by Carlo Zen
Not to mention there’s no small risk that the parachute would catch fire or fail to open due to humidity. Tanya herself went through hell just to find a trustworthy parachute.
“You should still have enough mana. Likewise, the stress on the computation orb is within permissible levels.”
Alas! This engineer—unfortunately the type of eccentric only interested in his inventions—apparently feels that theoretically permissible values are all that matters.
“Doctor, this thing doesn’t have enough tolerance! Who knows when this defective junk will burst into flames?!”
For a soldier with experience in life-and-death dogfights, reliability is always more important than theory. At least for Tanya, even just recalling the last test climb disgusted her all over again.
That was truly awful. I lost balance at four thousand feet the moment the cores slightly desynchronized. Supposedly it happened due to a minor disparity in the magic bypass circuits’ conduction velocity. The bypass circuits used for research were built with vastly more precision than the existing ones used for combat, and yet they couldn’t fix the disparity? When I learned of the apparent cause, I seriously wanted to scream. How unrealistically precise are you trying to make this thing?!
Any mana that can’t be controlled by the computation orb’s inner mechanics will go haywire. As a result, the cores, unable to withstand the overload, blow up in a chain of magic explosions. Luckily, I was able to quickly suppress them with a spare computation orb I brought as backup.
But I was only able to handle the crisis because it had happened at around four thousand feet. Up at twelve thousand, where the ambient temperature is too cold to move around in (the air was thin on top of that), I’m not sure I could hold on to consciousness. In the event that the prototype orb catches on fire at this altitude, if I can’t get it under control, I’ll end up sharing an intense kiss with the earth.
Even if Tanya doesn’t have any attachment to her first kiss as a girl, nobody would want a kiss like that. Isn’t it common sense, in a totally normal understanding of the word, to toss something if it can’t be controlled? But life isn’t that easy for someone with professional obligations.
I’d throw it away in a second if I could, but the prototype computation orb is a mass of secrets. I’d never get away with it. The moment I lost it, a mountain of preemptive measures would be taken to secure secrecy.
And after all, it was the duty of the tester to safely recover the prototype if at all possible—which was why I have to be careful to control it in a way that keeps accidents to a minimum. Using this tolerance-less orb is hard to describe, but if I have to compare it to something, it’s like riding a unicycle through a ring of fire across a tightrope while juggling knives.
You’d have to be stupid or suicidal to keep climbing with such an unpredictable prototype. Of course, a combination of the two is also a possibility.
But apparently, my candid opinion as a tester is immensely disagreeable for the chief engineer.
“How dare you call my greatest masterpiece ‘defective junk’!”
Naturally, even Tanya could honestly recognize the machine’s outstanding specs.
A system with quad-core synchronization was once only theoretical, so the mere fact that the chief engineer realized it, albeit poorly, is a testament to his terribly fine skills. Then he succeeded in shrinking the cores to their current size while retaining the functionality of conventional models. From a purely historical standpoint, that is truly ingenious. I’m willing to hail it as the greatest technological breakthrough since unraveling the link between the orb and scepter.
So I’m begging you, could you please keep the users in mind when you’re making these things? As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter how high the performance is—people shouldn’t be forced to conform to the doctor’s invention. It’s possible to order someone to adapt to their uniform by altering their physique, but that only works if the size isn’t too far off to begin with.
“Look at application, not the specs! You at least need to give redundancy a bit more consideration!”
The general assumption is that military equipment will be used under the intense circumstances of war. The army wants dienstpferd, not thoroughbreds.
“Do you realize what you’re saying?!! Are you trying to desynchronize the optimized orb?!”
“Dr. von Schugel, please don’t yell over the radio.”
“Silence! First you must take back that insult!”
The explosive exchange of verbal abuse echoes across the test airspace, albeit via radio. Aaaah, not only is he fanatical about his field, but he also has the mind of a brat. I want to cradle my head in frustration. This guy, of all people, had to be the chief? It makes my head hurt. If I were in charge of personnel affairs, I would have at least ensured a managerial officer capable of controlling that tech freak was appointed chief so he could rein him in.
But in reality, this man is the chief, and I am the lead tester. I have no objections to the Empire’s meritocratic evaluation system, but I sincerely wish they could at least take administrative skills into consideration. I just want to scream, It’s high time you figured out the difference between technical and administrative roles!
“Like I said…”
My dissatisfaction with the Empire’s administration rose from my prior experience as an administrator ages ago. At the same time, as long as I’m a soldier forced to abide by given conditions, there’s no choice but to quietly endure. But as the price of distracting me, the migraine-inducing argument is cut short.
“The temperature of the engine—the cores—is rapidly increasing!”
Tch! Ahhh, damn it! The way trouble arose from such a brief irregularity makes me want to groan. The orb’s cores are on the brink of chaos. When synchronization failed, I lost control of them. Without a moment to waste, I urgently cut off the mana supply and perform an emergency discharge of the energy inside the computation orb. It’s possible to execute these measures with a single motion.
