The Saga of Tanya The Evil, Vol. 8: In Omnia Paratus Read online
Copyright
The Saga of Tanya the Evil, Vol. 8
Carlo Zen
Translation by Emily Balistrieri
Cover art by Shinobu Shinotsuki
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
YOJO SENKI Vol. 8 In Omnia Paratus
©Carlo Zen 2017
First published in Japan in 2017 by KADOKAWA CORPORATION, Tokyo.
English translation rights arranged with KADOKAWA CORPORATION, Tokyo, through TUTTLE-MORI AGENCY, INC., Tokyo.
English translation © 2020 by Yen Press, LLC
Yen Press, LLC supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact the publisher. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Yen On
150 West 30th Street, 19th Floor
New York, NY 10001
Visit us at yenpress.com
facebook.com/yenpress
twitter.com/yenpress
yenpress.tumblr.com
instagram.com/yenpress
First Yen On Edition: December 2020
Yen On is an imprint of Yen Press, LLC.
The Yen On name and logo are trademarks of Yen Press, LLC.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Zen, Carlo, author. | Shinotsuki, Shinobu, illustrator. | Balistrieri, Emily, translator. | Steinbach, Kevin, translator.
Title: Saga of Tanya the evil / Carlo Zen ; illustration by Shinobu Shinotsuki ; translation by Emily Balistrieri, Kevin Steinbach
Other titles: Yōjo Senki. English
Description: First Yen On edition. | New York : Yen ON, 2017–
Identifiers: LCCN 2017044721 | ISBN 9780316512442 (v. 1 : pbk.) | ISBN 9780316512466 (v. 2 : pbk.) | ISBN 9780316512480 (v. 3 : pbk.) | ISBN 9780316560627 (v. 4 : pbk.) | ISBN 9780316560696 (v. 5 : pbk.) | ISBN 9780316560719 (v. 6 : pbk.) | ISBN 9780316560740 (v. 7 : pbk.) | ISBN 9781975310493 (v. 8 : pbk.)
Classification: LCC PL878.E6 Y6513 2017 | DDC 895.63/6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017044721
ISBNs: 978-1-9753-1049-3 (paperback)
978-1-9753-1050-9 (ebook)
E3-20201119-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Insert
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter I: A Journalist’s Memories of the Eastern Front
Chapter II: Andromeda Eve
Chapter III: Andromeda
Chapter IV: Encounter and Engage
Chapter V: Pocket
Chapter VI: Hans von Zettour
Appendixes: Mapped Outline of History
Afterword
Yen Newsletter
[chapter I] A Journalist’s Memories of the Eastern Front
AFTER THE WAR, IN LONDINIUM
The words operation, military campaign, pitched battle, and decisive battle instantly bring to mind images of hard, brutal fighting. And certainly, any situation described this way will undoubtedly involve combat.
But on the eastern front, it was a slower trickle of blood that drained the two opposing armies.
When veterans talk about the eastern front, they think of the infinite skirmishes that occurred in the massive theater of operations where major maneuvers simply didn’t happen.
It was the same on the Rhine.
That was another place where towering piles of corpses lurked behind the words nothing to report.
Those minor engagements don’t appear in history books and are hardly ever remembered. But there is no doubt that much of history was decided in these moments, and now those who gave their lives sleep in silence.
My name is Andrew.
I am one of the embedded reporters who visits these forgotten battlegrounds no one speaks of.
I took up my pen intending to write a memoir, but my preface has gotten awfully long. Maybe I’m too much of an empath.
Or perhaps by telling my story, I hope to escape my past?
I wouldn’t say I’m particularly keen on running away, but the young man who lived through those years came back a world-weary scoundrel… In any case, I would not describe them as happy times.
Still, I was a witness.
It’s difficult to say how much insight I have to offer or if I can even be considered a reliable observer. To be quite honest, there’s little chance that I accurately remember everything I saw. Moreover, I was inexperienced and didn’t truly grasp what was going on in the Federation.
But by a quirk of fate, I was permitted to work as a reporter embedded with the multinational unit established by the Federation and the Commonwealth. (At the time, the Federation and Commonwealth could do friendly things like that. Do younger readers know that rather than curse rivaling ideologies, the heads of state back then extolled each other as precious brothers-in-arms?)
The reason a young reporter would be given such an opportunity was—paradoxically—because I was young.
To Federation authorities, who angrily glared at most journalists, someone unseasoned and ignorant was the perfect candidate.
The majority of the other embedded reporters were also my age. I recall that any older reporter I encountered on the scene usually turned out to be a crazy—apologies, I meant “passionate”—Communist.
But maybe I should be grateful that this experience allowed me to make longtime friends.
Anyway, we’re getting off topic. Apparently, when you get older, your stories start to meander. Maybe there are just too many memories.
Memories, yes. Memories.
