AN: I'm not Santa, so this isn't much for the season. But, at least I'm not dead.
Disclaimer: FMA is the property of Hiromu Arakawa. Youjo Senki is the property of Being X.
XVI. SOMEDAY IN THE RAIN
ROOM 204, CENTRAL COMMAND SATELLITE OFFICE VERMILLION STREET, CENTRAL CITY WEST
27 SEPTEMBER, 1918
The tick-tack of my fingers striking each key reverberated with the raindrops against my window. It's been raining for four days now, and I was starting to wonder if Being X was being extra petty by giving me over half a week of gloomy wet skies.
Is this what London feels like?
Still, a committed worker won't care what the weather is, especially when one's work is indoors. For the past week, I've been hammering away at this typewriter, finishing up my next proposal to Central Command.
The Air Force is a much bigger undertaking, you see, and even with the will, the way requires an extensive reorientation of resources, both material and human. And that takes time. Hell, I still have to go over some kinks in my mass-production airplane prototype after Briggs tried it out.
To put it bluntly, it crashed, like how Samuel Langley's dreams of becoming the father of powered flight took a nosedive into the depths of the Potomac.
The world remembers the Wright brothers. Most of them don't know that they were absolute underdogs eclipsed by the media's favourite. Langley didn't just have 50,000 dollars of government funding. He was the director of the Smithsonian and an accomplished scientist with many previous achievements under his belt.
The Wrights succeeding where he failed was a complete upset.
Why not just use one of the Aquroya designs? Not counting patent issues, or even all the weird gimmicks like Ilyushin's flying squirrel, they were all over-engineered personal projects. I don't want Formula One cars. I want a Model T. But for fighter planes.
Sighing, I took a sip from my cup of coffee only to realise it was empty.
I held it up, not bothering to make a sound other than, "Reload."
I honestly didn't need to.
She was always watching. Always at least one eye on my back. That's the kind of support you trust.
Serebryakova acknowledged my request with snappy resolve, and in less than a second had gotten up from her seat, crossed the small office, and relieved me of the cup.
As she poured some more from the percolator, I reclined into my chair until the backrest hit the crate that was still behind me. Almost two weeks as the new residents of this office and we still haven't cleaned up the abominable mess Captain Blonsky left behind.
It was impinging on my potential efficiency.
So what was I working on while waiting on the Air Force and redesigning my mass production prototype?
Something far more manageable. It required only a minor restructuring of personnel and a small repurposing of materiel. And it lacked the experimental problems of aeronautical engineering. It was all a matter of tapping into a severely wasted potential resource: The 400 alchemists who apply but fail to qualify for the State Certification Exam, and the 98 to 99 examinees who get passed over for Certification.
It would be a waste not to make good use of their talents for military purposes. Especially with Creta's own alchemy projects starting to demonstrate promise, or so I'd heard. We have to do everything we can to stay on top. Hopefully, whoever gets put in charge of this new bronze-level State Alchemist membership tier doesn't screw it up. A rapid reaction force of such calibre would need some serious discipline to function properly, even given the plan to further train their alchemy in a generally uniform fashion.
I stared at the telescope Winry had bought for me a few days ago, placed with care and precision on a table near my desk. A reminder of an opportunity waiting to happen.
For her and the other ladies currently in my life, it was a special occasion. On that day, eleven years ago, I was taken in by the orphanage, a couple of months old.
More importantly, that was actually the day I woke up in this world. So if I had to choose, that would be my birthday.
Upon finding out, they took me to a department store. There, we did a lot of shopping, eating, sightseeing… It was girls' night out. I lost sleep having to catch up on work after that unscheduled detour. They made a really big deal out of it.
Buying me a telescope just because we went stargazing through a brief clearing of the rain clouds?
Honestly, it was too big a deal.
Because unless something special is happening on my birthday, I don't mind keeping the celebration simple.
Since there was nothing going on back then, though…
For me, it was Tuesday.
Literally.
That day was a Tuesday.
It's Friday now. The week is almost done, and so is my proposal. I'm on the last page. Once Serebryakova gets back from sending this through the MILPOST, I'm taking her to the range so she can teach me how to shoot.
In bad weather.
Because not counting that little stint of stargazing, the rain hasn't stopped since Tuesday.
Heh.
Must be Being X's birthday present for me then.
The rain continued to pour as I finished the last paragraphs of my proposal. Serebryakova finished filling up my cup and I murmured my thanks.
The deep dark undertones of the coffee perked me up instantly. It's not surprising, considering Aerugo is basically Italy, and is in the same way, the birthplace of cappuccino. Yes, not even Being X can ruin this perfect cup.
I set it down beside my typewriter and slapped a finger down on the last period. With that, I rolled it out of the feed and put it at the bottom of the stack of papers consisting of my proposal. For this one, the challenge isn't the implementation. As I mentioned earlier, it's a lot easier to do than creating an entirely new branch of the military or even perfecting a prototype.
The question is whether the brass will accept it at all.
Fixing the stack and sliding it into a folder, I handed it over to Serebryakova, who was already waiting. "MILPOST. Once you get back, we're headed straight for the range."