Fortunately, safety mechanisms were implemented as a result of the lesson learned last time, and they’re more effective than anticipated. During that earlier test, there was an explosion and the engine caught fire, but this time I just barely manage to stabilize the circuits. Still, that doesn’t mean the mana inside the computation orb will simply discharge without causing any harm.
The desynchronized orb cores crash mana against one another from all directions, and the circuits blow instantaneously. But what luck! The reinforced casing I repeatedly requested was completed in time for this test, so I narrowly avoid sustaining any real damage.
And so, a look of relief appears on Tanya’s beautiful face as she radios back the controller about following procedure to descend, sounding annoyed. “Control, are you aware of the situation? I’m releasing my parachute.”
I have plenty of altitude, and this is near the imperial capital, a noncombat zone at the rear. Under such conditions, it’s safer to open the parachute than scramble to activate a spare computation orb while falling.
In the capital, I can float leisurely down without worrying about getting shot at. In this case, all I need to do as I come down is hang tight and prepare for landing. But just as my parachute opens, and I begin to slowly glide down…
“Rog— Hey, Doctor, stop it! Get back! Please get—!”
Upon catching the sound of a stupid argument over the radio, Tanya couldn’t help but look up at the sky and waste some precious oxygen on a heavy sigh. This is clearly the sound of a struggle for the radio set. Apparently, a certain someone is throwing a fit trying to forcefully snatch it away.
Did Chief Engineer Adelheid von Schugel obtain genius in exchange for good sense? While there are plenty of cases where an individual’s character isn’t correlated with their capabilities, I never expected to encounter someone this bad.
Either the world hates my guts, or I’m cursed by the devil. Well, given something as unscientific as magic exists
, I’m going with the devil—Being X.
“Lieutenant Degurechaff! It happened again?!”
Apparently, the signaler’s noble battle ended fruitlessly, and the evil scientist has swiped the radio set. Even so, I have to appreciate that he fought bravely to defend it from the doctor. But since that battle was unsuccessful, I have no choice but to exercise my right to self-defense against the mad genius. I never dreamed my world would become a place where I needed to save myself.
If I have to put it into words, Where is, repeat, where is law and order? The world wonders.
At this moment, I feel the utmost respect and admiration for jurists. I genuinely wish someone, even a formalist, would restore legal order.
“If I may speak freely, that’s exactly what I’d like to say!”
After all, the bizarrely intricate system prevents even simple explosion-type magic formulas from properly activating. Actually, the number of times the malfunctioning system exploded on the ground outnumbers the times I’ve managed to create an explosion with a formula.
When they told me that I would be conducting test flights, I never thought I would end up once again recognizing the greatness and struggle of flying. I’m not one of the Wright brothers, but this has made me realize anew how the pursuit of flight technology is intimately tied to the risk of a fatal crash. At least those pioneers flew personally, shouldering the danger upon themselves.
Chief Engineer Adelheid von Schugel makes others do it for him. And to top it off, he’s so self-indulgent—I couldn’t believe my ears when he claimed that safety features lacked functional elegance.
The moment I was finally able to manage proper evaluations, albeit barely, he added strange test items and tasks. That was when I impulsively submitted a transfer request. Unfortunately, it was denied. Why? As immensely unfair as it was, apparently I was the only one who had even managed to get any testing done. In fact, my contact at Personnel Affairs actually told me to forge ahead atop the corpses of my fallen predecessors when he admonished me.
I assume he meant it figuratively, but apparently he meant exactly what he said. The front lines seem more promising in terms of survival. Just the other day, I heard that I now qualify for the Wounded Cross Badge.
“It’s your lack of concentration that causes these problems! And you call yourself a soldier?”
I’ve endured Schugel’s insults and fought the inner desire to launch into a screaming fit of curses. I certainly didn’t join the army because I wanted to, and it isn’t a fun profession, but I did indeed join.
“I assure you, I’m an imperial soldier! However, a soldier’s duty is to wield weapons. By no means does that include coaxing some defective junk to work!”
I had originally perceived the job of an imperial soldier as waging war with a computation orb in hand and a rifle over the shoulder. By no means did I ever think it entailed carrying faulty machinery and blowing up without warning. Even soldiers have the right to complain if they’re issued a broken rifle or a computation orb gone haywire. At least, that’s certainly the case in the Imperial Army.
Not to mention reliability and durability are imperative for a mage’s equipment in the harsh environment of modern warfare. That’s common sense, even among new officers. And it extends beyond mages—sturdiness and dependability are supposed to be top priority for all military equipment. Bluntly put, a bizarrely elaborate, one-of-a-kind item isn’t suitable for combat.
It’s the same as how a race car designed in the singular pursuit of bleeding edge performance can’t withstand the grind of general everyday use. A delicate, intricate weapon that can’t tolerate rough handling by soldiers is practically meaningless on the battlefield.
“What was that? Did you call it ‘defective’ again?!”