For me, there’s the Toad Offensive, a series of operations that took place around the same time as the Imperial Army’s Operation Andromeda. I even saw a unit that might have been the phantom Lergen Kampfgruppe. When I realized what a devious enemy we were up against, I penned a bitter article that the censors latched on to immediately.
Back then, the censors must have had a hard job dealing with a multinational unit of Federation and Commonwealth troops. The two sides had such conflicting ideas on what should and shouldn’t be written that it was impossible to not fall afoul of one rule or another.
The result ended up being a good reference for learning how to properly interpret a newspaper article.
To all the young readers out there, I recommend you take newspapers from that time period and study them alongside your textbooks. How different the history books are from the newspaper stories!
What should have been fact-based reporting often wound up reading like accounts of a mission to the surface of the moon. I hope you’ll understand the reasons for all the nonsense that made it impossible to find out what really happened without reading between the lines.
Still, sometimes hard truths that couldn’t be swept under the rug would surprisingly appear right on the front page.
I myself learned of “Zettour the Terrible” on the eastern front, and that general truly was…a terrifying being.
Even now, I don’t think there’s anyone who can give a full account of
everything he’s done, but as a simple citizen of the Commonwealth who saw him with my own eyes, I think summing up his existence is simple:
Curse the Imperial Army General Staff for sending that lunatic to the eastern front.
Overall, it could be considered a disaster for the Imperial Army. Perhaps I should celebrate that, as someone who hails from the Commonwealth. But as one of the people on that eastern front, I have to say that it was none other than Zettour who made our lives hell.
His presence can’t be described as anything less than a nightmare.
As an embedded journalist, I must admit our situation was rather ideal. We never ran out of material for stories, and you couldn’t ask for a better environment to dig up scoops. In the end, though, we got too used to the daily body count.
We special correspondents were praised for our wonderful articles, but…something must just have been wrong with the times.
I often wrote special dispatches featuring our comrades and brothers-in-arms from the Federation as they fought on the vast eastern front against the “railroad” mages who piled up mountains of corpses. People in the home country couldn’t get enough of these tales about the fierce battles.
I’m sure there was something wrong back then.
And that’s why I want to know.
I’m not looking for judgment, censure, or revenge.
I just want to know the truth.
“What do you think of my new manuscript, General Drake?”
“…It’s your memoir. Write whatever you want. I appreciate you showing me, since we’re old friends, but honestly…are you asking me to censor it? Go find a Commie for that.”
We’re discussing the manuscript of what I suppose you could call my chronicle. But the reaction of the gentleman who took time out of his day to sit at this café and read it is brusque.
Unconcerned and indifferent.
I suddenly feel like cradling my head in my hands. I more or less anticipated this reaction, but he’s even more uncompromising than I expected.
Considering that this was only the first hurdle, I find it difficult to feel optimistic.
“What a harsh reception. Wouldn’t it be more enjoyable to simply reminisce together? Isn’t that one of the old standbys of retirement clubs?”
“Thank you for your fascinating opinion, Andrew.”
There it is. I brace myself.
Regardless of what the colonials might say, if someone from back home has a cup of tea in one hand while he describes something as fascinating, there’s no way to interpret that as anything other than scathing sarcasm. He might as well have declared Are you an idiot? to my face.
“That said, I don’t believe I’ve lost my edge in retirement just yet. If it appears that way to you, I can’t deny that I’m disappointed. How about we reconsider your proposal once we’ve lost all trace of backbone and reason to go on?” Channeling the John Bull spirit with his biting remarks, Drake casually reaches for his tea. His stance hasn’t changed since the old days. In other words, he doesn’t intend to say anything else.
Very well. I steel my resolve.
I’ll show him the difference between a self-styled journalist—who merely tries to do their best without prying too much—and myself, a true professional.
“I’ve gotten on in years. So many things have become a hassle.”
“Hey now, Andrew. You’re younger than me.”
Though he’s practically a retired veteran, I can’t help but wince at the words of this general, whose posture is so ramrod straight, it’s as if his body has stiff canvas sewn into it.
What Drake said is true if you’re counting years, but I can’t help but think of the words physical age. Even a body that could take a beating when younger inevitably mellows with age.
“Then I’d appreciate it if you’d act more like an old man, General. Couldn’t you take our dear friendship into consideration? How about giving me a peek at your soft underbelly?”
Honestly, I’m jealous of his energy.
I’ve heard that aerial magic officers who survived the war either died young from the tremendous strain of using too much magic or wind up living to a bizarrely old age… Drake must be one of the latter.
“Ha-ha-ha.” Seeing him laugh so brightly, it’s clear he’s a stranger to the concept of wasting away in retirement. “My ‘soft underbelly’? All right, then. I’ll tell you something I’ve been saving. Back when I was a young magic officer in the marines, I telegrammed my lover—”
“If you’ll excuse my interruption, General, I want to hear about the eastern front.”