"Even in this weather, Major?" the Drachman asked, concerned.
"We have to be ready to fight under any condition," I pointed out. "Sure, I might miss every shot today, but at least I'll have a better grasp of what that would be like."
Serebryakova smiled and nodded. "Sounds like something my Grampa would say."
She never really did tell me much about her family. Aside from all the stories she'd tell me about spending several years with her grandfather and learning how to shoot, all I knew about her parents was that they were in Katorga. Well, if being like her gramps lifts me up in her eyes, then good.
When she left, I took a few minutes to relax and finish my coffee, once again staring out the window and the sheets of water flowing down the roof of the building across the street. I sure talked big for someone who was still learning to be a decent shot. I wonder how much ammo I'll waste today with all this rain…
By the time Serebryakova got back, I was already standing at the door, with our raincoats at the ready. There were a number of ranges in Central, all state-controlled, of course. The nearest one was some five or six blocks away, near the Academy. A relatively short walk on a good day, but with this torrent, it was probably better to take a carriage.
I flashed my silver pocket watch as we made our way to the waiting shed. A gaggle of enlisted grunts and some lower-ranking officers parted the way for us, and we took the first cab available.
Man, I love this pocket watch! Sure, it marks me as a dog of the military. But if I keep playing my cards right, I'll be a very nice and comfortable dog with a gilded leash.
The trip to the range was uneventful, and we made our way inside. Registration was easy for an officer, and for someone like myself, who didn't have my own rifle just yet, I made do with using the spare issue in the armoury.
It wasn't hard to explain why an officer didn't have a weapon when that officer flashed a pocket watch. Simply put, I was in my position because of my alchemy, not my aim. They were understanding of this of course, and humoured my terrible performance each week we came down here.
When I first came down here, I started with a letter from the Provost at the Academy. My grades for Officer Selection School, otherwise excellent, did not fare too well in the shooting department. That was the other reason I was taking extra time to shoot. I wouldn't graduate otherwise. And that was unacceptable.
It also sort of helped that Serebryakova was a regular, coming here since the time of her reprocessing and practising with Amestrian arms as long as her curfew would allow. They figured if anyone was going to teach a "kid" how to shoot, it might as well be someone like her.
I sighed as I rested my cheek against the cold wood of the semi-auto rifle, peeking out from over a sandbag. Muddy sand occasionally splattered into my face thanks to particularly aggressive runoff from the corrugated roof overhead. 50 metres away stood the targets, shielded by that endless shower that started last Tuesday.
It was hard to aim down iron sights under these conditions. I could only imagine what it would feel like out on the battlefield, with all the chaos going on. Serebryakova had her hand on my left shoulder, reminding me of the usual instructions, and handing out tips on shooting in the rain.
I squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked hard into my shoulder and my unshielded ears ached at the report. Damned recoil. In a game, the worst part of a high-recoil weapon would be how it ruined your aim. That's still the most life-threatening issue IRL, of course, but this is another inconvenience added by the real deal. Even after all these weekly sessions, the first shot of the day always gets me.
The impact of the shot was mostly drowned out by the torrent that bombarded the aluminium roof and surrounding grounds. The only way I could tell I missed was because the target didn't even flinch. Even a grazing hit would have rocked it somewhat.
"Try again, Major."
I centred myself and pulled again. This time, I thought I heard the distant sound of lead thudding against the sandbag barrier shielding the wall behind the targets. My eyebrow twitched in annoyance. I was already starting to get decent scores on clear days. This felt like going back to square one…
"You started with a full mag, Ma'am. Take your time."
I exhaled to take a fresh breath. Another shot rang out, as lightning flashed in the distance and… nothingness. I don't even know where it went. It couldn't have gone too far, could it? If not the target, then surely the sandbags again.
"Wow, that thunderclap…" Serebryakova mused.
Yeah, that's probably why I didn't hear it… Funny, that. I was too focused on the shot to notice the thunder. And yet, somehow I lost track of that bullet.
Seems like Being X is now trying to spoil this training session too. Figures.
Fourth time. I'm obviously not the superstitious type, but back in Japan, it's not exactly the one you'd call the charm. I think I'm starting to get into a rhythm at this point. The recoil barely registered… but neither did the shot connect with anything but sandbags. It was also a lot wider than the last one I saw.
I cursed Being X under my breath.
"16 more rounds, Major," the Drachman marksman noted. "Still got plenty."
I guess there's that. I sighed and tried again. Controlled my breathing… called on the past four months of weekly practice… My finger slowly squeezed, and the rifle answered with its report…
…
There! It had only grazed the target, but I could definitely see it sway from the hit!
The Private smiled and voiced her approval. Okay, maybe this wasn't going to be a complete waste of time…
I pumped my left arm in a brief celebration and prepared to fire the next round. Before I could pull the trigger, though, a shot rang out, and a target on the far side of the range leaned back from what could only have been a headshot.
"You gotta be kidding me…"
As if that distant shooter heard me and decided to prove me wrong, three more reports cracked in quick succession, all of them solid body shots.
I could feel my breath escape from my lungs like a leaking balloon.
