4 - Hearts and Minds 
Ostoukalyvia
Polyphemus, L4 Development Administration
Coalition of Congressional Nations
June 10, 0121 R.C.
“Eyes open, Malenko. You’re on firm ground now.”
Attila’s words were encouragement enough for Asya to slowly open her eyes, the sight of her squadmates a welcome one.
“Y-yes. Thank you, sir…”
Now on terra firma, her body relaxed—leaving only a nervous tremor at her knees.
Attila wasted not a second more. “The company commander and the commissar are already inspecting the village. We should join them.”
“Inspecting it for what, exactly?” questioned Irakly.
“Somewhere for ourselves and the troops to rest,” answered the platoon commander. “Wouldn’t you like at least an hour’s worth of shut-eye?”
“That’d be wonderful, sir,” the young Michman answered candidly.
Advancing into the quaint town, the trio eagerly studied their surroundings, all under the warm orange-yellow radiance of the streetlights above. They traced the path of the cobblestone thoroughfare, which ran through the center of Ostoukalyvia. Flanking the edges of the street were narrow sidewalks, from which sporadic onlookers observed the invaders with a mix of fear and curiosity. Their clothing, too, reflected the distinct culture of the colony’s inhabitants, most clad in simple embroidered tunics.
As their footsteps led them on, the buildings clustered ever tighter, interrupted only by the occasional narrow alleyway dividing the rows of houses and shops. It was a relief that the town hadn’t been the center of the fighting, as such tightly-packed living conditions would’ve surely lent itself to severe collateral damage. Architecturally, the scene before her would’ve been one befitting a history book, were it not for the glimpses of modern amenities in the form of the streetlights’ glow above and the handful of automobiles parked streetside.
A small plaza stood at the center of the modest settlement, itself situated before an old school. At its center stood a statue, no doubt a figure important to the locals. Already, a few BTRs had parked streetside, the Space Infantry having unloaded to keep a watchful eye for resistance. A number of townspeople had gathered at the plaza, a tension lingering between the locals and their new occupiers.
“D-does any of us know what they’re saying?” questioned Irakly.
“They speak Chrysonean,” explained Attila. “I had familiarity with a dialect of it during my tenure on Vasati… I’m not exactly fluent, but the situation seems to be under control.”
“Under control?” inquired Asya.
“They just want to know when we’ll leave them alone.”
Passing the school, they were met with more signs of the new occupation, as Space Infantry patrolled the streets and unloaded supplies and equipment from their parked vehicles. Unlike most other occupations, there was little in terms of the Coalition’s legacy that needed removing.
“Doesn’t seem like the townspeople had much sympathy for the Coalition…” Asya thought aloud, observing their surroundings with great care.
Attila scoffed. “That doesn’t mean they’ll treat us any better.”
As they continued to walk, the trio were suddenly interrupted by the quick sound of footsteps drawing near—Attila instinctively circled around, hand to his sidearm’s holster, only to immediately relax at the realization. A young girl stood before the three pilots, holding a bulky, almost oversized camera.
She spoke, though only Attila understood.
“What’s she saying?” questioned Irakly.
“She’s asking if we’re ‘space people,’” replied Attila, before answering the girl. “We are from Plateia.”
“My mama says Plateians are slaves to the Archons, but you seem nice,” said the girl. “Did you come from the metal giants?”
“Yes.”
The child’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “A lot of people think they’re dangerous and scary, but I think they’re cool. Can I take a picture?”
Attila smiled nervously. “Uh… sure.”
With a wide smile, she raised her camera. Putting his arms over his fellow pilots’ shoulders, he quickly dragged them into a hasty group pose. Neither Asya nor Irakly needed a translation this time—with nervous smiles, they posed for the photograph.
The girl took two snapshots, watching with giddy excitement as the photographs processed. The first she handed to Attila, while she kept the second as a memento.
“Thank you, Mister!”
With that, she ran off, barely able to contain her excitement at managing to photograph the people from the so-called metal giants.
The three glanced down at the photo. “No harm in making memories while we’re here, I suppose,” the platoon commander said aloud, to himself moreso than to his subordinates.
“So what was the girl talking about?” asked Asya.
“The locals don’t really seem to trust Plateians. She asked if we came from the ‘metal giants’—they have something of a dated view on technology…” Attila didn’t dwell on the matter for long, slipping the photograph into one of the utility pouches in his suit before continuing down the sidewalk.
In their search for the company commander and his commissar aide, the pilots found themselves before the steps of a large and imposing church, situated atop a hill overlooking the entire village. The two men were about to ascend the steps, turning around upon hearing the approach of the trio.
“Ah, Glavny michman,” said Jiancheng. “We were about to assess the hilltop church… Mordechai and his men got there ahead of us.”
