While Princess Hannah rode an elevator to the surface, Atilonian staff were setting up their strategic board. Miniatures of artillery, infantry, tanks, and boats were placed on a paper map of the local geography. The tanks were placed ahead of the infantry in a row toward Vultheras’ central bridge, and the artillery had been lined in a half circle along the shore line. The boats completed the circle by sea, where they formed a blockade that denied Bastilhas the use of its bay. There were no miniatures for planes.
In contrast to the blue-colored miniatures that symbolized Atilonian forces, there were gray miniatures for the Bastilhasians. Three infantry models were placed west of the bridge, in the mountains behind the Atilonian-occupied heartland. The rest of the Bastilhasian miniatures were artillery spread along the arms of the nine-point star that was the city-fortress of Vultheras.
Only three markers for the Bastilhasian divisions? Zelaphiel thought with a slight frown while the staff finished their preparations. Are there really so few?
“The board is ready, my lord,” the Second General, Luca Stefano, said. “We’re prepared to present Operation Wrathful Thunder.”
Stefano was a broad, olive-skinned man with a thin gray beard and short hair of the same color. His blue uniform was styled with yellow shoulder tassels and two yellow ropes were wrapped around the right shoulder. Three golden stars on the lapel of his suit indicated his rank and a board of colorful ribbons on the breast drew attention to his many campaigns. Of interest to Zelaphiel was the red-striped blue ribbon awarded for the conquest of Baru. Stefano was familiar with the region.
“Then begin,” Zelaphiel said.
General Stefano exchanged looks with the liaisons before he nodded. He pressed his cigar into an ashtray on the edge of the table and placed his hands behind his back.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, lord angel, three months ago we allowed the Bastilhasians to penetrate our front line and capture Fort Sedencenco, a hill fort of hard stone overlooking the plains of our north territory,” the general began. “With their attention on the fort, we launched a counter offensive, where instead of attacking the fort, we enveloped it with our light cavalry tanks. With their rear threatened and their logistics lines eliminated, the Bastilhasians were forced onto Sedencenco’s hill for protection; fifty thousand of their best men and their automaton units were encircled in one day.”
“It’s just as you said, general,” the navy liaison interjected with a thin smile, “the lord angel is aware of how we came to be here.”
“The Army’s decisive action is how we came to be here, Flavio,” Stefano said to the liaison. “While your ships were off around the shore stopping barges or hunting seals, we were making gains. That’s why the Army is the at the tip of the spear for Wrathful Thunder.”
The liaison was a short, small, olive man that wore an obvious black wig over his balding head. His shoulders were slight and his stomach thin, and the angel noticed how he adjusted his legs. Every so often Flavio stood on his toes and tried to match the large Stefano.
His uniform was dark blue and similar to the sky-blue uniform worn in the army. The three green sashes that hung from his shoulder indicated his rank as captain, as did the large white cap he wore on his head. Beneath his assortment of campaign ribbons were two pins: A purple diamond, for injury in the line of duty, and two golden swords crossed at the blade. The swords were the Regard of Heroism, a medal awarded by the empress for exceptional valor.
“Flavio?” Zelaphiel asked. “Marco Flavio? From the Straight of Bendeze?”
The captain appeared to blush as he turned to the angel. He touched his green glove to his shoulder and made a deep bow. “They very same,” he said. “I am so thankful the lord angel has heard of my name.”
“I understand you were instrumental to during the Three-Day War,” Zelaphiel said. “I didn’t realize you were still a captain.”
“I’d rather stand shoulder to shoulder with my sailors,” he said.
“Don’t you find it hard to stand shoulder to shoulder with anyone?” Stefano asked.
Flavio straightened up and glared daggers at the general. “Here, or from my conning tower?” was the captain’s retort.
“I apologize for the digression,” Zelaphiel said.
“No, please,” Stefano said to the angel. “Don’t apologize, lord angel. We wait on your every word.”
“Then explain to me,” Zelaphiel said and gestured to the table. “What is this ‘Wrathful Thunder’ meant to accomplish?”
Stefano cleared his throat. “Well, as I was saying previously,” he began. “Since Bastilhas was denied the support of its army, they have relied on an enormous magic barrier to deny access to Vultheras. Sustained barrage from our artillery and intermittent close-arms attacks had no success in breaching it. That’s why we have coordinated with the Navy to take down the shield and capture the city.”
Why not starve them out? Zelaphiel wondered.
“Did you try bombs?” he asked.