As if to punctuate this, the target leaned back again, awkwardly, as if it had been struck twice. The two distinct instances of muzzle flash in the distance erased any doubt. That other shooter just double-tapped the target's head in this terrible weather.
Just who the hell is shooting over there?
Serebryakova couldn't help but clap as the unseen shooter proceeded to empty the rest of their mag. Every single one was a vital hit.
Goddamn.
"Well I'm obviously at my own level here, so…" Still, to see the gulf between us was really something. Sure, I've seen Serebryakova pull off a crazy stunt like shooting a cable from a moving plane at a distance of I-don't-know-how-many metres… But the consistency despite the weather is its own kind of silly.
If they've been out in the field, I've no doubt they've already racked up their own share of scalps. Probably three digits' worth, if they're that good at shooting in the rain.
"That's right, Major," Serebryakova gave me a pat on the back. "You don't have to prove anything to them. What's important is you hit your own goal!"
I nodded. Of course. It doesn't matter if they're that good. We have different targets. And in a free market, the pie only grows bigger as each business succeeds. At least, in the Smithian ideal. Monopolies and lobbying are another issue entirely, but at least for now, we're in very different niches.
I'm an alchemist just trying to plug up my weakness in firearms. If General Mustang's terrible aim and Alphonse's refusal to arm himself are anything to go by, I'm the weird one here.
I flicked the safety on and checked the chamber, before seeing if the rifle was still relatively dry. With all that runoff splatter, you can't be too careful, you know.
"Yeah, this looks good."
"Then let's carry on, shall we? You did requisition one hundred rounds for today, after all." Serebryakova chuckled as she pointed at the spare mags and ammo box sitting on the table under the lightbulb.
"Alright then…" I undid the safety and started aiming again. At the same time, I felt the Private shift her weight away from me as she moved over to the table and started loading the mags with fresh 7.62x51mm rounds from the box.
The shooting continued without further incident. I'll admit, though, that it was hard to concentrate at first, given how that mystery shooter continued to unload on their target at a pace that kept niggling at my self-confidence.
For every shot I took, they probably unloaded three or more rounds downrange.
And I didn't need to look to know that those all hit.
At the end of the day, I averaged about a little over a fifth. 22 rounds hit.
I stood up and put on my raincoat, marching through the downpour and muddy sand on the range with a lantern in one hand. I flipped the switch on the vice fastening my target in place, and brought it back in for examination.
All throughout, that shooter still kept going. I'd lost count of how many mags they'd emptied at this point. No wonder they're so good. They probably spend most of their salary on ammo.
Under the yellow incandescent light, Serebryakova and I studied the aluminium target and determined that out of 22 hits, only three even touched the outer scoring rings. Another five left holes somewhere on the torso, albeit nowhere near the scoring rings. The rest were grazes and flesh wounds, sections of the target's edge that had been punctured or scraped away slightly, the former leaving behind holes in the shape of half a circle or less.
And the grouping? Heh. What grouping?
"It's not terrible for the weather, Major," she tried to soften the result.
Now I might be stuck in a little girl's body, true. But I'm literally a grown man at heart. I can take a little hard truth, so… "And I'd be dead if that was a real firefight."
She stammered for a bit before confirming my suspicion. "Yes, Ma'am. That's right…"
I sighed. "Well, there's always next week…"
She nodded.
It was around that point that an officer walked up to us.
She snapped into a salute, which I returned. I guess that means I outrank her?
Judging from the way she was facing, she'd come from the far side of the range.
That stopped me in my tracks as I listened intently for the report of the shooter's rifle.
Nothing but the rain.
They were done. Which meant…
"That's not bad for your body size and the weather, Major," the officer said after a quick glance at my target.
She was the pinnacle of professionalism, with a bearing that spoke of years in the service. Her short blonde hair was tied into an upwards-facing ponytail, fastened to the back of her head rather than hanging loose. Piercing brown eyes evaluated both my target and myself with speed and precision.
I didn't even notice her check my shoulderboards, but how else would she have known my rank?
Yeah, no buts about it. I'm looking at the shooter.
"Captain Riza Hawkeye," she said as my brain failed to come up with a quick comeback for her earlier comment, "Eastern Command, HQ Regiment."
Of course, when your conscious brain fails you, the lizard part comes in clutch. "Major Tanya Degurechaff, Sylphid Alchemist, Satellite Office Vermillion."
State Alchemists might be assigned to specific units depending on where they're needed. We are by no means organic elements, stuck to a specific unit for life. Although the same could be said for soldiers in general, a State Alchemist is a lot more flexible in their placement.
After all, your research could take you to all sorts of places. And in that sense, your research, and how you contribute to the State will ultimately determine where you go.
Assignments are temporary. Research is for life.
Interestingly enough, Captain Hawkeye didn't seem surprised at all. Well, why would she be? State Alchemist is literally the only explanation for how a prepubescent kid like me could ever become a Major. And of course, most of the shock factor was already worn out by Edward Elric's reputation.
"I take it you must have a good reason for a State Alchemist to be working on your marksmanship, Major."