“What do the locals believe in?” inquired Attila.
Jiancheng shrugged. “Some kind of Soterian sect. Our ethnographers’ analysis of their beliefs are far from comprehensive.”
A number of BTRs were parked before the church, and the pilots could see the infantry gathered outside—and three figures wearing orange, hi-vis pilot suits. That enough was sufficient to quicken their pace, rising the steps until they’d closed the distance. As they drew near, it became apparent a commotion was taking place, with a small crowd of townspeople and clergy flanking the band of victorious infantrymen.
Reaching the top of the steps, the group could quickly discern that, whatever the cause of the commotion was, the group of infantry was doing little to resolve it. The soldiers aimed their guns around haphazardly, while a couple of them—including one who seemed to be their leader—traded words with a man who seemed to be a priest.
“Got a problem, treehugger? Huh?” One of the infantry asked in Zalesian, either not knowing or caring that few—if any—of the locals could understand their language. The priest had only begun to reply in his own tongue when the leader of the infantry, frustrated, toppled the priest to the ground with a strike of his rifle’s stock. The crowd, in immediate protest, began jeering and shouting.
“Don’t hurt him!”
A woman in the crowd spoke back in Zalesian, before hurriedly placing herself between the priest and the soldiers, as if to shield the holy man from further harm. This defiant gesture wasn’t taken kindly to—and one of the soldiers roughly grabbed her and held her at gunpoint, quickly driving back the rest of the civilians.
“W-what—?”
“You tell them, another step and I’ll blow your fucking brains out!” threatened the soldier. Despite the language barrier, it wasn’t hard for the villagers to understand his threat.
“Hey, hey, you grunts!” Obadiah spoke up, his voice stern. “Knock it off!”
“What do you want, huh, tin-can soldier?” The head of the Space Infantry contingent craned his neck at the fencer pilot.
“We’ve barely arrived and you’re already abusing these people; don’t you know how to maintain professional conduct?” His eyes took an immediate turn towards the civilians, whom he addressed using a more familiar language, “Please don’t mind these men, they’re rather overzealous in their duties and we’ll convince them to back off!”
“You… speak our language?” The hostage raised her eyebrows in astonishment.
“You speak their language?!” the Space Infantry leader said, scowling.
“Not really, but we’d be here all day otherwise.”
The man opposite Obadiah then cast a look down onto his Phanuelite necklace. As if something dawned on him, he returned to eye level and emitted a snicker. “I see. So that’s how it is… Outcasts gotta stand for one another, don’t they?”
None too pleased with the statement, Obadiah retorted, “I’m afraid at this rate, you’ll be risking the tin cans that are supposed to cover your asses, in addition to civvie sympathy. You’d do well to be in everyone's good grace.”
When reminded of their battlefield dynamic, the infantryman recoiled, before looking at the civilians, back to the fencer pilot facing him, and letting out a loud sigh of exasperation. “Have it your way, Robot Izya.”
The soldier released his grip on the woman, leaving her to stagger and fall into the arms of the crowd. Asya and Irakly stepped forward to help up the priest, who remained disoriented by the blunt strike, while the company commander and commissar gestured towards Obadiah and the leader of the soldiers to step off to the side with them. The priest gave the two pilots a silent nod to signal his gratitude as they lifted him up, after which they approached back towards their superiors.
“Tell me what’s going on here, succinctly,” the commissar instructed the leading soldier first.
“Sir, these devil-worshippers are obstructing our soldiers from carrying out their business, and this errand boy here seems to be on their side.” A number of soldiers nodded along in agreement with their leader’s words.
Obadiah, of course, had a quite different appraisal of the situation. “Our boys here think the only way to secure lodgings with the good people here is by terrorizing them.”
At this, the soldiers’ leader looked towards Obadiah and opened his mouth in indignation, although it took a moment for his words to come out. “We’re not going to sleep in the cold tonight so these heretics can keep on worshiping their idols!”
It was at this point that Attila finally chose to interject himself into the situation. “I hope you understand that not buying ourselves hostility is an essential part of operational security. Their religious belief is a part of that. If you insist on antagonizing them, they’d sooner go back to the devil they knew just to feel safe from us, and we don’t want that here.”
The scowl remained on the infantryman’s face, but he said nothing. While still given the opportunity, Attila continued.
“I passed by a school while we were coming here,” he said, gesturing in the general direction of the mentioned location. “Maybe the locals would be more receptive if we… offered to go there instead?”
Obadiah responded in slow nods. “Maybe, but I would ask that priest first. We’ll probably need his approval to do anything.” In agreement, Attila pointed towards the priest and gestured for him to join the group, right beside the infantryman who had gone quiet to observe them. Though Obadiah might as well have been a native speaker of the local language, Attila was confident enough to try conversing with the priest himself.
