A Young Girl’s Outer Heaven


    25


    <hr>


    Commissioned by kyo amamoto.


    <hr>


    Jack was shaken from a sound sleep by a boom so loud it rattled the windows. The boom seemed to go on forever, turning into a rumble like thunder as he sat up, looking around in the dark light coming in through his window. Beside him, his wife jolted, sleepily cracking her eyes open.


    “‘S it a storm?” she asked, and Jack frowned as something felt somehow… wrong.


    “I don’t think so,” he murmured.


    As he tried to reason out what it was that felt so wrong, another feeling distracted him. It started as a sort of metaphysical hot wind against his mana senses. From there, it quickly escalated to stinging, then burning—like being covered in fire ants. He instinctively tried to turn away, before realizing where the ‘wind’ was coming from—the wall the window was on.


    Jack blinked as he forced himself to turn and look.


    There, climbing into the sky several miles away, was a billowing orange cloud in the shape of a mushroom—the burning atmosphere and mana coming off of it so bright it was like the sun had risen early. The bedroom door cracked open behind him and in a quiet voice, Jack Jr. complained, “Dad? It burns.”


    “Sorry, kiddo,” Jack said, quickly getting out of bed, moving over to his son and picking him up. A shield did absolutely nothing as the mana wind simply blew right through it.


    Then, after perhaps a minute of that, it all stopped. The wind abruptly reversed, whipping back the other way. He winced and Jack Jr. cried in his arms as the stinging became a much more intense burning, but after a moment it stopped. Looking out the window, he blinked as the fireball dimmed, becoming mostly smoke lit from within. But there, near the mushroom cloud was… what looked like a new star.


    Spinning up a sniping formula, he zoomed in for a better look, and his mouth fell open.


    Floating there in the air, beside the President of the Unified States, is a figure glowing so brightly it hurts to look at. All he can make out is the rough shape—short, female, long golden hair whipping in the mana wind as his senses tell him it’s all rushing to her. Two silver-blue pinpricks where eyes should be in the golden mass.


    It takes him a minute, but Jack’s brain, flooded with adrenaline as it is, puts the pieces together. He recalls watching a video of another explosion like this, shot out at sea… and the girl who showed up immediately after to use a computation orb to absorb the excess mana. But that isn’t what he’s seeing. It doesn’t look like she’s using an orb to do it. No, it looks like she’s just… absorbing all of that mana into her body, well past the point where a normal human would have long since been incinerated or exploded themselves.


    My God, those fools actually did it. They provoked her.


    The new star winked out abruptly as the mana wind died off, revealing his fears made manifest. The blonde form of Tanya von Degurechaff, floating in the air, wearing the same uniform she’d worn when the latest video was taken. She turned an annoyed look on the president, speaking for just a moment, before reaching up and coughing into her fist. A hologram sprang up around and above her—towering over the surrounding buildings and terrain.


    “Ahem,” she coughed politely. Silver-blue eyes opened and a wide, manic grin spread across her face. She spread her arms wide out to her sides as her voice boomed over the city, audible even from where Jack’s home was, miles away. “GOOD MORNING, WASHINGTON!!!”


    “Wha-?” Jack’s wife sat up, looking around in confusion, until she saw him staring out the window. “Honey? Who is that? What’s going on?”


    “I’ll explain later,” Jack shook his head, handing his son off to his wife. “Take Jack and head to your mother’s. I’ll call when it’s safe.”


    “‘Safe?’ What do you mean—?” Jack turned and met her eyes. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. She quickly got up and took Jack Jr. back to his room. Jack hurried to his dresser and began pulling out clothes and dressing as he listened to the show being put on for all of the nation’s capital.


    “Some of you may know me. For those who don’t, my name is General Tanya von Degurechaff, of the Brasa Army and formerly of the German Imperial Army. You may know me better from the epithet your newspapers have spread… the Devil of the Rhine,” she paused, a wide, terrifying smile spreading over her face as she looked down over the capital. She let that hang for a few beats, before continuing. “Worry not, however! This is not an attack or an invasion, merely a demonstration! I apologize for this early morning wake up call, but when your president invited me here this morning, I just had to come! You are in no danger and everything is under control. The explosion you heard was a test of a new weapon, requested by President Calvin. It was contained and no one was harmed. I’m sure there won’t be another, unless your president requests it. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. President?”


