Refugees Are Not Worth Taking In

Of course, if you considered everything that had happened up until now, an outsider looking at the current situation might well have tilted their head and wondered, 'Then what exactly was all that endless agonizing about whether we could or couldn't just kick them out for?'

But the thing is, all that hand-wringing between Benya and Ilena over 'ugh, what do we do about them?' had, at its root, been purely a matter of lacking a justification.

And now, thanks to the antics of a portion of the refugees who had grown overconfident in their own victory, we had legally acquired the means to expel them — which changed the calculus of this whole affair, in more ways than one.

On top of that, for the Milan crowd, whose resolve had a well-documented tendency to collapse without a pretext, the declaration that 'the justification is on OUR side!' amounted to a veritable buff.

With the refugees having betrayed the very mercy that had been extended to them, the moment had arrived where I could — nay, would — pack genuine, borderline murderous sincerity into every single blow I rained down on them.

As it turned out, things were flowing along far more smoothly than we'd expected, and I could see the situation breaking decidedly in our favor.

Granted, there was one slightly better piece of news buried in all this. Ilena had pointed out that if we alone — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that is, Demonia plus the Milan planetary administration — spearheaded the expulsion, it might later hand our political enemies a stick to beat us with.

On that front, however, all it took was handing our very own Heisenberg the promised reward of 'I'll let you do anything you want for one minute.'

"I've heard the situation. Refugees are always nothing but an obstacle."

"They're useless anyway, aren't they? The moment you turn your back, they gather into gangs and tear the existing society apart with murder, rape, and drugs. Pyahat☆"

"Our Babel Cult Milan Branch is prepared to launch a holy war against those wicked heretics, should you but grant us permission."

"The civilians, and even the branch chiefs who serve as de facto diplomats for each faction — every last one of them stands in support of us, then."

"Heisenberg, your diplomatic prowess is truly staggering. Though I do wonder why it only ever shines when someone's promised you a reward involving me."

"You are ever excellent, Doctor, but the moment your reward is on the table, people simply go into overdrive."

"Aha."

I had no idea what exactly he'd done or how, but between Babel Cult Branch Chief Cervello — who had already been openly hostile toward the refugees — and the rest, everyone now stood behind us without a shred of pretense.

Salandra THE Breeding-Press Branch Chief, renowned for his ironclad rigor, was on board.

Even Shirogane Yuki, slick as she was yet never an easy sell, had joined the chorus. With every one of them supporting us in broad daylight, we were free to crush the problem cleanly and decisively, without worrying about pointless interference from the outside.

Of course, if things spiraled all the way back to Space Refugees: Again, individual refugees might shrug and think, 'Well, they were handing out supplies anyway. Might as well just go.'

But then again — by the time we'd reached this point, the ringleaders who had been steering those people stood a very good chance of being held accountable for this whole mess, losing their positions or possibly dying for real. So maybe it balanced out?

KRA-KOOM! BOOM!

"The refugees have changed careers. They're now a mob."

"What exactly is the difference between the two?"

"......You're not wrong."

Not long after we granted them a twenty-four-hour grace period, the ones with clearly radicalized complexions came marching out — dark-skinned types reeking of agitation — smashing and torching the space port's facilities.

Some had crossed the line entirely, brazenly and indiscriminately brandishing all four pillars of wickedness — murder, rape, pillage, and narcotics — with obvious deliberation.

Watching them bare their last, desperate throes in all its naked glory, I came away with at least one firm conviction: whatever else might be negotiable, those primal savages were absolutely not to be admitted into my domain for at least another year.

And that was that. For now, dealing with the crisis in front of us took priority.

"Hey there, Adjutant. How many of the line-crossers are we talking?"

"Approximately three thousand. Precisely speaking, 3,195."

"Huh. Compared to what's on screen, the actual number of participants seems pretty small."

"Even drugs and agitation only go so far. I imagine it's quite difficult, in any number of ways, to find the courage to rise up when a battleship is looming right in front of you."

"I see......"

Come to think of it, learning from our almighty Ilena-mon that the number of actual rioters was drastically smaller than I'd assumed shifted my thinking: 'Wait, doesn't that mean if we just wreck the rabid bastards who've exposed themselves this time, the rest will turn into docile sheep?'

"Heeeey, Adjutant-buddy. Round up every single one of the line-crossers and send them down to the laboratory beneath the administration building."

"And what exactly do you intend to do with them, Doctor?"

"If they're going to die anyway, wouldn't it be a kindness to give their worthless lives some worth — as fine experimental subjects and living bioweapons?"

"......Rule by terror, then. Since they crossed the line first, it isn't technically illegal, so I suppose it's of no particular consequence."

And so the 3,195 ringleaders — drugged out of their minds and committing atrocities — were promptly bagged, to be rendered into human sludge as raw material for a companion to Ulongi. No, wait.

I'd only ever overheard the topic in passing, and to this day had no idea what the thing actually was — a so-called Land Behemoth. Regardless, I decided to use them as material for a bioweapon rivaling it.

Then, with the ringleaders thoroughly dealt with, we let the remaining refugees learn of the ringleaders' final fate(?) — and sure enough, they all scrambled back to their refugee flotillas at the space port and made to leave,......

"Oh, did you know, Consul Benya Tomiri—......that is, Doctor?"

"Mm? Know what?"

"You are aware, of course, that in the countless Void Zones scattered between star systems, pirates roam freely alongside drifting asteroids?"

"Pyahaha! Since they so kindly dirtied their hands on your behalf, we decided this side ought to pay them a suitable reward in return—☆"

"Eh?"

It had been roughly several days since the Breeding-Press uncle and the tanned magical girl had beamed over that utterly out-of-left-field transmission, leaving me baffled as to what they were even on about.

Our precious Outer Space Port lay half-devastated, and the refugee flotilla — its internal power structure replaced as the ringleaders had been culled on schedule — had departed the star system not long ago,......

"Doctor, did you happen to hear?"

"Hear what, Adjutant dear?"

"You remember the refugee flotilla we expelled? As it happens, just the other day they ran into pirates and were annihilated."

"Eh."

"I'm told the surviving members regrouped and re-formed the flotilla, mind you. But with nearly half of them hunted down as slaves, they won't be causing anywhere near the commotion they did before."

"Oooh......"

So the word was that they'd been ambushed by space pirates who happened — purely by coincidence, naturally — to be traveling the exact same route as the flotilla, and suffered catastrophic losses.

As I stood there grinding fresh experimental subjects into paste in my efforts to forge a mighty leviathan to rival the Land Behemoth, another thought settled quietly into place alongside the work: I, too, must never, ever become a refugee.