Birthday (2)
The next morning.
Now sixteen years old, I woke to the sound of Sergeant Kern kicking the leg of my bed with his combat boot.
"Reveille. Before dawn."
"…Couldn't you at least allow a late sleep the day after a birthday?"
"Ask the Federation. Tell them to attack late just for today."
"I suspect they'd decline."
"Then get up."
Not a shred of romance in the man.
On the table lay the biscuit crumbs that had been last night's cake, and a candle melted halfway down.
The chair Master Sergeant Müller had sat in was back in its original place, and the paper party hat turned up crumpled under the bed.
I unfolded the pocket mirror and checked my face first.
My silver hair stuck out in every direction, and the pillow creases stood out sharp across my cheek.
The first morning of a sixteen-year-old beauty looking like this — a rather undignified start.
Still, the name and date carved into the back of the mirror pleased me. I ran my thumb once over the letters, wrapped it in cloth, and slipped it into the inner pocket of my uniform.
"Don't forget your inhaler."
"Yes."
"Once each for morning, noon, and evening."
"…The new model from the Golden Form Star seems more effective than I expected."
Sssip. Hooo…
I exhaled a pale haze of smoke, and my stiff lungs softened a little.
Whether it was the Golden Form Star's new respirator or not, my coughing had eased considerably of late.
Which meant that if I wanted to harvest concern through a frail-girl event, I had no choice but to fake the coughs myself. What a nuisance.
And so the day's routine began.
While Private First Class Josefine shared out the remaining jam among the wounded, Sergeant Vogel reinforced the earthen wall that had settled overnight.
Corporal Rot wiped down the barrel of a captured machine gun, and Corporal Bremer clutched a severed field-telephone wire, muttering curses under his breath.
I headed for the camouflaged firing port with Sergeant Misty.
We bailed out the water that had pooled overnight, replaced the soaked sandbags, and cleaned the mud from the rifles.
After choking down thin soup for breakfast, we checked the ammunition and the escape routes.
It was a day I had lived through, to the point of exhaustion, for months on end.
Turning a year older changed nothing.
Shells were just as heavy, and the mud still clung to my boots.
Around the time morning watch ended, Second Lieutenant Hess summoned the platoon into the dugout.
A new situation map hung on the wall.
Most of the Northern Plain was painted in Federation colors.
Enemy forces that had crossed the mountain range had seized the granary belt and the railway junction one after another, and the retreating Imperial army had drawn a new defensive line along the river.
The south was no better.
The Great Forest Alliance was pushing hard against the border. The Empire's southern army was barely holding the assault before a fortress city, and a considerable share of the reinforcements and shells meant for the west had been diverted that way.
In other words…
"Ammunition and ration allotments will be reduced for the time being. The Federation knows our situation here, so the offensive will pick up again within a few days."
"…Are reinforcements coming?"
"We are the reinforcements."
"Hah."
Sergeant Kern and Second Lieutenant Hess spoke in a heavy, subdued tone.
No one took their eyes off the map.
The Empire was sinking.
One by one, the people staring at the map vacated their seats and drifted away. With grim faces, they sensed defeat.
Everyone exhaled long, heavy sighs and felt the end approaching. They fretted over their own futures. Over their families.
…Hah.
If the Empire was a sinking ship, the nobles and officers might still find a lifeboat.
An ordinary soldier might at least get the chance to throw down his weapon and head for a prison camp.
But a sniper?
A famous sniper with over a hundred and fifty officially confirmed kills, whose face and hair color had even appeared in enemy military bulletins?
What would become of me if the Empire fell?
The first thing that came to mind was summary execution.
Even if I discarded my rifle and raised my hands, someone would recognize the White Sniper. If that soldier's friend or brother or superior had died to my gun, prisoner regulations would vanish in an instant.
Forced to my knees in a corner of a forward trench, one round to the back of the head.
Bang.
A short, shabby ending I didn't even want to imagine.
I shuddered.
If I were lucky…
I might be handed over to an officer.
