting an 'asshole' or 'screw you' or a 'bastard' thrown in there somewhere. Starfall, do me a favour and check to see that he hasn't suffered a concussion as well."
Tien snorted, and then began to chuckle. "Good to see you're still the same old bastard."
"… back and forth snide comments aside, B-3's actions have made me consider that there is something that needs to be said."
His manner of speech changed, and as though he dropped his guard of nonchalance and indifference, his next words came out sounding almost honest. Unconsciously, she leaned forward in her seat.
"I'm aware that it can be – difficult – working with me. I see this all as a big game, but you all have been fighting desperately from the day that the Republic cast you out into the Eighty-Sixth Sector. To me, you're all a bunch of letters, numbers, and statistics; to you, these are your lives. I can't change that. Won't. I'm selfish like that. I'm your Handler only because I wanted a challenge; command what I had thought were unmanned drones and see what I might be able to pull off.
"I have trouble talking with people. I don't tend to display my emotions. I obscure, obfuscate, omit; divert, deflect, disarm. Doesn't make me very popular." He paused. "But I can tell you here and now that I won't lie to you. I play to win. I'll push your unit; use everything at my disposal to make certain that every battle goes as efficiently as possible. If there's a play I can make to seize the advantage, I'm damned well going to take it.
"But my tactics have their limits. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not arrogant enough to think that I have all the answers. I don't know everything there is to know about the Legion. I don't know what it's like to face down a Löwe, Grauwolf, or Ameise, or to dodge hailstorms of artillery fire from Skorpions. I can only tell you as far as what I think is best, but might not in actuality be the right set of moves.
"If I think that the most optimal play is to sacrifice one unit to save the rest, in order to avoid an even more catastrophic loss, I will tell you. You are free to disregard my orders in that instance – I certainly wouldn't blame you – but know that I at least will be honest in my assessment."
Althea didn't know how he could say all that... and sound so honest at the same time. It was then that she realised something about Handler One.
This unknown Alba was just as broken as any of them. He was purposeless, doing things for the sake of it, treating all of this as a game because it was all that he knew.
They fought, because it was the life they had been thrown into. He played, because it was his only remaining interest. It was why he always kept his guard up, never revealed any emotion, and shrouded himself with sarcasm, irony, and plenty of poor humour.
And from the looks of it, at least Tien and Sonia were starting to realise that as well. They were the more experienced among them, who had fought as Processors for the longest period of time, and knew what inescapable fate awaited them at the end.
He sighed. "Aaand that's my rant done. Take from it what you will. Drills are still on tomorrow morning, if the Legion doesn't send another group in. Anyone have any last words?"
"Handler One, I…" Leo spoke up shyly. "If it's not too much trouble… can I ask for your name?"
Althea wouldn't have thought she'd ever live to see the day that an Eighty-Six respected an Alba – but right now, Handler One was Leo's hero.
Just this once – perhaps she could respect him.
"Eh? Haven't you all already figured that out yesterday? The name's Admiral Asshole, remember? Feel free to put it on a plaque."
And with that, he terminated the link, and what respect she had scrounged up for him.