The battleship had been slowly steaming north.
Or rather, it 'had' been.
Their vessel could no longer advance. In truth, they could no longer go anywhere at all.
"...W-What in the world is this...?"
The observer's hands were trembling violently. He repeated himself as if he were hallucinating, unable to trust his own eyes.
"...O-Over there... Multiple heavy artillery units of the enemy... They are already... deployed for fire along the front ridgeline."
"Artillery... lying in ambush...?" the officer muttered.
A suffocating silence descended upon the bridge of the landship. It took a moment for the gravity of the observer's words to pierce through the fog of their shock.
But the reality was undeniable. Beyond the northern hills of the city, countless black muzzles were silhouetted against the sky, angled toward the heavens.
To the rear lay the furnace of Birmingham; to the front, the predestined graveyard of the fleet. They could neither advance nor retreat.
It was then that Amfielice Windermere, who had been standing frozen with her radio, finally rose.
"...What... What do you mean? An ambush...?"
Amfielice lifted her binoculars with a trembling hand. Through the lens, she saw them: the black barrels. Hundreds of heavy cannons lined the ridge in an unending row. The crimson banners fluttered in the wind. Below them stood soldiers in mismatched, irregular uniforms.
The enemy had already sealed the path behind her, the path before her, and every direction in between.
"No... No, this is impossible. This makes no sense... My calculations were perfect. They were..."
She clutched her head with the hand that had, moments ago, been gripping her sword's hilt. Her breath grew shallow and ragged. The echoes of her father's death, the static-laden scent of the radio, the wreckage of the fleet, and the hollow eyes of the soldiers looking up at the sky swirled in a chaotic vortex within her mind.
She gripped her hair tightly. Where did the calculation go wrong? What variable did she miss?
"We've come this far... This can't be. I... I let those people die, I pushed this far, and... it all ends in failure?"
Her legs gave way, and she collapsed to her knees. Signalmen and officers rushed toward her, but she suddenly lunged back onto her feet, white-knuckling her blade.
She spoke in a low voice—one so heavy with suppressed weight that the bridge seemed to groan under the atmospheric pressure of her dread.
"Fine. I cannot let it end like this. If we are all to die anyway, we will die fighting. If there is no life to be found in flight—"
—Sshing!—
The sound of the sword being drawn halfway from its scabbard rang out. Her eyes were glazed with a light bordering on madness. She no longer looked like a refined daughter of the Windermere line; she was a specter of vengeance, consumed by the need for a final reckoning.
"Prepare for combat! Move the ship forward! We will fire the first volley! I would rather die here than—"
"Commander!!"
An adjutant blocked her path. Then two more, then three—several men lunged forward to restrain her. Her eyes shook vacantly before exploding with raw fury.
"Let go of me!!! What do you know! My father—my father!! He died fighting on that ship! And you expect... ME! You expect me to just back down?!"
There were no tears, no sobbing. There was only a primal, jagged scream. Her sword rattled in its sheath. Her hands would not stop shaking.
"Lady Amfielice! No, Your Grace! Please, regain your senses! I beg of you!"
"If we do not raise the white flag now, the ten thousand souls remaining here will all perish! To put it bluntly, a single shell from those heavy cannons would slaughter hundreds of our men in a heartbeat!"
"We cannot break through that line with what we have left!"
The adjutants' voices hammered into her ears. Amfielice's body shuddered uncontrollably. Due to the crowding on the decks, their frantic exchange carried even to the soldiers who had packed into the lower sections of the bridge.
A lone soldier stepped forward, carrying a piece of white cloth—a flag of surrender.
"...One of the nobles had us prepare this earlier... for the purpose of demanding the rebels' surrender. It was supposed to be for them, but... now... I am sorry."
Amfielice stared at the white cloth. Finally... she quietly fell back to her knees.
"Haa..."