After furrowing his brow for a moment, displeased, he sighs heavily. It’s an utterly natural gesture… He seems genuinely offended at being cut off, but is that truly the case?
This is where things get interesting. I feel like I’m making real progress.
“…Andrew, you want to talk about that? Really?”
“Well, yeah.”
“What is it you want me to say?”
“Hmm.” I smile wryly and confess. “I want to be able to tell future generations about things I didn’t understand myself at the time.”
I saw it.
I heard it.
But I didn’t comprehend it.
The sad truth is that merely being present at the time didn’t bring understanding.
“You’re an awfully persistent chap.”
“It’s the spirit of journalism.”
“Spirit, eh? Well, I suppose that’s a good enough reason.” Drake shrugs and takes an elegant bite of his sandwich. His good upbringing reveals itself in the strangest moments, just like it used to back in those days.
“Let’s say you couldn’t resist and gave in to my persistence. Today would be a good day to finally learn about General Habergram’s role on the eastern front. I wouldn’t say no to hearing the story of Mr. Johnson, either.”
“Sorry, but I don’t know.”
“I beg your pardon, but…,” I cut in quickly. “What about the record of Intelligence deploying your marine mage unit in secret? Though it’s circumstantial evidence, the findings of a recent survey conducted by several researchers makes a strong case that your unit participated. Besides, it happened in the very same Federation territory where we first met, General.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. As you can see, I’m not the type who did well in school. I have no idea what the academics are writing.”
Only a second-rate amateur would fall for that confusion in his voice. I know for a fact that Drake saying he hated school is a bald-faced lie.
“The very man who shaped the comprehensive officer education curriculum into what it is today claims to detest school? I’d like to tell that to the kids being put through the grinder right now.”
“I was simply following orders and doing my duty. It’s not as if it was my choice to work on education.”
“…That’s a very different story from what I’ve heard. In any case, let’s get back to the original topic. Please tell me about the secret operation.”
“Are you forgetting what my rank was at the time? I was only a lieutenant colonel, for crying out loud. What exactly do you think I was privy to?”
That telltale gesture he favors whenever he feigns ignorance really brings me back to the old days. It’s no wonder countless young journalists misread the dashing marine magic officer.
But I’m not about to make the same mistake again.
“‘Only a lieutenant colonel,’ you say—yes, I was once green enough to buy that excuse. How nostalgic. I occasionally think about those days, even now.”
“Nostalgic…? I have complicated feelings about hearing that from someone who was also there on the same eastern front.”
“In that sense, thinking of Colonel Mikel makes me nostalgic, too.”
For a moment, I catch a glimpse of conflicting emotions on the general’s face, but sure enough, his mask of innocence is solid as steel. Nodding with a wry grin, he proceeds to
change the topic. “…That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. You’re a crafty one. We’re living proof that there was actually a time when we called Federation soldiers allies, huh?”
“Wouldn’t you like to leave something behind while you’re still alive?”
“How about a story, then? I can’t talk about what I don’t know. But, well… Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all.”
As the mellow smoke of his cigarillo fills the air, he flashes a bitter smile. “…Those were truly strange days, Andrew.”
JUNE 8, UNIFIED YEAR 1927, THE EASTERN FRONT, MULTINATIONAL FORCES HQ
“…Haaagh, I made it,” I murmur softly. Even as Andrew, the WTN correspondent who learned the ropes on the Rhine lines, I feel terribly uneasy entering the Federation.
Honestly, I’m surprised my credentials didn’t get in the way. Even before war with the Empire broke out, the Communist Party papers were calling my homeland “a den of bigoted reactionaries.”
Nothing short of the grace of God could have saved this plan to allow dozens of journalists from a capitalist state to cross the border.
As a result of the aberrations caused by the monster known as politics, a miracle occurred.
Yesterday’s enemy became today’s ally. Commies and Limeys together at last, quipped the imperials of the outlandish alliance, but the result was that these mortal enemies, Communists and capitalists, would unite to fight a common threat.
Even if it was only on the surface, that change became an opportunity for potential breakthroughs on everything that had been previously considered nonnegotiable. It was only natural for relations between the Federation and the Commonwealth to improve dramatically. Thanks to this elevated level of cooperation, the Communist Party allowed a group of Commonwealth reporters to enter their territory, even if it was only because they were accompanying the expeditionary force.
The Federation traditionally barred the vast majority of foreign press. It really was a miracle that reporters were allowed in any shape or form.
This was an unprecedented chance. Veterans of the industry began fierce negotiations to secure the limited slots. Some leveraged their breadth of experience or emphasized their proficiency in Federation language. There were also those who boasted their extensive knowledge of history. None of these skills was something that could be acquired overnight, so needless to say, it was hard for a small-time journalist to compete.