In that case, the questions would start with the White Silver Star. Where did you hide the mercury? Why did the Empire fake your death? Where are the other Stars deployed?
No matter how many times I answered that I didn't know, that it was a misunderstanding, they wouldn't believe me.
They would break my fingers, ruin my eyes, open me up below the diaphragm to inspect the mana organ — and only then accept that I was someone else.
Being dragged to a Federation research facility also crossed my mind.
A mage who survived chewing mana stones! A mage with five affinities! A mage whose internal circuits were contaminated!
To them, I would be a rather fascinating specimen.
Strapped to a bed, bled every day, forced to cast magic until one day I died quietly.
The corpse would be stored under a number instead of a name.
Becoming a propaganda prisoner at least came with a larger audience.
They would scrub me clean, dress me in white, and stand me in front of dozens of cameras.
The Empire turned a child into a killer.
Newspapers bearing that headline would be scattered across the world.
People would look at my face and pity me, wouldn't they?
And after the trial, I might be hanged in a square watched by thousands?
Plenty of spectators.
But would Master Sergeant Müller be among them?
No… he wouldn't.
Even if thousands stared at me, they wouldn't see Chloe Winterland. They would only look at the White Sniper, the White Silver Star, the monster of their imagination.
In the end, the conclusion was the same.
I don't want to die alone.
Even after months on the front, I was still spinning my wheels in place.
I had memorized people's names and traded jokes with them. Someone had appeared who fetched my inhaler when I coughed, and someone who tossed me bread when I skipped a meal.
Last night they had even called my name and sung me a birthday song.
And nothing had changed.
The child who once sat by the orphanage window waiting for someone to look at her had simply put on a uniform and picked up a gun.
Gathering attention filled my stomach for a while, and when time passed, a worse hunger arrived.
In the past, a single person's worried expression had been enough.
Now, even if several people fought over me, cried for me, held me gently, it wasn't long before I started searching for something new.
Attention seemed to be a food that only made the hunger worse the more you ate it.
If I met more people like this, would I be happier?
I could roam from front to front hunting new faces, grow close, collect a nice expression, then move on to the next person.
Live that way long enough and maybe plenty of people would show up at my funeral.
Which of them would stay until the end?
What did I have to do to enjoy myself more?
Should I get hurt worse?
The effect would be certain, but this body had no room left for even a small prank.
What if I tried to cough up a little blood and my heart stopped? All I'd get was a low-quality ending.
There was also the method of vanishing for a few days and making everyone search for me.
In the army, they called that desertion. Get caught, and I'd receive an entirely different kind of attention from the one I wanted.
Faking my death was worse still.
I might shatter Master Sergeant Müller's mask — but I wouldn't be able to see the expression myself.
What about saving someone's life and remaining their benefactor forever?
One person wouldn't be enough. Save the whole platoon, rescue the company, save the Empire itself, and no one would ever forget me.
Becoming a Star would make it a little easier.
I would form a unit of my own and put Master Sergeant Müller, Sergeant Misty, and everyone I liked inside it.
Keep them close so they couldn't leave, and look at the faces I wanted whenever I wanted.
The moment that thought surfaced, the chessboard from my dream unfurled inside my head.
An endlessly warped grid of black and white.
Pieces shoving each other, tumbling off the board, turning into people and crawling across the squares.
One white pawn, and a black rook I had never managed to take.
I was the pawn.
Recruiters and officers and orders moved me. I walked to the squares they chose and killed the people they pointed at.
I didn't like that.
What if someday I could decide the place of every piece?
Who stands on the front line, who survives, who comes to save me — I would choose!
People I liked, I would keep on nearby squares. People I had grown tired of, I would send far away!
If I did that, could I keep from being left alone?
If I did that… would it be more enjoyable than now?
Click.
A sound.
I lifted my head on reflex.
Nothing moved. I was alone in the dugout, and there was no chessboard anywhere.
But that sound had clearly been… the sound of a single piece moving across a chessboard.