“My comrades are having, uh… a disagreement, but I think we could base ourselves at the village school instead of this church. Does that sound better to you?”
The priest seemed hesitant, but only for a brief moment. “Well… you can go there, but I must explain, it is what the Coalition calls a ‘religious school.’ We teach our children the faith there, and there are several holy icons we keep in the building. They must be removed if you are going to stay; I and some others will come down there and do it. We will keep them at the church here while you use the school.”
Turning to the others, Attila explained to them the priest’s words. “He’s willing, and it sounds like the villagers will go along with what he says. But he insists on bringing people to remove some icons from the school first.”
Mild apprehension was written all over the infantrymen’s face; however, the pilots’ immediate superiors were first to voice their thoughts.
“Do these people still live like it’s a millennium ago?” Oralbeg mocked.
“Compromise as we would, these people are such a hassle.” Jiancheng, his arms crossed, then called out to his subordinates. “Kallio! Help them speed up their icon evac! Make sure these men aren’t left sleeping outside, or I’m holding you and Mordechai responsible.”
“Yes, sir.” Attila saluted his superior.
“Thank you, sir.” The infantry leader nodded in acknowledgement and saluted Jiancheng.
With the matter at hand seemingly resolved, Attila returned to the holy man. “My superiors would prefer that we assist your devout in the process.”
The priest eyed the trio, carrying about him a hint of skepticism. “I don’t believe we have much choice in the matter, do we? Very well—but I implore that you do so with the utmost care.”
A handful of clergypeople had gathered at the priest’s behest, waiting for the trio of pilots. Leading their number was the same veil-clad woman that had put herself in the soldiers’ crosshairs earlier, standing now with renewed composure. Now that Asya had a better look at her, it became apparent that they were about the same age.
“I am Sister Agni. Agathandros Giorgou has entrusted me with the removal of our Church’s sacred icons from the school. I assume you’ve been tasked with watching us?” Her near-fluent Zalesian took all three by surprise.
“Y-yes,” the platoon commander replied, thoroughly caught off-guard. The group began their walk, bound for the school.
“So, um, ma’am…” Irakly began with a nervous stutter. “How exactly did you…”
“Learn your language?” Agni finished his sentence. “Despite what you may believe of us, we are not ignorant in our isolation. I specialize in languages—both to translate archaic texts and to act as an envoy in situations such as these.”
“Are you a nun?” questioned Asya.
“A fair approximation. I have both scholarly and theological duties, and I am among those entrusted with access to the colony’s Infonet system.”
Her response seemed to assuage their doubts for the time being. Arriving at the plaza, they approached the steps of the school, stopping before the entrance. A pair of wooden doors led the way in, Agni opening them wide before leading the group inside.
“This school serves Ostoukalyvia and the surrounding villages.” explained the Sister, as they passed by classrooms along the main hall. “Students are taught mathematics, history and the proper study of the Faith. They learn here from childhood to late adolescence.”
“And what might that faith be?” Attila asked. “Agathandros—that’s no Soterian title for Father.”
At this, Agni studied the platoon commander, hesitating briefly before giving an answer. “We don’t often speak about our faith to Plateians… but you’ve done well enough to shield us from persecution. I’ll explain in detail once we reach the hall of prayer.”
The eponymous hall was located at the opposite end of the school. Unlike the rest of the school, it was lined with cold stone instead of wood, and lacked any form of electrical lighting. Instead, a lone circular window trailed natural light into the space, projecting the image of an eight-pointed sun. The wall before them was lined with religious icons, reflecting the locals’ humble reverence. Scattered below them were rows of candles, each adorned with coagulated layers of old melted wax. Though presently unlit, Asya could imagine the soft orange glow they might’ve once filled the space with.
“This is the hall of prayer,” Agni explained. “It is here that our students pray to God, and memorialize our faith and its history.”
She began at the left side of the room, already removing a handful of symbols and trinkets from the wall, pausing only to elaborate on the first icon. The icon in question displayed a bearded man confronted by a bright, burning orb, rendered in an antique artstyle bearing semblance to Eastern Soterian art.
The Theophanist Star-Cross.
“We Theophanists inherit our faith from Saint Theophilus of Naustathmus… the faith’s name comes from the divine revelation he received in Year 11 of the Standard Calendar. We regard the material world and its rulers as evil, and we shun violence in all its forms. Despite similarities to the Soterian faith, differences in our tenets—and our opposition to serving rulers of men—have provoked a number of persecutions throughout our history.”
Agni removed the first icon from the wall with great care, passing it to one of her aides. She led the group on to the second, which depicted the same burning orb, situated at the top of the canvas. Below it, a portrayal of Plateia with a serpent coiled around it.