She's right, of course. Rear-echelon researchers were not the kind to wear uniforms. Just ask the eggheads at the National Laboratories. No, a State Alchemist in uniform was likely to have some form of combat rating or another. And while this wasn't a universal principle - you'd be surprised how deadly some 'rear echelon research' was if applied properly - wearing the uniform means that a State Alchemist is leaning into the military side of the term 'State'.
"Alchemy can be inconvenient at times," I admitted casually while glancing over at Serebryakova. The Private was quiet, and… seemed kind of starstruck, for some reason. Why, though? I bet she could also do some really good shots in a thunderstorm. "Sometimes, a quick, clean shot is the better alternative to a transmutation."
Captain Hawkeye nodded. It wasn't just that she agreed with me in principle. The firmness of her reaction was almost as if she knew it by experience.
Which shouldn't be surprising. Serving in Eastern Command's HQ Regiment probably meant that she was in close enough proximity to General Mustang that she'd seen him get stumped by a quick shot. Hell, given that show she put on earlier, she's probably already guarded his six a few times and beaten his flames to a few kills.
"Well, it looks like your subordinate has been doing a good job teaching you, Ma'am," she turned to Serebryakova, who just froze, all composure lost. "Under these conditions, you still managed to score a few solid hits. Just keep it up and you'll be a good shot eventually."
I nodded, suppressing a satisfied grin. "Why thank you, Captain. You see, Private Serebryakova has been shooting wolves since she was little. Isn't that right, Serebryakova?" I gave her a nudge with my elbow to bring her back down to earth.
She suddenly inhaled. As though she just remembered to breathe again.
Seriously?
"Y… yes, that's right, Major!" And just like that, she stumbled about her words, almost visibly fidgeting. "Grampa taught me everything I know!"
Just what is going on here?
"That accent…" The Captain paused for a moment. "Drachma?"
Serebryakova froze again.
"Private Serebryakova is my charge, Captain," If her brain was too fried to explain herself, I'd have to do it for her. "I helped facilitate her defection and sponsored her reprocessing."
"It's true, Ma'am," the Private managed to speak. "I owe the Major my life."
Pretty much. If she didn't come with, she'd be dead, just like all those poor schmucks in her unit who attacked Briggs. Of course, if she did pull that pin, then things probably would have ended differently… So I can't be too sure about what-ifs and could-have-beens.
To that, I could have sworn seeing a tiny smile form on the corner of Hawkeye's mouth. "Keep it up then, Private. Show her the way."
Her gaze seemed to shift back and forth between the Private and myself. But subtly. I don't know if her eyes were moving too fast for me to tell, or if they were just refocusing. But it really felt like she saw both of us at the same time.
"But even so, always watch her back. Trust is a precious commodity."
Hawkeye gave a salute, and we responded in kind. "Enjoy your evening, Major, Private."
And with that, the marksman walked on past us, heading back to the locker room.
As we started to clean up our allotted shooter's nest, I couldn't help but ask. "What was that about, Private?"
Serebryakova tilted her head in confusion as she put away the ejected casings. "What do you mean, Major?"
"As soon as Captain Hawkeye identified herself, you were like a high school girl all goo-goo-eyed at a KPop concert." I started to dismantle the rifle, inspecting each part as I did so, starting with a peep through the barrel.
"What's a KPop?" She squinted, now even more confused with her hand half in a bag used for cleanup.
I sighed and waved it off, putting away the receiver. "Never mind. What I mean is she got you all starry-eyed the whole time. Why?" Of course, KPop isn't a thing in this world. Not only is there no Korea, but concerts are still in the 1910s phase.
"Oh," Serebryakova did a big, slow nod as she finally got what I meant. "Well, why wouldn't I, Major? She's a war hero. Came out of the Ishval Rebellion as one of the army's most highly decorated marksmen. Over 300 confirmed kills, four Silver Shields, a Distinguished Service Pin, and the coveted Crimson Lightning Bolt."
That sounded like something right out of a textbook. Does she even know what those awards mean? Well, maybe for her, the kill count spoke for itself. I know I'd be impressed. Since a 'confirmed kill' requires a witness to actually find the body. This means Hawkeye's probably popped more Ishvalans than just that.
"I guess it makes sense you'd go gaga over someone with that kind of service record."
"She really is something, Major. I'll say that much."
Eastern Command, though. HQ Regiment too. I guess that means General Mustang must be in town if one of his best shooters is around.
I finished packing up the rifle and stood up, taking a while to survey the range, now illuminated by powerful outdoor lamps. "Well, the night's young and this storm still isn't letting up. Let's go grab a coffee before I take you back to the enlisted dorm."
"Yes, Ma'am!" Serebryakova completed the rest of the cleanup, and we made our way back to the armoury to deposit the borrowed rifle, amongst other things.
Things still hadn't changed by the time we stepped out the range's front door, kitted out in our raincoats and armed with umbrellas. Being X really wasn't letting up, huh?
Before we could hail a carriage for a trip to a decent coffee shop, however, a soldier seemingly materialised out of nowhere and ran towards us from the light of a lamp across the street. Well I mean he probably came from somewhere, but in this weather, it was hard to tell.