In that short, shallow exhale, her pride, the last vestiges of her loyalty to the Kingdom, and the ghost of her beloved father all seemed to melt away. She let go of her sword and slowly took hold of the flag. Droplets of moisture began to stain the fabric.
"Raise it," she whispered.
The white flag was hoisted to the highest point of the bridge. The pale cloth snapped and fluttered in the wind, and beneath it, the landship ground to a halt.
Several officers of noble birth burst into tears, convinced they were headed for the gallows. Female officers and soldiers were frantically searching for contraceptive pills. Surrender was the only way to save their lives, yet they were paralyzed with terror regarding the precious things they would lose in the process. In that moment, Amfielice could not lift her head. She remained on her knees, leaning her back against the railing, whispering words intended for no one to hear.
"...I'm sorry, Papa."
*************************************************
"Hey, look, this one's still alive. Wake her up. Get her into the prisoner queue."
"...D-Don't come any closer!"
"Gah! Damn it, that was close. I'm not gonna kill you! Put the knife down, we aren't killers!"
"You... won't kill me...? Then surely you intend to... to do 'that' to me...."
"Uh? What is this girl talking about?! Why are you blushing? Why are you twisting your body like that?"
Leaving behind an unlucky soldier whose social reputation had just been annihilated by the misunderstood looks of his comrades, the city of Birmingham was deep in the throes of post-battle logistics.
First, they had to cremate the enemy corpses to prevent disease and the stench of decay, as well as to tally the results of the engagement. Simultaneously, they had to locate the bodies of their own fallen to confirm casualties and ensure proper treatment for the grieving families.
The People's Army moved through the debris of shattered walls and skeletal buildings.
"Jimmy... Jimmy...! Why are you lying here! Get up! Wake up!"
"Friend! Get a grip! He's gone! Jimmy is already dead!"
Soldiers broke into tears as they pulled limbs, torsos, or personal belongings of acquaintances from the rubble. In the long duration of the battle, not a single person had been spared the loss of someone in their vast human network—be it a squadmate, a neighbor, or a coworker from the factory.
Thus, Birmingham was filled with the sounds of wailing. The cheers of victory and the thrill of triumph had either been fleeting or were the exclusive property of those soldiers who did not call Birmingham home.
Smoke still drifted from the wide central square. The air, thick with the scent of gunpowder, blood, and brick dust, burrowed deep into the lungs of everyone present. The survivors walked among these blood-stained streets.
"Ensure the debris from this building is cleared by evening, and divert the heavy equipment to the western sector."
A commander in a blood-spattered field uniform issued orders as he crossed the square. He wore no cap, and a bandage caked with dried blood was wrapped around his head, yet his voice remained clear. Medics rushed past him, the rhythmic thud of boots accompanying the stretchers they carried.
"H-Here! There's someone here! A survivor! They're breathing!!"
"Wounded over here! Found one in Sector 2!"
"Left arm is severed! Apply a pressure bandage immediately!!"
Soldiers carefully dug into mounds of wreckage where arms protruded at awkward angles. Corpses were pulled out; the lucky wounded were retrieved. In the midst of this carnage, what was the Central Revolutionary Committee doing?
"Where is Billy?"
"Comrade Chairman of the Construction Commission... has passed away."
"God... Then, what about the Vice Chairman?"
"The Vice Chairman has also perished."
"I'm going to lose my mind."
What were they doing? They were spiraling into chaos because twenty percent of the party's core cadres who had remained in Birmingham were dead.
And if one were to ask if the remaining eighty percent were faring any better, there was a simple answer.
"It would be best if you reduced your public activities for the time being."
"Drat."
Even I have a gash on my shoulder; could the other party cadres who charged the front lines like I did possibly be unscathed? Of course not. It was a miracle that twenty percent survived at all. The number of those in critical condition heading straight to field hospitals was roughly equal to the number of dead. Half the committee seats were empty. We had given our absolute limit.
"Regardless, what happened to that landship that tried to flee?"
"Word just came in—they've surrendered."
