2.10
– Lt. Col. Tanya von Degurechaff | Argent –
"OK, I think we've covered the likely questions. At least, there's not much more to be gained trying to guess how it's going to go," Lisa said briskly.
Despite her earlier reluctance, she'd been mercifully focused for the past hour and a half. The chance to submerse myself in productive work had done a lot to help me find my center. We unfortunately did not have a list of questions. That had always been a very long shot; the equipment we'd provided would either be kept in a storage room or on the set, not in whatever office they plan things out in. So we'd had to prepare in the normal way. A task entirely within my capabilities, despite Lisa's persistent doubts.
"We've got plenty of time left," I responded. "What do you want to do next?"
She took a deep breath.
"If they just let you keep on message, you've got this. Easy. And they might; this is a big story, so they don't really need to dig for salacious details. And they might be leery about burning bridges if they think you'll keep producing big stories." She paused, eyes flicking over my face. "… But I wouldn't bet on it. Protectorate get the press release treatment. Independents don't. Villains… well, villains don't really do interviews. This story is worth doing, obviously, but I think they're going to be less concerned about repeat business than hedging against… reputational risk."
I nodded.
"Naturally. The fact I've defeated the Nine is hardly a testament to my good character. What if I turn out to be some sort of maniac? They'll want to have some push back they can point to just in case they need to distance themselves."
"Yeah, just in case you turn out to be some sort of maniac," she confirmed evenly. She shook her head. "So that's what we need to practice. Curveballs. Deliberate misinterpretations. Pestering and provocations…" She trailed off.
"Yes?" I prompted.
She took a deep breath.
"So lets try it out. Just… remember this is practice. You can tell me to shut up and I will."
"… I realize that," I replied with a frown.
She wasn't coming, of course. I obviously couldn't bring known-villain Tattletale if I didn't want to tip off the people who didn't already know and I just as obviously couldn't bring Lisa if I didn't want to out her to the people who did. At first blush it might seem like a pretty good deal for her – I'd do all the actual work while she kicked her feet up and enjoyed the show – but that certainly wasn't how I'd feel in her position.
Participating in a modern economy is a constant exercise in depending on others. It's just vastly more efficient to focus on maximizing your comparative advantage in one narrow field and engage in trade for your other needs than to try to do everything yourself. A modern military is if anything even more reliant on specialization and mutual interdependence. Even aerial mages, individually the most dangerous combatants on the battlefield, fight in pairs. And in terms of survivability, effectively coordinating with your wingman is perhaps the single most important skill a mage can possess. Well, after evasive flying, anyway, and that's where most rookies really need to focus.
(Lisa still hadn't actually started. I appreciated the stressful position I was putting her in, but weren't the breathing exercises a little much? The interview was still hours away.)
Point is, across my two lives situations where I've found myself helplessly waiting on another's performance of some critical task were not uncommon. And I'd hated it each and every time. Actually, the longer my experience, the more I've come to hate it. People are weak, lazy, stupid, irrational, malicious, corrupt, incompetent; unreliable, in a word. Not all of them, of course… But it doesn't need to be all of them, just the ones you're depending on.
And while it wasn't all of them, it wasn't a particularly small portion either. As an HR professional, I'd become intimately, uncomfortably aware of just how much work it takes to maintain a stock of human capital of decent quality. Seeking out potential in need of development, of vices in need of curtailing, of the unsalvageable worth more as object lessons than employees. And of course the people responsible for that work were just as prone to those same failings…
Perhaps I should feel insulted by her lack of faith – and I did, a bit – but I understood that, too. Even the best people can–
"Oh, sweetie, what are you wearing?" Lisa burst out. "A fake military uniform? Don't you know that's extremely disrespectful to the grown-ups who fight for our country?" She shook her head. "Oh, what am I saying? You're just a cute little kid. You didn't do anything wrong, darling, but whoever dressed you in that should be absolutely ashamed of themselves. But you do need to apologize to America's real heroes watching at home: our brave servicemen and women." She crossed her arms, emanating outrage. "Now, dear."
