Incineration (2)
The office, now filled with holograms, was finally becoming familiar. Exactly one month and two weeks had passed since humanity began building its new life inside Ark No. 17. I was buried in administrative work, just about to eat lunch, when a call came through from the Production Director. The timing could not have been worse—I had just cut into a freshly prepared synthetic steak—but the moment I realized there was only one possible reason for the call, I pushed the meal aside and opened the channel.
"Your Excellency. Is now a good time to speak?"
The Production Director's face filled the hologram, his grin so wide it looked as though his mouth had split from ear to ear. Knowing the reason behind that smile, I felt my own lips curve upward. If any citizen had seen us sitting there in silent, mutual amusement, they would have thought us mad.
"I take it the napalm production is complete?"
"Exactly, sir! As of this hour, we have met the target quota!"
Relief washed over his features. Once the factories were running, stopping them again would be difficult, but at least the workers who had kept them operating could now enjoy a well-earned rest.
"Excellent news. Inform the Defense Bureau that the napalm rockets are ready. And tell the workers they have been granted one week of leave."
"A full week! Thank you, Your Excellency!"
Cheering erupted in the background. He had not spoken loudly, yet the sound carried clearly; he must have left the speakers open. In an age when manpower was precious, the mental and physical well-being of the workforce was no small matter.
"That will be all."
"Of course, sir."
The hologram flickered out, replaced almost immediately by another.
> Connection complete.
Charr-rr-rr-rrk!
The rhythmic clatter of the automatic loader feeding rounds into a magazine never failed to stir a strange satisfaction. The shift to helical magazines meant soldiers could hear that hypnotic sound far more often—an unexpected comfort amid endless drills. A soldier lifted the finished magazine from the loader. What had been light was now heavy again. He reached for another empty magazine and set it in place. The loader resumed its work.
Under normal circumstances he would have handed the entire pouch to a supply soldier and received a pre-loaded one in return. Today, however, he was loading them himself. Anyone with even a shred of perception could see why: his hands trembled, his lips opened and closed without sound, and his pupils remained fixed on nothing. Every symptom matched a soldier on the verge of confronting overwhelming terror.
He was one of the infantrymen who had survived the western district operation. He had watched, from only meters away, as colossal monsters disgorged hordes that tore his comrades apart while they still lived. Psychological counseling and the efforts of his NCOs had allowed him to function in daily life, yet the certainty of another battle had shattered his fragile composure.
Again. Once more. He would have to fight them.
Creatures that twisted human bodies into killing machines. Creatures large enough to swallow buildings whole. Creatures that filled alleys and roads with corpses and still kept coming. He would face them all again.
Fear. Dread. Those two emotions filled his mind. Desertion remained an option, but he had enlisted at eighteen and known nothing else. The life of a civilian was more unimaginable than death itself. Running during battle was also possible, yet no Ark would open its gates to a deserter. He would wander until he became a monster's meal. The fact that reason still held was, perhaps, his only mercy.
"All personnel whose magazines are loaded, fall in with your units!"
"Once the gunships finish their bombing run, it will be our turn. Make sure your weapons are checked!"
The voices of comrades and superiors only deepened his torment. The fear of death, and the fear of that fear, gnawed at his mind. Yet in the end he stood. As he always had, he slotted the magazines into his pouch, checked the chamber of his rifle, adjusted the exoskeleton settings, and walked toward his unit. He could neither escape death nor flee from battle. He was simply too afraid to run.
Thunk! Thunk!
The peculiar sound reached the audio analyzer attached to the camera. It might have seemed suggestive, but it was only the loading of rockets into their pods—nothing more, save that each rocket was filled with napalm.
"Move faster!"
"Bring more rockets over here!"
Robots could not be used for the loading process. The machines designed for general labor lacked sufficiently reliable programming for handling such dangerous ordnance, and no units equipped with truly dexterous manipulators existed inside the Ark. The scene therefore resembled something from the Vietnam War two centuries earlier: maintenance crews swarmed over the gunship's rocket pods, working with swift yet careful hands. Watching them, I felt as though I had stepped into a war film—though the pilots about to fly would hardly appreciate the comparison.
"All rocket pods loaded. Fuel and autocannon ammunition resupply complete. Awaiting orders."
"All right, go out there and give them hell, boys!"
"Let's make it count!"
With the combat-readiness alert sounding, ground crews and pilots exchanged final words—some savage, some heartfelt. I made certain not to miss a single one.
"Connect the speakers."
> Connection complete.
I took the microphone. As before, it was my turn to speak.
"Attention, all pilots. This is Controller Lim Hyuk-soo. Your superior, and the leader of Ark No. 17. You already know that much. Pilots of the 3rd Air Division—two months have passed since humanity was driven back and forced to seek refuge inside the Ark. Close your eyes and you can still see the blue sky, the green fields, the shining sea. Then the monsters came without warning and stole our home. Earth, the cradle of humanity, became theirs in an instant. Yet even in defeat, we did not break. Today, from Ark No. 17, we strike back. We will cleanse the city of the abhorrent lifeforms that have overrun it. Today we avenge our fallen comrades, our lost friends, our separated families. To the monsters that chew and savor the bodies of our soldiers, we will deliver death. To the monsters that scrape at shelter walls and delight in distant screams, we will deliver terror. At last, the long-awaited incineration operation begins, and its spearhead will be you. You have endured much. All that waiting and hardship will be repaid in fire today. The screams of burning monsters will mark a historic moment. Some of you were born and raised in that city; some of you still carry fond memories of it. Therefore we will purge those vile creatures with the very flames and fury that are humanity's foundation. I am not a man of eloquent words, so I will say only this before giving the launch order: burn them all, and return."
Beep—! Beep—! Beep—!
"Ark outer hull opening. Gunship units, launch."
Whirrr!
The rotors spun to life. One by one, the massive gunships lifted from their pads. Through the wide-open hull of the Ark, more than a hundred gunships cut across the sky toward the city—flying to burn, to purify, and to restore humanity's greatness.