"Good. Tell them to treat the prisoners appropriately. Any incident would be a stain on a revolution that must remain immaculate."
The time for bloodshed was over. Now, there was only the wait.
****************************************************
"Walter Johansson, Rifleman, 2nd Squad, 2nd Platoon, 3rd Company, 5th Infantry Soviet of Birmingham."
"Stefano Ilyich, Engineer, People's Vigilante Group, 3rd Steel Soviet of Birmingham."
"Rene Schlesinger, Loader, Birmingham Youth Artillery Regiment."
"Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Volunteer, Birmingham Infected Union."
I stood on the balcony of the half-shattered Birmingham City Hall, reading the names one by one. These were the names of martyrs. The names of heroes who had sacrificed everything for the sake of all.
"Gordon Messenger, Chairman of the Soviet Committee, Landship Sol."
"Catherine Harris, Battalion Commander, 9th Infantry Soviet."
"Billy Stoph, Chairman of the Construction Commission, Central Revolutionary Committee."
I read the names of these heroes. Every single character. Then I turned the page and continued. Page after page turned. Before I knew it, I was nearing the end, my voice growing hoarse and cracked. Everyone below stood in absolute, crystalline silence.
"Thus, a total of 25,368 heroes have, on this day, sacrificed their lives to uphold the spirit of January and April, and to defend our revolution."
Over twenty thousand people had died in this single engagement. Two and a half percent of Birmingham's entire population was gone. To put it into a different perspective, it was as if 250,000 citizens of a major metropolis like Seoul had vanished in a single stroke. Truly... so many lives were lost.
I stepped back toward the microphone. Everyone within my sight was weeping. The red flag billowed in the wind, and beneath it, a small child clutched the coat of a parent who was no longer there. Sobs broke through the silence from every corner of the square.
I opened my mouth to speak.
"Comrades. Today, we have bid farewell to tens of thousands of people whose names were once familiar to our ears."
My throat tightened as the words left me. Their faces, their laughter, and their final screams flickered through my mind.
"These are not mere statistics. They were people just like us. They were the neighbors we greeted every morning, the colleagues we worked alongside, the friends, families, and lovers we cherished."
I looked up. I looked out over the city they had died to save.
"We know that for this blood, for these lives not to have been spent in vain, we must carve their will into the very bedrock of this land."
The eyes of the assembly turned toward me. The silence was an immense, physical weight. Through that stillness, I continued.
"We will not build nothingness upon their graves. We will not rule this nation through vengeance alone. We will rebuild this city, this nation, not through fear, but through hope. That was the reason they threw their lives away, and it is the duty we must fulfill as those who remain."
I placed my hand over my heart. Beneath my torn coat, my heart was thumping a steady rhythm.
"Comrades. If we do not remember them, if we do not build a new world upon this sacrifice, their deaths will be nothing more than a tragedy. But if we remember and if we act, then their deaths will become the spark for everyone, the cornerstone of a massive revolution that will shake the very foundations of this world."
Someone in the crowd wiped away their tears. Then another, and another. Those tears were no longer tears of despair. They were a vow, a pledge born of hope rather than rage. I could feel it.
"So, let us swear. That we will not forget them. That we will pass their names down to the next generation. That we will carry on this revolution they died to protect, and that we will transform the world into a better place."
I held up a single sheet of paper. Upon it, the final words were written.
"Dear comrades of the Soviet, here is the register of the heroes of our era. I believe this is the very crater from which our revolution erupts."
I raised my voice.
"Comrades. The revolution is not over. The revolution does not end. A revolution continues from the very moment it begins. At this very instant, we are adding momentum to its course. There is no turning back. No matter how fearful or difficult it may be, there is only the path forward."
My final sentence came out with a slight tremble.
"Therefore... let us march. Upon the path paved by those we have lost. So that we never have to lose anyone again."
Silence fell. Only the quiet, echoing sobs of the people filled the square.
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