Naturally, it isn’t as though the army doesn’t understand the necessity of technology inspection. And sometimes, to exhibit its technical might for propaganda, the Empire would produce trial equipment that specialized in a single area in order to shatter records. If it’s racing to break a world record, that would be one thing, but the prototype orb issued to Tanya is known as the “leading next-generation candidate,” making versatility absolutely essential.
Does this mad scientist even take weapons development seriously? Isn’t this more like a hobby for him? As Tanya questions the chief engineer’s common sense, she can’t help but wonder how Supply and Logistics Headquarters could go along with this.
The world truly is a mysterious place.
“What part of a computation orb that randomly breaks—at this altitude—could be considered a legitimate weapon?!”
If an aircraft’s engines suddenly stopped, everyone would call it a “killing machine.”
If the defects were particularly awful, it would even acquire renown as a “widow maker.” But this computation orb has even bigger problems than that. After all, it’s nigh miraculous to get the thing to run at all.
Not only is it prone to malfunction and breakage, but also its output is unstable, and overall, it’s completely unreliable. I can’t help but feel that this thing shouldn’t even be called a weapon.
“Only because you oafs smash them left and right! How do you break my precision instruments so fast?!”
“Because you build them so fragile. Do you know what ‘military usage’ means?”
This mad scientist definitely does not understand the term. Admittedly, though, he has managed to fulfill all the specs that the army requested.
Although it only holds true on paper—and only to a certain degree, at that—the prototype has a functional altitude that makes it possible to intercept bombers. This capability would once again dramatically increase the strategic value of mages. Immediate applicable firepower would be quadrupled, theoretically. The attack potential of mages would skyrocket.
But that’s all assuming the damned thing works properly. It should be a given, but frankly, an orb that’s a work of art or requires lab maintenance is useless. It’s tempting to ask if all the chief engineer wants to make is a thoroughbred that only needs to deliver top performance for a brief moment during a race.
Normally, computation orbs are precision instruments that work fine if they receive basic maintenance once a month. Mobilizing the entire technical staff to work on an orb after every use is absolutely outrageous—by which I mean the full technical staff of the research institution equipped with the most substantial rear support facilities. Namely, the Supply and Logistics Headquarters. The doctor must have forgotten the meaning of maintenance.
Not only did he miss the desired maintenance standards for the front, he wasn’t even in the ballpark. The fact that this is an advanced prototype must imply that Tanya is expected to perform a certain degree of certification. But I’m endlessly amazed by just how many of its application problems can be resolved.
“Why don’t you understand how revolutionary the technology behind synchronizing four engines is?”
“I’m perfectly willing to admit it’s revolutionary. That’s why I keep telling you to make me one that actually works.”
“Theoretically, it does work! Why can’t you use it right?” He’s more like an academic scholar than one of the top engineers working in the field. He spouts exasperating nonsense with a straight face.
Based on Tanya’s personal views and her albeit somewhat biased theory on human resource management, in the event there is a scientist at her workplace in the future, there’s only one thing she needs to watch out for—simply put, whether the person is nuts or not. Before even worrying about administrative abilities, first things first: Can they manage the basic communication needed to work in a team? Just that one point.
Incidentally, people say there is a fine line between the brilliant and the insane, but I feel like it’s actually fairly easy to tell them apart. If by the end of a conversation you’re filled with the urge to empty an entire magazine into someone, they’re nuts. If you can hold another amicable conversation with them, they’re bri
lliant.
“Dr. von Schugel! I want it to reach a level fit for practical use.”
“That’s precisely why we’re conducting these experiments! Haven’t you ever heard of the PDCA Cycle?”
…It would feel so wonderful to knock him out of the sky with my backup orb. Anyone who provokes this sort of thought is a mad scientist. If the voice of reason wasn’t holding me back, I definitely would have dirtied my hands.
Needless to say, I know all about the PDCA Cycle. Design a plan (plan), try it out (do), evaluate the results (check), and implement improvements where needed (act)—a commonly known process. It isn’t as if I have objections to using this completely ordinary method.
In fact, I’m all for following even stricter procedures. I desperately want to tell him to at the very least give his creations a proper once-over.
As the one using the orb, I can say the defects aren’t the kind that can be fixed with minor improvements. The orb has too many serious glitches, problems, and flaws. The thing is such a mess that despite my obligation to secrecy, I seriously would hurl the damn thing away if it weren’t for the safety mechanisms built into it.
To top it all off, the safety mechanisms in question aren’t necessarily up to standards. It had gone off without a hitch, and Tanya had avoided the worst outcome. But this thing couldn’t completely contain the mana. If the circuits do blow, the orb will be rendered useless, so I always have to keep the worst-case scenario in mind.
The absolute worst would be if an explosion ignites my oxygen tank; that would not be fun. Based on past progress, I’ve also been issued improved parachutes made from fireproof, tear-resistant fabric. But even these don’t guarantee safety 100 percent of the time.
If Tanya falls unconscious, there’s always the concern that the parachute might not open automatically. Or depending on the scale of the explosion, there’s the risk of getting caught in the ropes and asphyxiating before ever hitting the ground.
