The Steam Age: Gears and Bones

Chapter 67

The plan itself is not complicated; in fact, it can be described as simple and crude.

By deliberately withdrawing some troops from a section of the defensive line, a seemingly naturally formed weak gap was created, allowing a group of infected individuals to break through the defenses and invade the heart of Romulus along a predetermined route to the south.

If civilians on both sides of the planned route are evacuated beforehand and sufficient ambush forces are used to clear them out, the plan is completely controllable in operation.

Those infected who flooded into the heart of the empire would accomplish the only task that envoys, battle reports, epidemic prevention protocols, and all theoretical tactical analyses could not achieve—to let the emperor, the council, and every elector still weighing the pros and cons see the truth with their own eyes.

Let them smell the stench of decay, let them hear the infected's fingernails scraping against the castle gates, force them to send troops to suppress the hordes of corpses on their own duchy, and make them realize that the situation is out of control.

Or to be more precise, force them to admit that the situation has long been out of control, but they have been unwilling to admit it.

After hearing these words, Perfit remained silent for a long time.

The sky outside the window had completely darkened, the firewood in the fireplace crackled, and the firelight danced on her pale face, making her heterochromatic eyes appear to flicker.

When she came to see the Elector, her mind was filled with data, line charts, supply lists, and all the military judgments that could be deduced logically. But what the Elector gave her was not a logical deduction, but a plan that chilled her to the bone.

His tone remained steady throughout, without raising it even slightly, as if he were presenting a tactical simulation.

Perfit gently placed the teacup back on the table, the bottom of the cup making a very slight, crisp sound as it struck the porcelain plate.

In that instant, she suddenly understood something.

The old soldier standing in front of her, with gray hair and sunken eyes, who told his son, "This place is a dead end, but I will not allow myself to run away," was never a pure soldier.

He was the Elector of the Holy Romulus Empire, a veteran politician who had spent most of his life navigating the complexities between the Emperor and the Parliament, and the man who had once unhesitatingly ordered the use of catapults to throw infected people across the border.

He could bury his life at Wild Boar Ridge, but before that, he would make sure those gentlemen sitting in high-backed chairs behind him had to do the right thing.

She hadn't truly understood why Ludwig always spoke of his father with a restrained admiration and an undeniable sense of helplessness.

Now she understands.

Perfitt certainly hadn't thought of this method.

She did consider how to force the rear to confront the threat, but her thinking remained limited to how to persuade more forcefully, how to increase the frequency of reporting and deploy support—all of which were based on Romulus's existing political rules.

The Elector's proposed plan skips all political procedures, using a man-made disaster to force a response from the rear.

It's crazy, but Perfitt can't deny its effectiveness.

Allowing a small number of infected individuals to cross the defenses and appear in the heart of the Empire is far more persuasive than a hundred reports and a thousand envoy meetings.

Moreover, if all possible preparations are made in advance—such as evacuating civilians from the designated areas in advance, and deploying troops to suppress and eliminate the infected along their likely routes, thus controlling the scope of the disaster within a predetermined time window—then although the losses will be heavy, they will at least be controllable.

It's far better than having their defenses breached by a horde of zombies in the dead of night, forcing them to retreat completely and allowing the infected to flood uncontrollably into the heart of the Empire.

But what about the civilians who were evacuated?

They will be tossed about and suffer from cold and hunger on the way to evacuation. Some will be caught up, tackled, and torn apart because they are not evacuated in time.

Even if every soldier on the defensive line does their best to cover their retreat, and even if the pre-set ambush and containment zones are set up very tightly, the movement path of the infected cannot be predicted with 100% accuracy.

Someone is bound to die.

They weren't soldiers, not those who were prepared to die in battle, but civilians.

They were the unarmed civilians who could have been protected by this line of defense, completely unprepared for her.

They didn't have to die—at least not yet, as the defensive line was still holding.

But they will still die now, because of a human decision.

Perfit leaned on his cane, slowly stood up, walked to the window and stopped, remaining silent for a long time with his back to the Elector.

Outside the window, on the parade ground, the soldiers had just finished dinner and were taking turns washing dishes. Several young soldiers were joking around in a mix of Ross and Romulus languages ​​as they washed the cooking pots. Their laughter was carried by the wind through the cracks in the city wall and into the house.

The laughter was soft, but to Perfit's ears, it was louder than the roar of an infantry gun.

She asked herself: If she agreed to the plan, what would the soldiers on the front line think a few days or weeks later when they were ordered to "retreat," deliberately leaving a gap in a section of the line and watching the black horde of corpses surge south across the front line?

Do they feel like they've betrayed the oath they took when they enlisted?

Will they watch as those infected rush towards the homes they were supposed to protect, towards the directions they could have blocked with their lives, leaving an unhealable wound deep in their hearts forever?

And what about those ordinary people she had never met?

She didn't know their names, which village church they were baptized in, how many acres of barren land they owned, how many skinny sheep they had, or how many children they had who hadn't yet learned to walk.

But they will die, they will die because of the nod of a seventeen-year-old alchemist who doesn't even belong to Romulus.

She will bear their fate.

Unlike on the battlefields of Ross and during the breakout, she was not forced to suffer collateral damage in order to protect herself and her troops—that was war, and she would always choose her comrades over the enemy; she had no moral burden about it.

But this time is different.

This time, she could choose not to do it.

Return to Langdon, submit the report, and let Victoria's diplomats and Emperor Romulus discuss it, allowing the political game to proceed slowly at its original pace.

The defense line may be able to hold out for a considerable period of time.

Perhaps the rear will realize this before the defense line is breached.

Maybe not.

But at least there will be less blood on her hands.

At least she won't have to use her all-knowing eyes to repeatedly look at those unfamiliar, innocent faces in the depths of her memory when she closes her eyes at night in the future.

The room remained quiet for a long time.

Finally, Perfit spoke.

She didn't turn around. Her voice came from the window, slower than usual, so slow that you could almost hear her reconsidering between each word: "Once I cross this line—I can never come back."

She turned around and looked at the Elector again.

There was a long silence.

Belfast silently placed a freshly brewed cup of hot tea beside her, but she didn't touch it.

The Elector did not urge her, but simply sat there, gazing at her with his deep-set old eyes.

He knew what she was weighing.

He didn't offer any advice; he simply waited for her to make her own decision.

"Let me think about it. I can't make decisions on impulse," Perfit finally said.

The Elector nodded, without saying another word.