Deus lo Vult

by Carlo Zen

  Humans have learned through experience that, as indicated by Murphy’s Law,10 anything that can go wrong will. If an office employee has the ability to cause trouble, trouble there shall be. For example, it’s common knowledge in personnel management not to keep a bankrupt employee in a department dealing with finances. In the same vein, flying with an orb that can explode at any time is like sitting around waiting for the blast to happen.

  Upon landing, I decide to submit a transfer request in earnest this time. An emphatic nod reveals the depth of Tanya’s determination. Even if the worst should come to pass and I fall out of favor with my superiors for a time, I swear that I’ll negotiate with Personnel.

  As things stand, a hundred lives won’t be enough for her. The assignment to the instructor unit is Tanya’s only hope. I used my affiliation with them as a shield and begged to assume my duties there, but begging didn’t cut it. There’s a very real possibility I’ll become a human sacrifice to one of the mad scientist’s experiments unless I give up on unofficial overtures and submit an official transfer request.

  I gotta send that transfer request—and as fast as possible.

  And so, immediately after I land and fulfill my obligations, I pick up my pen.

  IMPERIAL ARMY SUPPLY AND LOGISTICS HEADQUARTERS, TECHNOLOGY DIVISION

  The transfer request adhered to the official format. Magic Second Lieutenant Tanya Degurechaff’s application conveyed a dire sense of urgency. As a sophisticated bureaucracy, the Technology Division within Supply and Logistics Headquarters had to accept and process any officially submitted transfer requests.

  General consensus was that she was very serious about wanting to transfer. This was not surprising, seeing as this was—imagine—her fourth request if they included unofficial overtures.

  Her previous unofficial attempts were wishes unaccompanied by documentation, so the staff had gotten away with calming her down, but with each attempt, she grew more earnest and imploring. This request was bound to come eventually—it had only been a matter of time. Nevertheless, upon reading Second Lieutenant Tanya Degurechaff’s transfer application and petition, all the managerial staff at the Supply and Logistics Headquarters’s Technology Division were left holding their heads in frustration.

  “So what should we do? These are all official forms, you know. Should we give it to her?”

  The soldier had commendably allowed herself to be soothed each time in the past, but submitting this request showed that she had reached the limits of her patience. As far as Personnel was concerned, there was leeway in the Northern theater, so they were in the middle of assigning young soldiers random posts in the rear out of consideration for political and international standing.

  As such, it would hardly be any trouble at all for Supply and Logistics Headquarters to reassign Degurechaff to a random posting. But while it wouldn’t be hard to find her a new post, she was too valuable in her current position to let her go.

  “Out of the question. She’s the only one even marginally capable of meeting Schugel’s standards.”

  Chief Engineer von Schugel was outstandingly proficient despite having only his talent, or rather, nothing besides his talent, to call upon. Development of the next-generation orb combined basic-level data collection with the objectives of creating and certifying advanced technologies. He had managed to meet the standards indicated by the Technology Division, at least in the planning documents, despite how ambitious (to put it mildly) they were.

  “Good point. Shouldn’t we also take into account the fact that his research might finally come to fruition?”

  His brilliance was prominent even in the Empire, which had pioneered in magic technology research through scientific observation. Even as magic engineering gained recognition as an independent field of science, there was still room for error, and many elements remained vague. Schugel had made great contributions by pushing the field down a focused if rocky path and then improving on it.

  If, as an extension of his methods, they considered purely the research aspect, it was clear beyond a doubt that the data and theoretical values Type 95 achieved had borne fruit in the form of great progress. That appraisal, however, only held true in terms of research. Groundbreaking advancements might have sufficed for a research institution, but Supply and Logistics Headquarters wanted a product that could withstand military operations, so they required more comprehensive judgment.

  “Conversely, even if she can manage to operate the Type 95 prototype orb, it would be a shame to run someone with that kind of talent into the ground.”

  “We should look at the long run. Such excellent testing personnel are irreplaceable.”

  The voices drifting from the department heads expressed concern for crushing an invaluable mage of such talent. In actuality, competition between nations was driving rapid advances in military technology development and innovation, so while it was rare to sacrifice valuable lives in the name of scientific progress, it did happen.

  Weapons development was put on tight schedules due to national defense concerns, which resulted in the occasional accident in an overworked section. The list of people who died while on duty was by no means short.

  “Agreed. If we look at the long run, the acquisition, cultivation, and retention of capable mages is also a subject of concern for the Empire.”

  “And if I might add…I realize her age shouldn’t be taken into account, but no matter how talented she might be, she’s still a little girl. It pains my heart to make her Dr. von Schugel’s toy.”

  Another major factor for the Empire was that in the navy and mage forces, both of which were under pressure to expand, individual polish could only be achieved with long-term training. They could mass-produce computation orbs or warships, but it wasn’t so easy to cultivate a competent, highly experienced core team.