    An image of the President appeared, standing beside her and looking like he had sucked an entire bag of lemons. “Of course. There won’t be another demonstration. Everything is under control. Please just go about your day as normal.”


    The general smirked. “Are you sure you don’t want another demonstration? I have plenty to spare!”


    “I’m sure.”


    “Wunderbar~! In that case, I look forward to <u>negotiating</u> with you, Mr. President. As for the people of Washington, D.C., everyone have a lovely day!”


    With that, the hologram shut off. Jack sat on the edge of his bed to begin pulling on his shoes as he thought. A moment later, his wife came in and began dressing. Quietly, she asked, “I heard the announcement. Does that mean we don’t have to go?”


    “You should go,” Jack stressed.


    “Why? Can you explain it to me?”


    Jack sighed, casting a look at her for a moment. “I’m still wrapping my head around it. That,” he nodded towards the window, “was the most dangerous mage in the world. Maybe of all time. A child soldier trained from a young age and sent to the front line of the war in Europe, where she distinguished herself and quickly rose through the ranks. Her country surrendered, so they fled to Brasa. Now, Brasa is armed with a weapon the Germans developed—a mana bomb powerful enough to take out everything in a mile radius or more of whatever it hits.”


    “That’s her?” his wife asked, and he nodded. “So, what’s all this?”


    “They provoked her.”


    “And that’s bad?”


    “Yes,” Jack agreed. “And I don’t believe for a minute that someone won’t set her off again and earn another ‘demonstration.’ But the next one’s not going to be harmless. Standard war doctrine is to offer only one warning shot, which she just gave. There won’t be a second warning. The next one’s going to hit something that will hurt. Which is why I want you out of town. A weapon that big… I don’t think she’d target the capital. Not immediately. She’ll probably aim for the nearby naval base at Annapolis, which would cripple naval operations and construction on our fleet on the eastern seaboard for years, until we repaired it. But just in case…”


    “I’ll take Jack Jr. to mom’s,” she confirmed. Standing, Jack kissed his wife and started for the door. “Where are you going?”


    “The office. They’ll be calling for me to come in any minute now.”


    Grabbing his wallet, house keys, and briefcase Jack hurried outside and took off towards the office—with a stop at a cafe to grab a quick coffee and breakfast on the way in, since he had a feeling it was going to be a long day.


    <hr>


    I put another piece of paper to the side as the formula I was using finished printing, before moving onto the next blank sheet of A4 paper. As I worked in the large conference room I had taken residence in within the White House, I kept an eye on the goings on of those in and around the grounds. My modified, 360 degree sniping formula and mana senses came in very handy as I watched and extended a formula to listen to their emergency planning session.


    Finally, they came to a decision and the current director of ‘the Company,’ a euphemism for this world’s budding Central Intelligence Agency, sent one of his underlings scurrying my way to test the waters. The others turned on a television connected to the cameras and recording equipment hidden in the room, giving them a live feed.


    A moment later, there was a knock at the door. “Enter,” I called, as the formula finished printing another paper. I glanced up briefly as he entered—Caucasian, black hair, clean shaven, somewhere in his mid-to-late 20s, and with the athletic look and bearing that might as well scream ‘former military.’ The presence of a computation orb and his mana told me he was an aerial mage.


    The man moved to stand beside me and offered his hand, after putting his briefcase on the table. “Sorry for the wait. Jack Thompson. I’m with the ah,” he paused.


    “The Central Intelligence Agency,” I answered, standing and shaking the offered hand, before introducing myself. Retaking my seat, I asked, “I had the displeasure of meeting one of your colleagues in Brasa, an Agent Samuel Singer. Tell me, why are you here and not the men gathered in the room mirroring this one in the west wing?”