He took a moment after stopping in front of me to rest his hands against his thighs and catch his breath.
My eyebrow shot up.
After a short wait, he finally straightened up, and we exchanged salutes. "Major Degurechaff!"
"Yeah?" He looked familiar. Probably one of the guys at Vermillion's telegraph station, judging from the envelope he pulled out from his raincoat. It was wrapped in plastic.
"This just came in for you, Ma'am. Priority One from HQ."
Serebryakova and I exchanged glances. "I'll take it from here then, Corporal," I opened my hand to receive the envelope. "Dismissed."
With another salute, he was gone. Interestingly enough, right around then, the rain finally started to slow down.
I led the Private over to the waiting shed and lit a flashlight as I opened the telegram.
xxxXxxx
PRIORITY ONE KEY E2281N
EMERGENCY DISTRESS FLARE LAUNCHED AT LAT 48.5734 LONG 7.7521
SCRAMBLE ALL AERIAL ASSETS IMMEDIATELY
xxxXxxx
That key was authentic, which means that they really did want all Aerial Assets to help out whoever sent up that flare. And by "all", they could only have meant "me". Literally no one else in this entire country counts as such a thing. I sighed and started gnawing at my thumbnail.
"Major?" Serebryakova asked, "What does it say?"
A particularly bothersome thing about this key, though, was that it was one of several that Central Command used to authenticate a message without necessarily giving away the sender's identity. And I've learned through bitter experience that an anonymous invitation is not to be trifled with.
"It's a Distress Flare along the Cretan border," I muttered. "We need to go."
Serebryakova tilted her head, confused. "But wouldn't that be Western Command's responsibility?"
I nodded. Why would a unit all the way by the Cretan border need support from Central Command rather than Western Command? "Regardless, we have our orders."
In the first place, even going all the way to Western Command from an operational area along the border would already represent a significant time lag. Recon units along the border would be the first to spot the flare. Then they would alert the nearest field base. If its resources were insufficient, then they would escalate it up to the nearest Garrison City, which would already possess significant firepower, including artillery.
I hailed a carriage, and we made our way back to Vermillion St. By the time we got back inside, the rain had calmed down to a drizzle.
I checked the telegram again. Based on these coordinates, Pendleton would be the most likely such garrison. And if that somehow still wasn't enough, then they'd escalate it to Sector Command - Western Command in this case - which represented multiple divisions. Central Command wouldn't even come into the picture at all. That was usually where the buck stopped.
As we prepared our things, I started explaining things aloud, in case Serebryakova had any more questions… But it was mainly because I needed to suss out how this authentic telegram could even hold such a ridiculous set of orders.
Joint ops between two Sector Commands weren't common unless the State were to engage in Total War, which is only theoretical at this point. Literally. Papers have existed for a few years, and joint exercises between at least two Sector Commands happen annually, sure. But each individual SECTCOM is so heavily kitted out that just one of them is capable of waging an effective war on an entire belligerent state all by itself.
I finished placing my essentials into my rucksack and led the way to the third-floor balcony. "On the other hand, you can bypass all of this if you set up an entirely separate chain of command yourself. Like if Central Command decided to order a covert mission in the Western Sector and decided to ignore Western Command's oversight."
"Then this is a secret mission?"
I looked back at Serebryakova and pointed out the key on the telegram as we ran down the hall. "I don't know who this came from, only that they're in Central Command, and that their orders are legit. So yeah, I guess this is a secret mission!"
I pushed the balcony's double doors open, putting on my gloves and goggles as Serebryakova fastened herself tightly around me from behind, using a harness and multiple cables. This was just an experimental rig that we've been testing in recent weeks, and it's the first time we're really taking it into a fight. But so far it's held out for a good hour even with me flying at top speed.
"But why call us, Major?"
Tiny little drizzling droplets peppered us from above as I focused and clapped a transmutation. We blasted off the balcony westward, the air rushing past us as we zipped up into the sky.
I only answered her once we started cruising. "My guess is they got into some trouble too big for anyone to handle. They probably called me in because even though we're all the way here in Central, I'm the fastest State Alchemist in the country. I can get there before anyone else!"
"Huh, that makes a lot of sense!"
"Of course it does! It wouldn't make any sense at all otherwise!" I smirked on the outside to boost her confidence. But inside, I grimaced. Whatever covert op this is, I really didn't want to get dragged into it, given the things I've heard about Creta's capabilities. Combined with how the weather had now improved, with moonlight peeking through the clouds, this whole thing just reeks of Being X…
The heat of the moment died down, and as we started cruising, rational thoughts started to prevail.
"Major, I get that it was an authentic set of orders," Serebryakova loosened her grip on my waist, perhaps to rest her tense arms. "But they didn't so much as send you a briefing."
She shifted her weight, her right arm pulling away. I could imagine her starting to check her stuff.
"We brought everything we might need for an emergency, sure," the Private continued. "But it would be nice if they could have been a little more specific."
Yeah. All I know is there was a flare at an area by the Cretan border. While we'd been getting ready, a quick check of a map of the area told me it was going to be a mixture of forest, clearing, and some high elevation in Creta's direction. We had to scrounge up what we could by ourselves.
