The Governorate's Desperate Straits: Part 5
Urgent reports demanding the Baltic Governor's decision kept pouring in, but there was no sign of the "private party" he was hosting coming to an end. While the battlefields where Lucid garrison forces clashed with Atlantis National Defense Forces echoed daily with the agonized screams of countless soldiers, only peals of merry laughter—haha, hoho—leaked from the tightly sealed doors of the unyielding party hall.
The faces of the officers who came to report to the governor, only to be blocked at the party hall entrance, stamping their feet in frustration before giving up and turning away, stood in stark contrast to the high-ranking officials inside who chattered away blissfully without a care in the world. Yet they were all citizens of the same nation, not people from entirely different worlds.
By now, Baltic seemed to have realized that if he so much as stepped outside the party hall, his subordinates would sniff him out like ghosts and swarm him with reports. So he had devised a plan not only to keep the party going indefinitely but also to stay put inside, handling his meals and sleep there, devoting himself entirely to screwing around with Atlantis's assorted high nobles.
Of course, the whole process of receiving reports from underlings and signing off on them was a tediously boring chore. But boozing it up and chowing down on meat while flanked by women alongside his longtime high noble buddies? That was pure bliss.
With the head of the governorate shamelessly neglecting his duties like this, his headless underlings—suddenly reduced to a trunk and limbs—were left to scramble among themselves to somehow improve the current mess.
"Goddamn it, even so, a report saying only 10% of available forces are operational has to be exaggerated, right? Speak up! You're not telling me you deliberately overstated it to emphasize the severity to His Excellency the Governor, are you?!"
Deputy Governor and Lucid garrison navy vice-commander Closé Union Washington. Unlike the top brass, he at least appeared to belong to the faction trying to fix the situation... but even in his eyes, their predicament was a disaster.
As deputy governor, he knew better than anyone the dire straits of the garrison forces, yet here he was grilling the officer who'd told Baltic that "only a mere 10% of our forces are actually combat-ready" for even more details.
"W-well... if we drastically loosen the criteria, we could count about 100 trillion as operational... but relaxing standards for troop quality doesn't magically improve the battlefield environment..."
"Ha, right... I asked a stupid question... Fuck! With 20 trillion... how many soldiers can we assign per star system?"
"Our galaxy has roughly 500 billion stars, and the puppet Atlantis Empire covers about half, so per star system, around 80 men. At 100 trillion, it'd be about 400..."
"Whether it's 80 or 400, it's no damn difference. Why the hell are you droning on with such nitpicky details? Fuck... This is a colander—full of holes everywhere."
Closé, fuming at the officer's hesitant reply, kicked a nearby trash can with a loud thwack. There wasn't a shred of falsehood in what the young officer said. They'd already slashed conscription physical standards to the bone, desperately inducting the mentally ill who couldn't even function in society and cripples missing limbs—that was the root of the current fiasco.
By accepting such defective heads and bodies not just as auxiliaries but as frontline combat troops, they'd barely maintained their current force numbers. But that was it. Even healthy men with all limbs intact and sound minds went mad when thrown alone into the brutal battlefield—how much worse for the cripples?
Even normal recruits in the Lucid army, steeped in spiritualist bullshit and toxic discipline, learned war crimes and fragging (killing superiors) first thing. Need we say more? Sure, finding soldiers who didn't slaughter civilians and loot at will might be harder than the reverse, so fine, whatever—but at least could they fight properly? Nope.
Most Lucid grunts, experts at civilian massacres, turned into sniveling cowards the moment real combat hit, scrambling to flee without a trace of their butchering bravado. And with subpar troops, they needed ample supplies at least—but supplies were short too.
"Supplies... right, how much do we even have left? Couldn't we use those to recruit more locals here in Atlantis? I figure it could supplement our manpower shortage and stir up infighting among the Atlantis scum..."
"That's... difficult, Your Excellency. With supply lines unstable as they are, units are already hoarding their warehouses tight to survive—they won't open them. Asking them to hand over stocks to locals? I doubt they'd listen."
"Hey, hey! This is the army! When superiors say 'share rations,' you share! Damn it... Fine, if we can't distribute now, can we produce more?"
"That's difficult too. Our past massive nuclear barrages crushed Atlantis's capacity effectively, but the fallout lingers—factories in governorate-held zones can barely sustain current forces. What funds and raw materials remain... uh... have all gone to His Excellency the Governor's... amusements..."
"That goddamn Kaldir Cocktail or whatever... Stop it right now! I said stop! Baltic, that bastard as my superior... God, what sins have I committed against you to deserve this trial?!"
Closé snatched a fistful of documents from his desk and hurled them at the officer's face, who kept responding "that's difficult too." But the officer stood ramrod straight, head held high, as if there was no lie to kneel for.
Lucid Empire's all-out nuclear strikes had indeed stripped Atlantis of its strength—but now that Lucid forces had to govern the ashes, it dawned on them: what a self-own.
To hold the line or retreat to defensible points, they needed supplies... but they'd smashed most factories themselves. The few left? Blown up by communist saboteurs or siphoned for the elite's greed—one or the other.
Where the hell had all that money and materiel gone? Supplies meant for improving troop quality now lined whose pockets? Just thinking about it made his blood boil. Fuck... Ties with the homeland soured by the day, and their economy was fucked too—no aid coming.
Word was, some were pissing themselves at Grozny's name, secretly dealing with Atlantis forces—hawking gear they needed themselves, begging "please don't attack us." Pathetic, and a glimpse into Lucid military morale.
If it were another nation's army, fine—but this was his, the one he had to drag by the collar. And amid this, their enemies were sourcing new weapons somewhere, building strength to push them back.
Thud. Closé, who'd leaped up flinging more papers at the young officer's face, deflated and slumped back down. He could do nothing, yet doing absolutely nothing wasn't an option—this was utter despair.
Stay idle, and it'd end with furious Atlantis hands lopping off his head—or exile home for show-trial execution. Either way. But try anything, and the bosses were Kaldir Cocktail-addled, dumping all funds and materials into that shit. No moves possible.
Ugh... At this rate, death was certain. Especially if Atlantis captured him—horrors too grim to imagine. They'd slaughtered everyone; beheading would be merciful.
One option left: the 36 Stratagems—run like hell. Can't sit here dying or flee home? Then bolt somewhere beyond reach, play warlord, scrape by.
The need to fix this mess was obvious, but if total solutions were impossible, focusing solely on saving his neck at the brink seemed smart.
He'd prefer to fight on without fleeing, but... no answer here. That madman Kaif got a new toy, they say! No way he wanted to end up stuffed and mounted by that psycho!
"Ahem... I must've gotten overheated. If opening supply depots and ramping production are tough, we should at least wield what power we firmly hold. What's the status of our fleet? Nothing blew up while I slept, right?"
"Yes, sir. Fortunately—or not—the Atlantis attacks are hitting the ground pounders. Our navy remains relatively intact."
"Good then. Let's devise a new operation based on that strength."
He'd resolved to flee, but as vice-commander, he couldn't blurt it before subordinates. So Closé spouted bullshit. Checking navy strength was essential for bugging out, but to outsiders, it sounded like prepping for continued resistance.
Blatantly hiding his true intent, Closé convened a "strategy meeting to crush the enemy"—actually plotting his getaway. Fundamentally no better than Baltic, a coward like Billeneuve, obsessed with solo survival, indifferent to his troops dying.