    “First, let me start by apologizing,” he began, sliding into the chair to my right as he studied the form I was currently printing out curiously. “Agent Singer handled that poorly and it was his report that led to, well,” he gestured, indicating the room around us and the situation we were currently in.


    “I see. Are you authorized to apologize on behalf of the Unified States Government in an official capacity? Do you have the authority to offer remuneration for your government’s trespass, and the loss of two of my men at the hands of your black bag team?”


    Mr. Thompson winced, taking a breath. “No. Sorry. My condolences.”


    “Your condolences won’t bring them back. They won’t comfort their grieving families. Nor will they take care of their wives and children. So while I appreciate the sentiment on a personal level, on an official level it is worthless to me unless it comes from your government and comes with both remuneration and concessions.”


    “I understand.” Finally unable to contain his curiosity, he asked, “What are you printing?”


    “This stack,” I indicated the one I was still adding pages to, “contains performance reviews for everyone involved in this incident. From the black bag team, to those I worked my way through to capture your President, President Calvin himself… I’ll compose yours when we’re finished. Would you like to see?”


    Mr. Thompson cautiously picked up the stack and took the sheet on the bottom. I watched as he read, his eyes moving over the paper, before he finally mouthed, “‘…in conclusion, while his leadership of his team and ability to adapt to a changing situation and improvise are exemplary, his ability to plan ahead on a limited time frame and prepare a contingency for his plan being discovered are glaring deficiencies in his training. Had I conducted this operation, I would have…’”


    His eyes went wide as he looked up at me and I grinned. “Go on~.”


    “‘I would have first planted explosives in key government locations throughout the target city and held the city hostage, bluffing an act of terrorism should my target fail to come willingly if they proved incapable of subduing. When they refused, I would have detonated half of the explosives, claiming to have taken countless lives, then offered them one final chance to surrender.’” He put the paper down. “That’s…”


    “Insane?” I asked, smiling.


    “Deceive the heavens and cross the ocean.”


    I blinked. Raising an eyebrow, I asked, “You’ve read the thirty-six stratagems?”If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    At that, he leaned back in his seat, dark blue eyes studying me intently. “I have,” he agreed.


    Considering him for a moment, I frowned. “An educated man? Then you’re not one of their meatheads and presumably have at least two brain cells to rub together.” Chucking, I turned in my chair, crossing one leg over my knee. “They’ve sent me someone dangerous. And you have still yet to answer my question. It’s not simply because they’ve thrown a sacrificial lamb before a hungry tiger, hoping to wet my appetite, and you’re not just here to gauge the temperature before sending them in.”


    I knew the reason they had told him for sending him in—that they wanted him to soften me up and do a little pre-negotiation fact finding—but that wasn’t necessarily the real reason. And the only way I was going to do that was by either figuring out just who this man was, or waiting for them to tip their hand. I personally suspected some sort of attempt at a double-cross, distracting me with talks of negotiation while they prepared another attempt at using physical and/or magical force.


    They were also waiting for confirmation from their scientists that the explosion was real. Due to just how little damage it had done, they were skeptical. I was tempted to shift my perspective over to see the faces of the men sent to examine the site of the blast… and the glowing remains of the island still putting off enough mana to see. I had made sure it would be a constant, visible reminder of their failure for the next fifty years at minimum—with enough luminescence to light up the Washington, D.C. sky at night brightly enough that anyone nearby would require blackout curtains.


    “I’m just an analyst,” Mr. Thompson shrugged, before opening his briefcase and taking out a folder. “I’m kind of the expert on, well, you General.”


    “Hoh?” I studied the folder, finding it had my name on it and, when he opened it, contained photos clearly taken from Imperial archives. “Interesting~. And what have you learned?”


    “Intelligent, driven, educated, highly skilled,” he left the file open and shrugged. “All there in the file and your records. All obvious to anyone who cared to read. Or listen,” the last two words came out sounding mildly bitter.


    “And beyond the obvious?”


    “I was pretty sure, but wasn’t certain until now. Feign madness but keep your balance, right?”