  On this point, not only did Degurechaff fall into the youngest age group in the army, but she was also an academy graduate with actual combat experience. All of this made her truly valuable. It would be a waste to ruin her. Additionally, Elinium Arms wasn’t the only factory striving to be chosen to manufacture the next-generation imperial standard-issue computation orb, and that created a problematic political situation. Everyone present had to hope they could prevent the media storm that would arise if they allowed the promising recipient of the Silver Wings Assault Badge to die on duty.

  Above all else, Degurechaff was simply too young in the eyes of anyone sensible. Even if they didn’t make it a matter of conscience, there was the possibility her talents would dramatically improve with time. The skills she had already demonstrated made it clear that she had a promising career in the military. If they asked themselves whether they should throw her to the dogs, the answer was no.

  The higher-ups might have permitted her temporary transfer, but they made their message loud and clear by appointing her to a position in the instructor unit: You’re free to monkey around with her all you want, but send her back alive.

  “But the whole reason we’re stuck agonizing over what to do is that the Type 95 orb is too promising to lose!” The words slipped from the mouth of one participant with his head buried in his hands, summarizing the group’s predicament.

  “In reality, it has also been a fruitful endeavor. The technological achievements are by no means insignificant.”

  The anticipated returns from the research were gigantic enough that the Empire was willing to tolerate a certain level of risk. That was precisely why they poured money into the Type 95 budget like water. And after investing a massive amount of capital, they were finally beginning to see a glimmer of potential.

  When it came to military technology, the Empire dominated. One of the central pillars of its technological supremacy was its revolutionary advances in magic technology. That potential had implications. The returns would be massive, so wasn’t developing the project worth the cost? They already had proof of concept for the synchronized orb core technology. With that alone, it would be possible
to dramatically boost mage capabilities.

  “I will acknowledge the significance of quad-core synchronization, but we hardly have any idea if it will ever be practical!”

  Naturally, even the opposing faction was willing to acknowledge the project’s technological significance. It wasn’t as if they didn’t appreciate its revolutionary nature. Nor did they deny that the Empire profited greatly from devoting itself to backing the scientific analysis and cultivation of magic. But in their opinion, certain aspects regarding the development of Type 95 made it too expensive.

  After all, regardless of its theoretical values, user feedback indicated that it was too problematic for practical use. And besides that, the thing was packed with so many cutting-edge, revolutionary mechanisms that it was liable to surpass not only the “next generation” but possibly even the “next-next generation.” When the idea of it being practically implemented at this point came up, it seemed like an unlikely story. That was precisely what had them going around in these endless circles.

  What eventually brought that debate to a halt was the consideration of a single report.

  “Have you read the technical report? Lieutenant Degurechaff’s analysis is rather insightful. No matter how much mana you had, it wouldn’t sustain the orb.”

  The test report submitted for Type 95 displayed keen analytical skills and even a hint of profoundness that seemed to be backed by experience. The office was shocked to think a ten-year-old could have written it. Some even questioned whether she had done it herself.

  That said, the actual content of the report was fitting and immensely perceptive. And as far as they could find, she had written it herself. At the tender age of ten, Degurechaff was too young to attend military prep school, but she was a mage with average mana capacity. Based on her talent and the amount of mana she possessed, she was practically guaranteed a promising future. But even this precocious, capable magic officer was crying that she couldn’t make it work reliably.

  “Its range, increased power, and ability to activate multiple formulas are all excellent improvements, but it’s worthless if those things detract from its usability in prolonged combat to a critical degree.”

  The goal may have been technology inspection, but a magic consumption rate that rendered combat maneuvers unsustainable meant the quad-core engine design was simply flawed. Perhaps it had enhanced instantaneous firepower, but that was unacceptable if it came at the price of drastically reducing the amount of time combat could be maintained continuously.

  In a sense, it could be said that a healthy evaluation mechanism was at work here. Part of what made technology inspections important was catching flaws in advanced equipment such as this. That said, if the issue was excessive mana consumption due to a structural problem with pouring mana into multiple orb cores, there was nothing to be done for it.

  “From the very beginning, our objective has been to verify and test advanced technology. It’s still within acceptable parameters.”

  The pro-development faction, on the other hand, was willing to admit that the project was lacking when it came to combat sustainability. However, that was of no particular concern, at least at the inspection level, if they specified that the objective was proof of concept. The engineers in the faction felt that the restraints on usage weren’t terribly important.

  The technological race with the surrounding great powers was so heated that in everyone’s heart of hearts, they had a great desire for Type 95 to ensure technical superiority for the fatherland. If trailing behind in innovation presented a grave threat and gaining the advantage ensured overwhelming returns, they would want to keep pushing forward. If they evaluated the project based on potential, they could have approved all the costs related to Type 95.

  “Its technological significance aside, the army can’t afford to fiddle around.”