I stared at her for a quarter second, then forced myself to snap out of it. I gestured and an illusion of an American soldier formed.
"This is what an American military uniform looks like. What sort of patriot are you if you can't tell the difference? Disgraceful." I continued immediately, bowling over Lisa's counterattack. "I am a soldier, as it happens, in service to the German Empire of the newly-discovered Earth 91, and I will thank you not to disparage that which you so clearly don't understand!"
"Oh?" Lisa shot back, all wide-eyed innocence. "Really? That's terrible! Poor dear! How barbaric! Don't you worry, sweetie, those bad men that made you fight can't get to you here."
She went in for a grab, which I dodged bemusedly.
"Aren't you overdoing this a bit? Do you really think she's going to physically attack me, however incompetently?"
She let her arms drop and stared at me, several expressions crossing her face in quick succession.
"… Tanya, that was a hug."
Oh. I cleared my throat.
"I appreciate your concern, Miss, but I assure you it's not necessary. My country needed me and I volunteered. There was no force involved. If you'd let me introduce–"
"Have you ever"-- She raised a hand to her mouth, scandalized. --"killed anyone?"
I forced a professional smile.
"That's what I'm here to talk to you about today, actually. I killed–"
"You have?" she shouted, shocked. "How many? How many people have you killed?" she demanded breathlessly.
"I couldn't say, Miss," I responded solemnly. "War is very chaotic and I was just trying to get through it myself."
Lisa relaxed, breaking character.
"Good answer. The only appropriate attitude when talking about deaths is 'somber.' Or 'remorseful,' sometimes, but I'd… strongly recommend against trying that. I was worried you'd just answer the question. Or make a face like you were doing math. Or worse, make a joke. Actually, don't make any jokes. I don't think the public would appreciate your sense of humor."
I nodded patiently.
"I know. I did tell you I know what I'm doing here."
She bit her lip, considering.
"… Yeah, you did. You're doing… much better than I expected, to be honest. Am I overdoing it? To the point you can't take it seriously?"
I rolled my eyes.
"Not the first time in my life I've been condescended to. … But yes, you're overdoing it."
"How about we take an early lunch?" Taylor broke in.
She'd spent the morning quietly reading, content to let Lisa and I practice without her input. She realized that she didn't know how this worked, and I appreciated her self-awareness. I turned towards her. And as my eyes flicked over the scene, they briefly alighted on the spine of her book. Once what I'd seen there registered, I looked back, confirming it.
"… All Quiet on the Western Front?"
Taylor glanced up, deadpan. After a moment she nodded.
"… It was one of my mom's favorites," she informed me calmly.
I hesitated.
I'd never actually read the book. Despite my interest in the era I'd always preferred nonfiction. Still, it was very well regarded and it'd been on my list. I was a little shocked at how viscerally uninterested I was in it now. Even just seeing Taylor reading it was… I think it was the idea that this guy – a conscript who fought for barely a year at the tail end of the war, if I recalled correctly – thought he could speak for me. For all of us. That he'd written the book on the German side of the War. A book nearly as popular in English as German, that'd gotten an American movie adaptation inside two years.
Which was a stupid way to feel. I didn't even know what it said. And it wasn't even about the same war. And I'm not even German.
Suddenly keenly aware that I had no clue what I wanted to say, I just nodded to her and turned back to Lisa, whose face – of course – was carefully blank.
"Lunch?"
One benefit of handling things locally: the studio was just a short flight downtown. The location was nominally Protectorate controlled, but I didn't see any of them around. Lisa thought they'd decline to engage if they did notice us. Which they probably wouldn't, given Shatterbird destroyed their radar installation. After a final pass to survey the location revealed nothing amiss, I went in for a landing. The men remained in the air, camouflaged, on the lookout for danger and ready to provide fire support if necessary.