Stefano appeared to shrink back as the air legion liaison stepped close to the table. “If anyone should be doing apologizing, it’s me, lord angel,” the woman said. “I only arrived three days ago. I’m still getting a grasp on the situation myself.”
“Three days?” Zelaphiel asked.
“This is Colonel Emilia,” Stefano said. “She’s our liaison to the Air Legion.”
Her shoulders tensed and she licked her lip. “Emilia Valentina, lord angel. Please call me Colonel Valentina.”
“Then explain to me, Valentina, why there’s a liaison to the air legion,” Zelaphiel said, “but no aircraft on the board.”
I know the answer, the angel thought. Why else would you concoct an elaborate plan and not starve the Bastilhasians?
The colonel touched the edge of the table with her hand. She was young and thin, but taller than captain Flavio, with a head of short red hair. Although her name sounded like it came from Atheria, her fair skin, round gray eyes, and peculiar hair reminded Zelaphiel of the coastal folk of former Baru, what was currently called the Atilonian North Territory.
Her tan uniform had blue tassels on the shoulders, and three blue sashes down the right shoulder, in similar fashion to the other uniforms. The silver profile of a single-seat fighter plane, with its large propeller and curved wings, was pinned to her lapel.
“For various reasons…” she said as she looked at the board. There were hard lines in her face, and her throat was taut with anger, but she kept her voice low. “I had difficulty crossing the mountains.”
“Ah.” Zelaphiel lifted his brows. “I see.”
“Forgive me, your grace,” she said and turned to bow with her arm across her heart.
“You’re forgiven,” the angel said. “But are there really no aircraft in range to strike Bastilhas?”
Valentina raised her head, deflected her eyes to the floor, away from the table. It was the second time she wouldn’t meet Zelaphiel’s face. The hand that fell against the table appeared to hold a tight grip on the edge.
Politics, isn’t that why? Zelaphiel thought as his eyes flit around the faces in the room. Curious that she didn’t say the air legion was late, when it’s obvious they were closed out by back dealing between the army and the navy. She even took the blame herself.
Valentina turned her head to watch Stefano, who looked at her with frank contempt. She said nothing.
“The plan is already made,” the general said. “We don’t need aircraft.”
Of course, you don’t. Zelaphiel concealed his frown beneath a neutral expression. You’re already splitting this with the navy, so why go three ways? I just wonder, is this bull-headed attitude over honor, glory, or the fact that she’s a woman? He glanced between the general and the colonel. Or, could it be that she’s a naturalized Barusian?
NPCs can be simple, but simple things make easy knots.
“How will your operation be carried out?” Zelaphiel asked Stefano.
The general made a broad smile. “That’s the meat I keep trying to reach, lord angel,” he said and lifted a stick to point at the miniatures. “In approximately two hours, the Army’s ground artillery will begin a cascade barrage beginning from the north beach to the southern shore. 4 Inch Medium Guns will fire one after the other and hit the Bastilhasian barrier across a full 180 degrees on its west face.”
“Simultaneously,” Flavio interjected and pointed with his own stick. “The Navy will begin its own bombardment from these positions on the east side of the bay. With our 12-inch batteries we will hit the east face and complete a circle of annihilation around Vultheras.”
“After the shield is brought down, our tanks will move in,” Stefano said and pointed to the column assembled at the bridge. “We have three-hundred of our new AF-Mizara ready for the spearhead. They’re heavier than the old Mizino tanks and they have a better armament. Right behind them are our infantry, over thirty thousand strong in the first wave alone.”
“And while they’re attacking from the bridge,” Flavio said again. “We will attack by sea with the Corpus Marine. Assault Boarding Ships will hit the docks of Vultheras here and… here. Under cover from the battleships and cruisers, they’ll capture the dockyard control stations and seize the port.”
“We anticipate light resistance,” Stefano said. “Except for their turrets, which are hidden around the arms of the city. They are hidden on subterranean elevators, but our spies have given us good indication as to their hiding places. Given their expected field of fire, we assume most of their retaliation will fall on the shore and not the bridge.”
“If you get the shield down,” Zelaphiel said.
“I’ll defer to the expert,” Stefano said and stepped back from the table. He flexed his hand and signaled for a new face to approach.
It was a young man that appeared from the shadows at the sides of the room. He wore a clean white buttoned-down shirt and steam-pressed khaki pants and his overall look was that of a proper graduate from the College of Atheria: Strait-laced, bespectacled, and of olive complexion, as the most fortunate Atilonians were.