"Yeah." But unless it was something loud like artillery, or visible transmutations by Cretan alchemists, you would only have the flare to work with. For all we know, it's a couple of sniper teams, or something. "I bet it's the time factor. I don't like how sloppy this is either. But bureaucracies are problematic that way."
The butterflies in my stomach started breeding, and I tensed my abdominal muscles to clamp down on it. We'd find out soon enough.
"I guess we can only follow these orders, huh…"
"Yeah." I guess this might be something of a disappointment for Serebryakova. She'd left a chain of command that had lied to her a number of times. Now she was in one that didn't tell her the whole truth. When you think about it, there's not much of a difference between lying and half-truths. The only question there is what the purpose of the obfuscation is for. At least in this case, I could give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe there was a weak link who didn't think it through and rushed the telegram.
The lights of Central City quickly gave way to the vast Amestrian countryside, dark for plains, even darker for woods. Occasionally broken by the lamps of cars or carriages travelling the open road, or a cluster of illumination from towns. The latter became progressively smaller as we made our way out of the Central Sector.
Eventually, this effect would reverse as we approached West City, but it wouldn't be anywhere as bright as Central.
I checked my pocketwatch. It was half past eight. We're making good time.
Soon, the mountains of the Cretan border came into view. Nowhere near as daunting as the Northern range, and not the kind of place you could build an analogue to Briggs. But it was still a considerable natural boundary.
I descended to an altitude that could better spot movement even in the dark. Behind me, I could vaguely hear mechanical sounds. Serebryakova was probably arming up now. Which is an impressive thing to do one-handed.
If my calculations are correct, we should be on top of them in a few minutes, assuming they're retreating east.
Below was a large rocky field, directly connected to a thick forest leading to the mountains.
Just as I thought I saw some lamps behind some rocks, a bright light flashed from nearby.
When it faded, there was now a ten-foot wall where the rock once stood.
"Major, I thought-"
"I know!" Either some other State Alchemist had gotten here before me or a State Alchemist had sent up that flare.
If the former was the case, I was impressed. If it was the latter, then…
We closed in, making sure to keep quiet and keep an eye on that area where someone just transmuted a wall.
Another transmutation flashed, followed by a short burst of what looked like tracers arcing from behind the wall, in the direction of the forest.
We landed behind a rocky outcropping a measured distance behind the wall. Close enough that I could make out the uniforms in the lamp's lighting, but far enough that we wouldn't get shot on the spot in case they weren't friendly.
"Definitely friendly," Serebryakova muttered.
"Yeah. Good old blue coats." There were nine of them in all. A basic squad, or half a full section. One stood out in particular, a mountain of a bald man that dwarfed even Ilyushin. A silver chain dangled from his belt to his pocket. He must be the State Alchemist then. If I stared at him long enough, I could almost swear I saw pink sparkles flying off the single lock of hair left on his head.
Huh?
This close, I realised that he didn't just erect a wall. It had embrasures for his eight troops to fire through.
"What now, Major?" Serebryakova took a shooting position behind our rock. "How do we make contact?"
There were a lot of sign-password-countersign combinations, of course. And given the key was E2281N, it had a few standard exchanges associated with it. The issue was whether knowing one of the key's exchanges was good enough. "All we've got is the key, so let's use it."
I took a deep breath before stepping out from behind the rock, holding my hands sky high.
One of the soldiers previously poking through the embrasure turned around to see me. Probably heard my footsteps. She didn't hesitate to pull her bayonetted rifle out of the gunport and point it at me instead. "Donderbus!" she yelled.
Okay, I actually know that sign. That's like the third exchange linked to the key. I cleared my throat and gave the password. "Saltpeter."
By now, the State Alchemist had noticed me too, and on hearing the password, gave the soldier a knowing look.
Almost hesitantly, she lowered her barrel and gave me the countersign. "Wheel lock." It honestly looked kind of cute, given she was a girl about my age, if maybe a bit older. Wait, what? They recruit children now? What the hell? Ugh… either way, that'll have to wait.
I waved back in Serebryakova's direction, and she emerged from her perch to stand beside me.
"Well, this is certainly an unexpected turn of events," the mountainous man rubbed his chin, his voice deep. "I don't recall sending for reinforcements. Who might you be?"
I saluted. "Major Tanya Degurechaff, Sylphid Alchemist."
Wait, that can't be right… did he just say he didn't call for backup?
"Lieutenant Colonel Alex Louis Armstrong," he returned the salute, "Strong Arm Alchemist. Further introductions will have to wait, I fear."
As if to punctuate this, a shell arced over the wall and exploded behind some rocks in the distance. Fortunately, the aim was off, although I couldn't help but duck in response. Serebryakova instead dashed to the wall and stuck her rifle through one of the embrasures. I wish I could just flip a switch in my head like her and slip right into survival mode. I'm still getting the hang of all this.
One of the soldiers took a couple of shots in retaliation.
"We'll take whatever sitrep you can give us, Sir." I took a moment to peek out through one of the gun ports. All I could see was dark woods, with an occasional eerie reflection of the moonlight.