    My lips twitched as I fought a smile. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”


    “You like keeping your enemies off balance. Keep them guessing.” He studied my reaction and continued, “You didn’t come here to threaten. You came here to negotiate. But you needed a demonstration so that they would take you seriously. And… you’ve got a thing about showing proper deference and respect. I heard the broadcast you made, this morning. President Calvin’s men struck some time late in the night, didn’t they?”


    “Tch,” I hissed, making an annoyed face. “It was disrespectful. Just plain impolite. You don’t kick in someone’s door in the middle of the night, smack them around, shove a gun in their face, and start making demands and then get to whine about it when they turn it around and give you a taste of your own medicine! Your President is a spineless coward and a blustering blowhard, who runs his mouth when he feels like he has the upper hand, then cowers like a kicked dog when someone shows him just how wrong he was.”


    Standing, I began pacing, clasping my hands behind my back as I cast a glare the man’s way. “I understand tactics that involve attacking high ranking military or government officials, or heads of state, during wartime. I’ve conducted such operations myself, after all! But that was against an enemy against whom we had declared war, not a completely uninvolved and neutral third party! The Great War is over. We’re done. Out. My people and I are now working for a foreign country with whom the Unified States is not at war. And yet, tonight, you treated us as though we were. Or as though you thought you could get away with it. Two of my men, dead. Myself and my head scientist assaulted, with the intent to kidnap or kill us.”


    Mr. Thompson opened another folder from his briefcase. “That would be… Dr. Schugel, correct? Who was in the custody of the CIA in Germany and was transported here to the Unified States, when his plane went down and he was presumed lost, only to show up in Brasa some time later.”


    I waved a hand dismissively. “I’m sure you can’t prove I had anything to do with that.”


    “We can prove you were in the area.”


    “A coincidence, I assure you! I was feeling homesick and merely wanted to go visit a friend and get some fine German chocolate. Perhaps your men simply put him on the wrong aircraft?” I suggested, grinning.


    “Right,” Mr. Thompson drew out the word as he rolled his eyes. Leaning forward in his seat, he lowered his voice slightly. “This is about MAD, isn’t it?”


    I paused in my pacing, turning on my heel to regard him. “You read my paper.” At his nod, I said, “Then tell me… what good is MAD if it is neither mutual nor assured?”


    “…It’s not?” Mr. Thompson asked, and from the look on his face, I could see he understood where I was going.


    “Precisely,” I agreed, retaking my seat. “Your bosses weren’t convinced. Not by the paper. Not by the explosion that destroyed part of their fleet. Not by the demonstration I allowed Agent Singer to record and send home. They convinced themselves that they could strike at us, strike at me, without reprisal. So they launched a midnight raid, an assault on myself and my people. And in so doing, they gave me exactly what I wanted: an excuse. A reason to come up here and speak with them face to face. Their timing was poor, what with the communists attempting to make land on our borders, but I’ll excuse it. I trust my men to handle it.


    “Now, I’ve demonstrated the opposite—that I can strike them without reprisal. Any time I see fit. And there is nothing they can do to stop it. Thus, I have assured them of their destruction, should they step out of line and not treat us with the proper respect. That if they attack us, we can and will retaliate, and there is nowhere they can hide to escape our reprisal. That we won’t attack your people, we’ll go after your leaders directly, first.” I smiled, and he tensed. “I’ve always favored leading with a decapitation strike. The difference between us is that if you try that with me, my men aren’t going to flounder. They won’t hesitate. They will wipe our enemies from the face of this Earth if it’s the last thing they do.”


    Leaning back in my seat, I asked, “But that simply brings us to AD, Assured Destruction. One side effectively holding a gun to the other’s head.” I held up a hand, finger gun pointed at Mr. Thompson. “Go ahead. Make my day.” Shaking my head, I lowered my hand. “It’s quite one-sided and leaves the one under the gun feeling pressured, wouldn’t you agree?”


    Mr. Thompson’s head jerkily nodded. “That’s what they were worried about, yes.”


    “Which brings us here,” I gestured to the room. “An enemy feeling cornered, lashing out because they believe it’s the only way to survive. Which is why they came after me. Because they feared the potential of the technology we now possess, but they failed to grasp the intent, the meaning behind MAD. Tell me, your Second Amendment to your Constitution guarantees the right of your people to keep and bear arms, does it not?”