“Lord angel,” he acknowledged Zelaphiel with a hand-over-heart bow. “You may call me Alfino.”
“As in Alfoa, the mountain?” the angel asked. “You wouldn’t tell me your real name?”
“My name is classified,” he answered as he lifted his head. “But if his grace wishes to know, I’m authorized to disclose it in a secured area.”
Cid stepped close to Zelaphiel and leaned toward his ear. “He’s a good asset,” he whispered to the angel. “Don’t be rough with him.”
Zelaphiel nodded. “Then, Alfino,” he said the young man. “Why does Stefano call you an expert?”
Alfino made a slight smile and touched the table. He picked up a stick and pointed at Vultheras. “I worked on the system that protects Vultheras,” he said. “I’ve also been lucky enough to work on certain systems in our empire as well. I can tell you precisely how it works.”
Zelaphiel squinted. “Can you really?”
The young man made a gentle laugh. “Of course, lord angel, you’re right. I’ve spent too much time around these,” he paused to look at Stefano. “These straight-forward men,” he said and continued with his stick, drawing a circle around Vultheras. “I cannot tell you how it works per say, but I can tell you how to break it.”
“Go on,” the angel said.
His stick tapped the tips of Vultheras’ nine arms. “At the tips of the island are coils called the Ley Projectors. They emit invisible beams called ley lines that wrap around the city. Destroying even one of those projectors would instantly neutralize the shield, but in absence of reliable sabotage, you can instead attack the points in the air where those lines cross.
“Whenever the shield is damaged, a ripple is sent through the barrier that must be absorbed by the ley lines; they are akin to blood vessels regulating body temperature. Wherever they cross, they create regions of chaotic space from their own friction. If you attack those spatial junctions, you’ll not only cause ripples, you’ll depreciate the system’s ability to absorb them, and even cause the ley lines to intersect and that could cause them to collapse. If it still holds on, it won’t be long before it’s ripped apart from an overload of its own gravity waves.”
Stefano moved to stand beside Alfino. “The boy doesn’t know where the junctions are,” he said.
“I could only approximate, you understand,” Alfino remarked. “The shield wasn’t fully activated before Atilonia rolled up with tanks.”
“But with his help we developed some tricks to probe the barrier,” Stefano continued. “By causing a reaction with our artillery and measuring the response, we’ve identified all of its ley line junctions. That shield will come down in seconds, I’ll bet my life on it.”
“That is to say,” Cid whispered to Zelaphiel. “With the Inquisition’s help.”
And now the puzzle is complete, the angel thought. The Inquisition is preying on the military’s hunger for glory; their need to capture attention of the empress. NPCs follow human pursuits and go wherever there is money, or honor, or satisfaction for the sake of their simulated pride. Zelaphiel glanced at colonel Valentina. Or, perhaps, a need to prove their loyalty.
Instead of starving the Bastilhasians into submission, the NPCs will send tens of thousands to die in an early assault. So that one can demonstrate his greatness? So that another can stoke the ashes of their old fame? And we say that NPCs can’t have Egos…. Only the Inquisition will be satisfied, and the hungry crows.
“Operation Wrathful Thunder is ready to be executed,” Stefano said. “We need only your approval and Achlesial willing this city will fall by the evening.”
Zelaphiel nodded. He wanted to sigh, to roll his eyes, and turn his head. He wanted to wave his hand and walk away, as if to say ‘do whatever you want.’ However, he had to put in an effort.
“Your plan seems sound,” he said. “It has my approval.”
Stefano and captain Flavio, the navy liaison, both smiled.
“Thank you, lord angel” they each said in their own manner.
The air legion liaison appeared to hold her tongue.
Zelaphiel nodded again, and again, as he looked toward the table. His head bobbed as his thoughts turned in his head. This is fine, he told himself. I don’t really care, anyway. I was just curious, why they were so set on this deadly course. They’re really life-like, aren’t they? Life-like in every way, except one.
“Then if that’s all,” Zelaphiel said as he turned, “I’ll take my leave.”
“Wait,” Valentina called out, stopped Zelaphiel on his walk toward the stairs.
The chatter that had started in the room, of congratulations and boastful promises, was instantly silence. And again, the angel thought, an NPC has spoken out of turn. Someone’s drawn my attention for the second time in a day.
Zelaphiel turned slowly and all eyes were on Valentina.
“Don’t accept this operation,” she said.
Those very words were as good as heresy against Achlesial himself.
“Are you suggesting,” Zelaphiel paused, “that I am wrong?”
“Not wrong, lord angel,” she clarified.