  The thing is, only the engineers engaging in development and the researchers supporting them felt that way. The troops, who used a variety of different weapons and weren’t terribly gentle with them, had their own theory. As it was, normal computation orbs already cost as much as their most powerful weapons. This one-off special-order prototype frequently broke down and had blown through its initial development budget a long time ago.

  It had already consumed unbelievable sums of money, and they were increasingly hesitant to invest more. If they shifted the budget elsewhere right away, wouldn’t it still prove more cost-effective? Such assertions made perfect sense. The Empire was powerful, and while its military budget was by no means meager, it was finite. Since funds were limited, efficiency was required.

  “What about the potential to convert mana to a fixed state? Isn’t that more than enough reason to continue development?”

  “Do you intend to send him off in pursuit of alchemy? We can’t afford to waste our limited budget and manpower on this forever.”

  They were never able to see eye to eye about whether it was possible to sustain mana and store it. In theory, it made perfect sense. Even Schugel acknowledged that the orb’s voracious consumption of magical power would impede continuous combat.

  As a countermeasure, he figured if he could store mana the way chemical energy was stored in batteries, that would solve all his problems. People were constantly trying to make a breakthrough in the transformation of mana to a fixed state in reality only to give up on the impossible task.

  By optimizing mana through a computation orb, a mage could superpose interference effects upon reality with their will. That interference creates a concrete phenomenon. This was principle behind the formulas mages used.

  Naturally, the magic mages cast is temporary. Say someone wished for an explosion, and that creates one. Not only is it a temporary phenomenon, but also the mana that caused the explosion disperses, making it impossible to hold on to the mana. If it were possible, the mage would have only needed to will the phenomenon to remain in the world to fix it in place.

  Concepts along those lines had been entertained shortly after the practical usage of computation orbs became viable. But each time the idea of using mana to fix mana in the world was attempted, the failures only multiplied.

  Though researchers were often optimistic, there were mountains of papers describing failed implementations. All the great powers that had put serious effort into the idea thus far had already abandoned it.

  By interfering with the world with one’s will, an object could be created. It sounded easy enough, but telling a mage to actually do it was akin to telling them to defy the laws of nature and perpetually bend the laws of physics. At that point, it was venturing into the realm of alchemy from the stories of yore.

  In other words, that was how far-fetched it sounded, at least to the row of realist soldiers. In their eyes, the overly hyped new technology was plain suspicious. The theory itself was also quite old.

  In a sense, the theory stemmed from a technological dream that should have been left to future generations, much like alchemy, but it had become so notorious that not only soldiers involved in weapons development had heard of it but also anyone working in magic.

  Bending the laws of nature and maintaining that state required a massive amount of mana. In order to raise the amount of mana that could be poured in at once, phenomena had to be cast with at least two cores. Likewise, fixing phenomena required another two cores. As a result, fixation required perfect control of at least four synchronized cores that were also performing their own tasks in parallel. Up until now, all of that had been merely theoretical.

  “He’s already realized quad-core synchronization. You can’t deny the possibility.”

  “As it stands, we can’t count on it reaching perfect synchronization. Lieutenant Degurechaff is the only one to have had any luck with it, and even the mission capable rate she’s achieved is unsatisfactory.”

  This was precisely why the pro-development faction and the group that suggested pulling the plug reached completely different conclusions despite observing the same results. T
he former saw a glimmer of hope, while the latter dismissed it as futile, and both conclusions were logical to a degree. Realistically speaking, an orb that had trouble with each and every test was unreliable. Of course, there was no such thing as a perfect first prototype, so a certain number of problems were expected.

  But such a frequent occurrence of major accidents was unprecedented. Based on what they discerned from the reports, it seemed like Degurechaff was hanging on by the skin of her teeth. And despite risking life and limb on these experiments, she had only just barely managed to operate the orb.

  This alone was proclaimed a remarkable improvement on existing progress, which made it clear how “well” it was actually going. As such, when a number of soldiers were about to protest that it was a massive waste of money, a certain mid-level officer from Personnel who happened to be at the meeting posed a question from a slightly different perspective.

  “I can’t help but wonder—why her?”

  Superficially, this was an innocent question. On the other hand, it certainly brought up an intriguing point. Magic Second Lieutenant Tanya Degurechaff’s career wasn’t bad, but there were plenty of soldiers with superior credentials. Perhaps if they compared her to the previous testing personnel to see why she was the only one to succeed, they would get their answer. Once this occurred to them, they saw the value of delving into this modest question.

  “No, you have it backward. We should focus on why she succeeded.”

  At this point in the conversation, the director of Supply and Logistics Headquarters, who was leading the meeting, brought up one of the most obvious questions of all. “Why did she get selected? Who chose her?”

  Without a doubt, the Personnel Division at Supply and Logistics Headquarters approved the assignment, so someone must have dropped off the paperwork. And that paperwork should have included the reason behind her selection.