    “It does.”


    “Mm. And if I am armed, and you are armed, and everyone else in the room is armed… if you and I have a disagreement, is it going to devolve into fisticuffs and drawn pistols?”


    “An armed society is a polite society. I explained that to them and they didn’t believe it.”


    I chuckled, shaking my head. “No, I’m pretty sure they believed it, but it goes against what they want. It goes against your current political doctrine: speak softly and carry a big stick. Your people are still following what we call big stick diplomacy. The problem is, you want to have the biggest, or only stick and anyone else having a stick, especially a stick bigger than yours, or one you don’t have is threatening. Which again, makes you act like cornered rats.”


    “I kind of resent that remark,” Mr. Thompson frowned, and I shrugged.


    “Then perhaps your leaders should stop acting the part?” Shaking my head, I continued. “Before this morning, I was hoping that you would catch up and become a peer. That your people would join me at the table,” I thumped the table we sat at. “Certainly, you weren’t going to sit at the head of the table as I’m sure you would have liked—I was here first, after all. But you were welcome to join me as peers. As equals.”


    The man sitting next to me swallowed on a dry throat. “And now?”


    “And now, I’m going to push for your unconditional surrender,” I smiled again, and this time it had the desired result as he shivered. “Until that oaf and everyone who instigated this incident are out of office or fired, you don’t deserve a seat at my table. I don’t trust you not to start spinning a loaded pistol around your finger like an idiot and wind up shooting someone, including yourself. You are clearly neither ready nor responsible enough for the technology.”


    He considered for a moment, before repeating, “‘Push for?’”


    I shrugged. “At the end of the day, all politics is a negotiation. You don’t open negotiations with a reasonable offer, otherwise you don’t get what you want as the other party will try to fight it and negotiate down. Start with an offer that sounds so insane your opponent is certain to reject it. He will likewise propose a similarly insane offer. Then, once both initial offers are off the table, we work our way towards a compromise somewhere in the middle, with that compromise preferably getting you what you wanted in the first place and perhaps a little more. That is the art of negotiation. Thus, my opening offer is your complete and total unconditional surrender, cessation of all hostilities, and cessation of all nuclear armament development.”


    Taking the short stack of papers to my left, I passed them to Mr. Thompson. “My list of demands are there. Take them to your superiors. Then remind them that if I am not back or don’t make contact within twenty-four hours, my men will assume the worst and launch a first strike, so they should perhaps put a hurry on it.”


    Taking the papers and stuffing them into his briefcase along with the folders he’d pulled out, Mr. Thompson stood, only to pause. After a moment, I felt a minute ping from his mana—directed at me and not strong enough to leak from the room. I quirked an eyebrow and smirked when he paled, his hand clenching his briefcase. “What really happened to the fleet pursuing you in the Atlantic?”


    Reaching out, I shorted out all of the recording equipment in the room, then cast a formula to create a soundproof bubble around us. “Do you really want to know?”


    He hesitated, before nodding. “I saw something this morning. Something I can’t explain. You set off that bomb. I felt the mana coming off of it. Then it all just… reversed. Like it was being sucked up. And there you were. Glowing.”


    “You’re the expert, Mr. Thompson. Do you believe I would waste resources when a perfectly convincing alternative exists?”


    Thinking about it for a moment, he shook his head. “No. That’s,” he frowned, “Create something from nothing.”


    “A few of them cover it, really,” I nodded. “It’s obviously not from nothing. I quite clearly have the capability to deliver kiloton to megaton range strikes whenever I want, to whomever I want. But why waste a perfectly good satellite?”


    “You…”


    “Yes?” I smiled, nodding encouragingly. “Go on.”


    “That’s not—”


    “Not possible, yes?” I asked, and he nodded. “I would have thought so too, before.” Standing, I moved away from the table. “The short answer is, I died. The longer answer… I became something more than human.”


    “What do you mean?”