Her face glistened under the warm lights, damp with the sweat in a stuffy bunker. She was in a hot room, filled with smelly people that marginalized her, occluded by a haze of smoke that agitated her lungs, and although she was frustrated, and ignored, and hated, she had stayed.
Why?
“Misinformed,” she said.
When she took the fall for Stefano and Flavio’s maneuvers, I had taken her for a timid woman.
“I can put seven formations of eighty-four dive bombers over the city,” Valentina continued. “We have the planes, we have the airmen, we have the fuel and the bombs, but I need twenty-four hours to get them in range.”
“Did you withhold this information?” Zelaphiel asked as he laced his hands behind his back.
She shook her head. “I didn’t mean to.”
Of course, you meant to, the angel thought. You didn’t want to make waves, didn’t want to reduce your standing, or worse, have anyone question your loyalties. You should have stayed home; stayed out from the military. You’d have been better off not making an effort.
“But what if I spoke up and you did nothing?” Valentina asked.
“As a liaison, I’m here as support for the Army. I can’t override the general’s decisions,” she said. “But you can. If you withhold your approval, you can force him to permit time for my planes to arrive.”
Zelaphiel frowned. “I didn’t take you for a glory hound,” he said.
“Thirty-thousand young men are about to attack a city without air cover,” she said. “And I have no doubt they can take it, but so many that could live will die. I don’t care about the glory, lord angel, I care about doing my job. I want to support the Army.”
They were arguing when I walked in, Zelaphiel thought. What were they saying? Leaning over the strategic board with their sticks, moving the miniatures around. Was it the aircraft that they fought over? She was willing to raise her voice to the general and the captain, but not to me.
Because if she said ‘override the general’ and I did nothing, she’d be…. The angel turned his head and saw Cid beside him, eyes keen like a predator. The inquisitor could give one signal and have her hauled away in chains.
I understand, I get it now.
“You’re Barusian, aren’t you, Valentina?” Zelaphiel asked.
Her brows knit in confusion. “Excuse me, lord angel?”
“Are you sure that’s not why you’re here?” the angel continued. “Trying so hard to make yourself useful? To be recognized by these… Atilonians, their heroes and your conquerors.”
And tears welled in her eyes. There was an expression of profound betrayal on her face, as if to ask ‘why do they all say that?’
Zelaphiel’s eyes rounded. This is what it means to be graceless, he thought. I call myself an angel, but I still act like a man.
“I am… here on my own, sir,” she said, trembling. “The Air Legion didn’t think this was necessary. My superiors knew we’d be stone walled, they thought it wasn’t worth the effort. I thought if I didn’t come, I wouldn’t live it down.”
She’s here alone, with just the aircraft under her personal command, the angel thought. She came all the way north, to a bunker of men that hate her, to argue with them, and demand that they let her join the fight. Why go through that effort? Political maneuvering? Posturing for rewards? Fame? Fortune? There always has to be a reason, but if it’s not because she’s Barusian, then… maybe she just…
Cared.
The thing that NPCs are missing. Could I, also, be missing it?
Zelaphiel’s eyes glistened.
Cid stepped forward. “This woman has upset the lord angel,” he said, and uniformed inquisitors emerged from the dark corners of the bunker. “Take her away.”
This woman, Zelaphiel thought.
“She’s a colonel, inquisitor,” the angel said. “And I deem her comments acceptable. She did not question my judgment; she simply gave me the full picture.”
He looked at general Stefano. “Give her the twenty-four hours she asked for,” Zelaphiel said. “And include her aircraft in the operation plan.”
Stefano swallowed hard, there was sweat on his brow. I can see he’s angry, the angel thought, but he can’t talk back. He can’t say no to me.
“And if anyone brings up the fact that she’s Barusian, or dares subvert my instruction,” Zelaphiel continued. “Cid will see to it that they go to the inquisitorial playhouse.”
Valentina sunk onto her knees as tears streamed down her cheeks. She looked relieved, as if she’d found a break in a devastating storm. All around her were men in black dress suits, the death she’d narrowly avoided. Her risk and great effort had, against all odds, been rewarded.
Zelaphiel knelt before her and pulled a token from his inventory. It was a small silver pin that when worn correctly appeared as down-turned sword. He placed the pin in her hand and closed his hands around hers.
“If you still have a career,” he said. “I’ll be watching it with great interest.”
The angel stood and turned to leave.
“Special inquisitor,” he said to Cid. “Take me to your secured chamber. There’s something we must discuss.”