There was no one at the building's entrance to greet me. The automatic doors didn't function, but, having been glass, didn't bar my passage either. I floated inside cautiously. The receptionist didn't notice me until I rapped my knuckles on his desk, jumping a little and dropping his clipboard. He stared for a second.
"Argent," I tried. "I have an appointment?"
He started. "Uh, right. Argent. They're expecting you in Makeup. It's, uh… Sorry, is that a real gun? You can't have that here."
"No, it's a fake gun," I dryly mocked.
But he nodded as though that answer made sense, evidently relieved.
"Down the hall, second door on the left. Says 'Makeup' on the plaque."
I nodded politely to the idiot and darted over to the indicated door. He startled again at my sudden acceleration, nearly falling out of his chair. I ignored him and knocked. The door opened and an older woman blinked at me for a second. Her eyes fixed on my rifle and her mouth opened.
"It's a prop," I preempted and her expression lightened.
Maybe Lisa hadn't been overdoing it…
The more things change, the more they stay same, some say. In general I found the aphorism vacuous, an excuse for complacency – real progress is eminently achievable in most areas through diligence and careful consideration – but perhaps it was true in cosmetology. Or perhaps not – I'll admit I hadn't paid much attention to the specifics of the process during my stint in the propaganda office – but the experience hadn't changed. It certainly hadn't gotten any quicker, either. Fortunate I'd been punctual, arriving an hour before my one o'clock spot.
But I'd endured the tedium and indignity with good grace and showtime was rapidly approaching. I was just off set now, waiting for my cue. My interviewer, a (very) minor local celebrity by the name of Jackie Tedrow, was wrapping up her segment on the relief shipment schedule. I took a deep breath, crushing my nerves. Public speaking was never easy, but this was hardly the most important presentation I'd ever given. I'd–
<"Colonel, we have PRT inbound. Four vans.">
I frowned. No capes? No, none visible. No rule they couldn't ride in the vans, of course. And with four vans, they were after something specific: me, obviously. But I was busy. Good thing I had such reliable subordinates. Well, no, I needed someone who could keep his head and deescalate. Good thing I had such a reliable subordinate.
<"Weiss, I need you to–">
My throat seized up.
Lisa had said they wouldn't engage. Obviously they wouldn't, we'd crush them. So if they were engaging, clearly they thought we wouldn't crush them. Had they gotten their reinforcements? The ones 'selected to be maximally annoying to us?' But parahumans who could match a mage's range were exceptionally rare. The order to destroy them, to strike with overwhelming force from ambush, sat on the tip of my tongue. But… No. We'd need to strike at the PRTHQ immediately afterward, remove their capacity to retaliate before they realized their attack had failed. And then what?
I made myself take a breath.
No. I had to remember the PRT and Protectorate weren't soldiers. They weren't even real cops. They're used to play-fights, where you pretend at serious conflict but make sure everyone gets home in time for dinner. They wanted to disrupt the interview and didn't care if they lost the fight, because the 'Rules' said I had to let them walk away.
Probably.
<"To maintain overwatch,"> I finished. Under full reflex enhancement, my analysis hadn't taken half a second. I shot back towards the building's exit, dodging around a few studio employees. <"I'm coming out to–">
Light. Heat. Sudden, overwhelming pressure. An impact. My shell snapped. I blacked out for a moment.
…
I shook my head, trying to shake off the disorientation. I pushed myself up from where I'd been thrown, slumped against a wall. I nearly fell back over, but caught my balance at the last second. Artillery. I needed to get out of the beaten zone before the next shot. Only one piece or it would have come already. I started running away from the center of the blast, still a bit off-balance – away from the studio, a part of my mind noted – as I rebuilt my flight spell. My shell had absorbed the direct blast and most of the secondary impact, but it had consumed all my other spells to manage it. Except a bit of flight, just enough to survive a landing if I were in flight. An important fail-safe: no point in shielding a bit more of the attack if it meant you fell to your death immediately afterward.