    “You felt it, didn’t you? My mana. There’s just too much, right?” At his nod, I continued. “You’ve heard of the theory of mana fixing, of course.”


    Mr. Thompson nodded again. “Of course. It’s a theory that’s been around almost as long as magic itself. How do I get more mana? Obviously, find a way to store it. But it was thought impossible, until we saw the explosions.”


    “The good doktor is responsible for that. Herr Doktor Schugel created a new type of multi-core computation orb.”


    “I’ve seen the reports. The Type 97, wasn’t it? A two-core orb.”


    “Correct. But before that came the Type 95. A four-core computation orb, capable of fixing mana. I was the only one it would work for. It was more of a curse than a gift. A monkey’s paw, really,” I grumbled. “I wish I could store mana infinitely! Then came the downside. Of course, but your effectiveness because of it will see you thrown into battle time and again, never to know peace.”


    Letting out a sigh, I shook my head as I began rolling up my left sleeve. “I suppose I should thank it. After all, it taught me something I couldn’t learn anywhere else.”


    Mr. Thompson’s mouth opened and closed once, before he murmured, “You figured out how to fix mana without it.”


    “Precisely. When we were attacked, I used the stored mana within the Type 95 to destroy the fleet. That is the basis for the mana bomb. It killed me. Or nearly did. But it was still all just my own mana. All me. So I reached out, grabbed it, and fixed it in place.” I gestured down at my body, “Just as you see now.”


    “But—”


    Holding up my left arm, I conjured a mage blade in my right and flicked it through my own wrist. The flesh parted easily as I pulled mana away from beneath it. I caught my own hand as it fell through the air. Mr. Thompson dropped his briefcase, starting to rush forward, only to stop as I held up the stump for him to see.


    A layer of flesh covered the outside, while inside, mana took the form of everything that should be inside—muscle, bone, tissue, and blood. Blood which didn’t leak all over the place because it was just my mana, and a placeholder replicating real blood until I ate enough to replace the biology I had lost. Pushing outwards with mana, I made myself a new hand—a glowing construct made of mana. I waved with it and hesitantly, he reached out and touched it.


    “You seem to have dropped your briefcase. Let me give you a hand,” I grinned, tossing the fleshy hand towards it.


    Mr. Thompson leapt back as the severed hand landed atop the case, only to stand up on its fingers, like a certain other hand I remembered from an old American black and white horror/comedy. He watched, mouth agape, as my hand moved around and grabbed the handle, before flying back towards my body. Dismissing the new hand, I held out the stump and the detached hand thumped onto the end. A moment later, the cut sealed up like it had never been there.


    I placed the briefcase on the table and flexed my hand, showing it was now good as new. “As you can see, I don’t so much have mana as I am mana. What you felt this morning was me just pulling back part of myself I used for the blast. I don’t use a computation orb any more. Don’t need it.” Retaking my seat, I added, “And no one will believe you. Because it’s impossible. Or the implications are, well…” I shook my head, remembering what Visha had told me aboard the Ingrid about how the men felt after my resurrection, and how the way they acted had changed in subtle ways at times. They were good at hiding it, but I could see the looks they gave me.


    “I,” he swallowed thickly. “I don’t believe I will, no. I’m not sure my career would survive it, without more convincing evidence than a recording on my orb.”


    “You should go speak with your superiors. They’re probably worried, because I disabled the recording devices. Give them my list of demands and tell them I am ready to negotiate. Remind them that they are working on a,” I let out a dark chuckle, “deadline. Oh! And if you don’t mind, could you get someone to see about bringing me some food. It’s nearing lunch time and no one has so much as offered me a coffee. You really are quite poor hosts! If I were hosting you in Brasa, we would already be sharing lunch.”


    Mr. Thompson took his briefcase and hurried out of the room, the door thumping closed behind him. I watched as he practically ran down the hall to the other end of the White House. Kicking back in my chair, I propped my boots up on the table and waited.


    If they try to pull this kind of stunt again, I’m going to march my men through this city blasting Erika! over a P.A. formula while we sing… and I’ll substitute kiloton mana explosions for the drums.