Colonel Armstrong pointed out in the direction of the forest, the moonlight reflecting a seriousness in his eyes. "We were returning from a special reconnaissance mission site when unmarked armoured units ambushed us."
"With all due respect, Sir, why would you run out into a rocky field from armour, when you have all the concealment you could possibly want in the forest?" If they'd stayed in the woods, they could have thrown all sorts of guerilla tactics against the tanks, especially with how thick the trees are. It wouldn't have been a bad idea to delay the return to base to take care of these tanks. Right?
"They're not the kind of armour you're thinking of!" the girl with the pigtails blurted out, the defiance in her voice bordering on insecurity.
On closer inspection, she also had a pocketwatch chain dangling from her pocket. So… wait, there were two State Alchemists in this unit, and they still ran?
"Major Sioux is correct, Major Degurechaff," Armstrong backed her up. "This is a… different kind of armoured unit."
From the direction of the woods, I thought I started to hear the sounds of marching. Not the crunch of undergrowth beneath the usual leather boots. No, there was a lot more… clanking… in the mix.
Slowly, they drew closer.
~0~0~0~
PRIME MINISTER'S OFFICE, WINTER PALACE, ALEXOGRAD
19 SEPTEMBER, 1918
Prime Minister Yefimov stared out the window at the snowfall. Sabatov's vinyl played on the turntable in the corner, his familiar saga of a cloud-white highway at the height of winter starting smoothly with quaint, melodious wind instruments, before climaxing loudly with the addition of drums.
It was yet another day, with developments piling as high as the snow that never ceased to fall. The destruction of Gorinich, the Empire's newly dedicated flagship for the fledgeling airship fleet, had struck a blow to the Tsar's reputation, and it was… troublesome.
Fortunately, Amestris' new Führer was more of a politician than Bradley, who would declare wars against both his neighbours and his own constituents at the drop of a hat. Some concessions had to be made, but ultimately, the worst that happened was Amestris fortifying their anti-air at Briggs and convincing some mutual trading partners to put up tariffs on Drachman goods.
Had Bradley not died in that failed coup from a few years ago, there was no doubt that Amestris would have capitalised on that moment of weakness to mount an offensive. Gorinich represented a great amount of resources and manpower. Some of the best Imperial marines had been stationed aboard her.
And just like that, she was destroyed on her maiden flight by a tiny alchemist who seemed to fly or something thereof. Truly a poroniec…
Somehow the Minister of Information had managed to spin that disaster into an excuse to invest more heavily into these newfangled aerial assets that had gracefully fallen upon them a few years ago. And the amazing part was that it worked.
The loss of Gorinich galvanised the working man. Even the Red River Party voted in favour of devoting more tax roubles to constructing more air warships. Such an unthinkable thing, that those hacks would throw their lot in with the administration that massacred thirty thousand of their jackboots in Gregoria.
But that was the power of an external threat. Even "Comrade" Yenisin could not deny that Drachma was better united than divided in a time such as this. Or, perhaps it was precisely because of the massacre that they decided to play nice for now. They still needed to lick their wounds after their pathetic attempt at a revolution blew up in their faces.
And if even the Red River flowed toward the Tsar, then the rest of the Duma's compliance was a given.
As he finished reviewing this morning's passed legislation, his intercom buzzed with static. "Your Excellency, Colonel-General Mikoyan is here for his 11:30 meeting."
Yefimov signed and stamped the document with his ministerial seal, placing it in his outbox before responding. "Thank you, Katya. You may send him in now."
"The general is on his way, Sir. The sommelier has been notified for a serving of Drachman Caravan," Katya responded. "The oladyi will be served with cucumber and gooseberry jams." It was clear, of course, that she had been working for him long enough to have memorised his tastes and hospitalities to various guests.
While gooseberry had been popular for the past century or so, cucumber was attested to be the favourite of the first Tsar. This was why Yefimov always had both on hand, as well as others, to see where his guests gravitated.
It was quite the curiosity and sounded possibly insane depending on who heard of it. But for Yefimov, learning someone's preferred jam was actually quite an effective way to read their other preferences. Call it sorcery. Call it divine inspiration. Either way, it really only seemed to work for him. But it always did work, ever since he had learned of it from his grandmother.
"Excellent." The Prime Minister took a moment to recline into his chair and swivel around to once again look back out the window at the endless snow descending upon Alexograd.
The door opened, and Mikoyan stepped in, the usual poker pleasantries evident in his deep voice. "Good day, Grisha."
Yefimov swivelled back to face his guest. "Have a seat, my good Fedya."
The general set his cap down on a nearby table before taking the offer of the couch in front of the minister's desk. He swept back his greying hair. "The Puchai will be complete in a few weeks. The estimates for Saraken are down to two months."
Mikoyan chuckled.
"That new Air Fleet Act is already working wonders and it hasn't even been printed in the news yet." Say what one will about stereotypes of Drachman inefficiency, but once the bear came out of its lumbering hibernation, it was indeed a force to be reckoned with.
Of course, they also had the… recently acquired… technological resources to thank for this leap as well.