I poured manna into flight as quickly as I could, a little haphazard in my haste; the wastage didn't matter, not with my reserves. What did matter was the way the spell destabilized and tore itself apart. I stumbled and fell. What? How long had it been since I'd screwed up my casting that badly? I took a deliberate breath as I got back up, concentrating. I was concussed, clearly, but that didn't change what I needed to do. The spell started to reform… far too slowly. That had been a big shell, slow to reload, but I still couldn't expect more than a twenty-second reprieve. How long had it been? I'd lost at least a couple seconds after the blast. I resumed my run.
… Wait, they'd have revealed their position with that first shot, wouldn't they have? We had air superiority. Counter battery–
I slowed to a stop, struck by my own idiocy. Did I think the PRT had a reserve artillery piece in place to strike at their own city? That some criminal group had managed to smuggle a gun in on… a boat? An eighteen wheeler? A mortar, maybe, but that certainly wasn't a mortar shell. It was just a bomb. Obviously.
I started running back the way I'd come. A bomb meant no follow-up shots. They couldn't have planted a second one too close to the first for fear of sympathetic detonation. The blast site was the safest place I could be right now.
… Provided the building didn't collapse on top of me. Actually, a section of the roof had already–
I dived for cover as a PRT agent entered the studio from the other side. He had a submachine gun held at low ready. Not a taser. Not a foam launcher. Not even a shotgun that might be loaded with bean bag rounds. It was theoretically possible to load a submachine gun with rubber bullets, but they're so underpowered they wouldn't cycle the action. Maybe they could get serious after all.
I quickly peeked around the fallen studio light I was kneeling behind. He hadn't seen me. Yet. I started charging an artillery spell, just in case… and flubbed it. sh*t! I worked the action frantically, ejecting the round before it could explode in the chamber. With the tiny bit of power in that spell it wouldn't have damaged the gun, but it'd have certainly jammed it. Of course, now it was going to explode next to me. No big deal: It would probably set off the powder, but the amount of energy in a rifle bullet is surprisingly small: less than a good shove. Without the chamber and barrel to direct all that energy in same direction, it wasn't that dangerous. And of course my shell would-- What shell? I rolled to the side as the round detonated. A shallow cut on the back of my neck stung where a fragment had caught me, but I ignored that. The PRT agent, had, obviously looked over at the noise. Why the hell didn't I just fire the round?
I raised my rifle in an instant, well aware his surprise wouldn't last.
His armor was bulletproof, but was it the sort of bulletproof that would stop a full power rifle round? I had no time to try magic again, but a bullet to the faceplate ought to give him some pause even if it was. I pulled the trigger and… just winged his helmet. Close enough. I leapt at him while he was distracted, assisted by my meagre flight spell. Not distracted enough, as it happened: He managed to deflect my bayonet with an arm. I smoothly transitioned into a butt strike at his solar plexus, which connected cleanly. We both went down.
I suddenly recalled I didn't have a reinforcement formula running.
"Hey," he shouted, grabbing my rifle with one hand. "Stop!"
There was no way I was tugging it out of his grip with my scrawny-thirteen-year-old-girl strength. I let go. He tried to shove me away and I let him, magic assisting me in regaining my feet. I didn't have a reinforcement formula running, but I did have a flight spell. Well, a quarter of a flight spell. But it was enough to accelerate my boot into a truly powerful kick at his head.
… I missed.
Without the expected resistance, my leg kept swinging. I went back down. Hard. Tore something in my thigh, too. It occurred to me that I'd lost, that I was about to die. Was this– Was this how–
Koenig crashed down like a meteor, crushing the agent's arm under a boot. He screamed and Koenig ignored him, face as hard as I'd ever seen it. He scooped up my rifle in one arm and me in the other. I did my best to wrap my arms and legs around him and we flew off.
