Глава 8

At the very least, what hopes we bring about before we die can be left to others.

And, if we overthrow Ursus's present system over the Infected...

Everything will change.

We're thin on the ground.

If you weren't an Infected, would you shake my hand?

We'd start from a handshake, in that case.

...What you're saying is probably...

Dad? Where are you going?

I've had enough.

Sir...

Hey.

Don't mind it too much.

He was probably just thinking it over.

He's been thinking it over for ages, if so.

It's been two years, and the only conversations we've ever had have been about team composition and following plans. He's never asked me once about anything to do with any project.

Talulah, no matter if he's ridiculing you or opposing you—ah, not that I think he's the type to really ridicule other people—you're still going to wait forever. Am I right, or not?

If we want to leave the tundra, we need the power of the guerrillas. I'll keep at it.

Because he's the hope of the tundra's Infected?

I thought you didn't say things like that. I mean, you never... you don't say things like that, right?

I just want to know what your thought process is like.

...I think—it's because he's the symbol the tundra's Infected unite behind.

A symbol with no way of passing on to the next generation.

Get up! How long are you planning to stay there?

You gave me a chill, you goddamned white rabbit...!

I don't care how stick thin you are, don't tell me this cold front's too much for you!

You sure weren't saying that when you iced these Ursus weapons.

Brothers and sisters, withdraw! Let them follow! Draw out the mine guards!

Just hold on until the Shieldguards can support us! Don't lose hope!

—Pace. Pick it up. Faster. The guerrillas are in place to get the mine guards double-teamed.

How do you figure—wait.

Those strange Originium ornaments. Did the guerrillas arrange those?

Those were set up for my father.

The Ursus army isn't pursuing us anymore. Seems like they're really not a fan of what those entail.

Wait, are... are these some kind of Sarkaz thing?

His Sarkaz ceremony. These two are the best we could make with what we had on hand.

Patriot... is Patriot here?

You said it yourself. You were expecting our team to be surprise-attacked. And if we wanted to annihilate their whole company, of course we'd come up short if we only relied on our squad.

...They're already beginning to rout.

Have you ever seen my father in battle before, Talulah...?

The... him... It's him... Why did none of you s—say... say he was here?!

Retreat! Retreat! Just forget them, forget them!

Wait, hold on! He's coming from the rear? Then what's all this in front of us?

Hello? Hello? ! Say something! Say something!

Until those local troops let loose their violence upon him, the Sarkaz who towered over all others makes no move, nor does he make a sound.

Yet Talulah hears, laced through the north wind of the tundra, something not unlike cries. The shudders of the world itself, its wickedness cowering back, step after step, before the Wendigo.

Patriot stands fast, and casts toward the tundra a long halberd.

And in the gloom of a sky that knows only to devour all life, suddenly, a chasm is cut.

Thank you for your assistance, Mr...

—Talulah.

You want to leave the tundra? You will be crushed under the armor of Ursus.

Dad? Why right now? Didn't we alread—

The Shieldguards have already gone to collect resources. Take the squad. Order them all to move.

...Alright.

You and your project will get everyone killed.

Talulah realizes. This is the first time the giant before her has personally issued his opinion. Even if that opinion is no shock, it still shakes her to the bone.

And the Northwestern Tundra can't keep us alive forever. The larger our group grows, the more food and energy supplies we need, and the villages that revile us far outnumber the ones that support us.

One season of mossoats, each year... even if we all pitch in for the tilling, how much would we harvest in the end?

Will our fields be destroyed by the Patrol Unit? The guerrillas can easily dispose of them, but the other Infected can't.

You are hastening their deaths.

Our only choice is to leave the tundra. Not for Sami, and not for the barrens... we'll head east, head south, head for warmer places.

How will you survive? How will you allow us all, so numerous, to survive?

The guerrillas save people. The guerrillas sacrifice none but ourselves. Only warriors sacrifice themselves.

But there are Infected in every city and their surroundings, so many more than there are on the tundra.

You permanently protect the north, detesting all that the Infected of the north endure... so you've had little chance to understand the kind of life the Infected of the south have.

Do they live well?

They live miserably.

You want to absorb them.

I intend to unite with them.

When the Empire turns its gaze to the Infected, you will bear the brunt.

I don't want them to unite by my side. No. I want them to unite under one encompassing philosophy.

Philosophy? The Infected are taken as sawdust on the tundra, as slag in the mines, as warnings in the villages, as unknown fuel in the cities.

The tundra Infected are certainly not ignorant nor foolish. We do not cradle fantasy. All philosophies are fantasy before they are put into practice.

On the tundra, there are still mines, patrol forces, foolish and lackadaisical guards. We have places to obtain our resources.

The resources throughout this icy tundra will sooner or later be exhausted, because we have no method of extracting our own.

We have no enduringly mobile nomadic city, no specially qualified Catastrophe Messengers...

Go to the city and we have nothing at all.

We will earn new friends.

Who are your friends?

I recognize your project has merit to it.

But at the same time, it is also nothing special.

How many strategists have died frustrated on the tundra? You speak of it, and I see no reason it could be done, nor on what it would be realized.

Why could the last Emperor make the land tremble? Because he held fast to it, never talking of any wild, far-flung vision. He only walked in steps.

Which you cannot do.

Sir!

You say I may be crushed by the armor of Ursus, and I concede that. They will sooner or later turn their attention to us here. There will always come a day when they catch us. None of us can escape it.

'Let them come?' Is that how you approach it, sir?

That the tundra would prepare you better for a battle?

You are seeking a new battlefield?

I'm looking for a chance to win.

As far as so many more Infected are concerned, that's hope. But to fighters like you and me, that's a crossroads. The only crossroads where we can break from our intrinsic strategy.

To wander the tundra, in the end, is still nothing more than a slow death... much like the little life we have left as Infected. I need to repeat this point, over and over, because we're all fully aware of it.

Perhaps my daughter is convinced by you.

But I will not be convinced by someone who has never lost hope in the truest sense, who has only ever spouted an empty miscellany of armchair strategies.

Talulah? Where are you going?

I'm fine. Just going to check if there are any survivors in the mines.

The guerrillas have already set out, and the village is starting the move too. The army isn't following our tracks, either...

Dad? What's up with you?

*cough*...

Just a normal cough.

A rustling sound.