"Yes, they seem to be on fire despite what became of Gorinich." Was it all thanks to the Minister of Information? Or had the people simply had enough of being kicked down?
"Perhaps they are tired," Mikoyan mused. "I led relief units to the south during the plague, and then got called back east to fight the Zhao."
Ever since the plague swept up into Drachma from Amestris fourteen years ago, they seemed to have been beset with endless misfortune. Troops sent south to the Amestris-bordering oblasts to provide aid and quarantine meant weaker security in lower-priority regions like the east.
This created an opening that was handily exploited by the opportunists of the Xingese Clan Zhao, who executed a "Great Leap West". It took quite a few years before they drove back that horde, and the toll on lives and infrastructure was great.
"And then the Red River uprising after that," Yefimov added. The conflict with the Zhao would further weaken Alexograd, fomenting discontent and fertilising the land for the growth of degenerate ivory tower ideologies that sounded altruistic on paper, but only created more suffering in the name of liberating the proletariat from their industrialist masters.
It was naive. The merchants were no one's master, merely servants to the Tsar just as any humble worker. And it was the merchants' roubles that ensured the Tsar would protect their interests from this uprising. What was sweat and blood compared to fire and steel?
Comrade Yenisin was an idealistic visionary, inspiring people with his big ideas. But he lacked the practical understanding of how a revolution should be run, how many men should be trained and equipped, how they should be placed, and so forth. That fell to his right-hand man Gretsky. And when Yefimov had Gretsky assassinated, Gregoria was a lost cause. As lost as the revolution, no doubt.
"When the streets of Gregoria ran crimson, Grisha, let me tell you…" The Tsar had decreed an end to the revolt. Yefimov gave the order, and Mikoyan executed it. Not one Red River partisan in that satellite state was to be spared. "My boots were ankle-deep in it. My men waded in rivers filled with it. There's no question, Grisha. They're tired. Tired of being tread upon by foreigners and traitors."
"The people are waking up," Yefimov clasped his hands as he rested his elbows on the desk. "After the plague, Clan Zhao, Bloody Gregoria… all on top of the constant border skirmishes with Amestris… Gorinich was just the last straw…" He smiled and wiped a tear from his eye. "Finally, our people are waking up."
"Indeed. I don't know if this is part of it, but this is why I'm actually here." Mikoyan opened up his document bag and placed a number of sheets on the Prime Minister's desk. "The latest report from the Deputy Minister of Alchemy." He chuckled as Yefimov examined the photographs and field notes with interest. "This is more your area than mine, so I will let you tell me if this is good news or otherwise."
Yefimov smiled and nodded, rubbing his voluminous beard as he continued musing through the material. "Very good news indeed, old friend. I believe with this, we are on the cusp of a breakthrough. This will help greatly with nationalising the Vedma."
Mikoyan coughed and looked awkwardly to one side. "Ah, yes… that Project."
"They served the Tsar well in driving back the Xingese horde's alkahestrists," Yefimov reminded the general. "It's time we stopped dragging them to the frontlines in chains and started luring them there with an Imperial salary instead."
Mikoyan rubbed the back of his neck, still visibly uneasy. "It's still quite the leap… From hiding in forest chicken huts and eating our children to wearing our uniforms…"
"If Reds can pay for the Tsar's airships, then Vedma can "cast spells" in his name. Gorinich might have survived if we had a contingent of them aboard her. As you said when you gave me the news. There was only one State Alchemist there: the Poroniec at Briggs."
The general muttered a weak acknowledgement of this possibility.
"But fret not," the Prime Minister continued. "If you've read the proposal from last year, you will know that the Chaplains will keep them in line. The Vedma will serve the Tsar, under God's guidance."
Mikoyan wondered silently to himself if that truly was enough.
The door opened then, and the sommelier, well-dressed, pushed a dinner cart up to the two gentlemen. Atop this rested some pieces of fine xing with exquisite blue floral patterns contrasting their white forms. On these were served oladyi with silverware to match, cups of jam, and a pair of glass cups encased in silver glass holders with handles.
The centrepiece, however, was a silver samovar with gold embossments, on top of which sat a little teapot holding a highly concentrated blend of black liquid gold. Steam rose gently from the vessel's vent as the sommelier bowed and presented the preparation. "Your Drachman Caravan, Sirs. From the 1913 vintage."
"Thank you, Lev," Yefimov nodded in acknowledgement. "We will call if we need more."
"Of course, Your Excellency." The sommelier bowed again before taking his leave.
Yefimov poured the tea concentrate into their two glasses, then turned the spigot on the samovar. Coal-boiled water poured from the vessel into the glasses, diluting the rich zavarka into something more readily drinkable.
The gentlemen spooned jam into their tea and mixed them in, before raising them in a toast.
"Blagoslovi, Gospodi," Yefimov called out.
In return, Mikoyan replied, "Spasi, Gospodi!"
They took their first sips as Sabatov's piece reached its climax.
And while Mikoyan had always fancied himself some gooseberry jam, this time, he opted for Yefimov's favourite, cucumber.
AN: There's of course a lot of stuff going on, as usual. But with enough work, I hope to be able to publish the next one after the New Year. So... here it is, I guess.