“We are all immortal souls trapped in this material world. Only through enduring its trials—and eluding the temptations of the Great Serpent—may we rejoin God in His perfect beyond. That is why, though this world is but a prison, we endure—through these trials our souls may become worthy again. Soter was an emissary of God—that our souls might be set free.”
Lifting the second icon from its place, she handed it to another one of her assistants, before continuing her explanation of their theology. The third icon in the hall depicted a stark contrast of two scenes. One portrayed destruction—houses set aflame, with peasants crucified and burned at the stake, while another portrayed exodus, with rows of men and women embarking for the mountains.
“For his teachings, the basileus ordered Theophilus’ death. He was martyred in Year 19 of the Standard Calendar, and many of his early followers suffered similar fates. Those who remained embarked east into the mountains, living a humble existence in accordance with his tenets. The Church was forged in Saint Theophilus’ name, in order to preserve his teachings and weather against the tragedies brought on by persecution. For centuries we endured in our faith, despite the odds.”
With another aide handling the third icon, only the three pilots—and Sister Agni—remained present in the hall. The fourth icon was strikingly modern compared to its predecessors, its scene far more poignant. The sky aflame with nuclear hellfire, armed mask-clad men in burning villages, innocents pleading for mercy.
“When the Twilight War set the world aflame and drowned us in suffocating ash, a new persecution of our people began. Though we were spared destruction, our people suffered greatly in the years of violence that followed in its aftermath.”
Lifting the icon from its place in the wall, Agni turned to face the three pilots. “I hope I can trust you with handling this.”
Carefully, she handed the painting to Irakly, who understood well enough the importance the icon posed to the locals.
The next icon portrayed crowds of people herded into rockets aimed skywards, towards a red planet ensnared by a serpent.
“The Coalition—servants of the Archons they were—chose to exile us from our lands, to end our persecution. Yet we understood our deportation to Vasati would only bring about another tragic persecution, like the many we had faced before.”
She handed the next icon to Attila, who briefly hesitated before accepting the painting.
The next icon depicted a pair of cylinder colonies, undoubtedly those of Polyphemus. A multitude of ships approached the colony, metaphorically led by the portrayal of a blond, bearded man.
“Andreas Efseviou foresaw the futility of our Vasatian sentence. Embracing the burden of the gravest sin, he led an armed, but ultimately bloodless mutiny aboard the largest of the refugee ships, the Renewed Hope, in coordination with many others. He redirected course to the newly-completed Polyphemus, occupying the vacant colony with his followers. He petitioned the Coalition to grant his people the colony as a new home free from persecution, and they ultimately accepted—on the condition that the colony host Coalition military facilities. In the years that followed, all further refugee ships were sent to Polyphemus, which became a new homeland for our people.”
Removing the icon from its place, Sister Agni handed it over to Asya, who held it by its frame with meticulous care.
The last icon simply depicted a certain ‘Andreas Efseviou,’ the space colony Polyphemus behind him. “For his deeds, Saint Andreas is regarded as the founding father of our modern statehood, sparing us a future of persecution and suffering at the hands of our oppressors. In Polyphemus, we live harmoniously with our surroundings—and we hope peace will return to this place once your battle is over.”
“I’d hope for the same thing, ma’am,” Asya concurred.
“We won’t linger in this town for more than a night, provided the battle goes as planned,” Attila assured her.
The Sister returned the assurance with a weak smile. “For non-believers, you have kind hearts. Though our people have no stake in this fight, I wish each of you the best.”
Removing the final icon from the wall, Agni breathed a sigh of relief. “That should be everything. Your people are free to use this place now.”
Even with the religious relics in hand, the walk back to the church was a breeze. At the sight of the 2nd platoon’s return, Jiancheng’s demeanor visibly eased up. Once each of the icons had been handed back to the clergypeople, the matter of a proper rest returned to the forefront.
“I can’t say I’m much enthused with playing along with these people and their strange traditions, but I suppose you’ve done well to show them that we mean no harm,” Jiancheng commended. “I sent the 1st and 3rd ahead to set aside rooms for us as soon as the school was ready, so you’ll have the chance to rest in the interim…”
The company commander trailed off, as if in thought.
“You three have done well today. It wouldn’t hurt to get a bit of shut-eye.”
“I can keep going,” Attila assured. “but my subordinates have certainly pushed themselves beyond my expectations. They deserve rest more than I do.”
“Suit yourself, Glavny michman…” Jiancheng replied dismissively.
The mention of Attila’s subordinates was enough to warrant a glare from the commissar, whose scrutiny morphed into palpable anger upon noticing Irakly’s head of hair.
“Michman Lvov!” Oralbeg calling for him so loudly startled Irakly. Dread gripped the young Michman as the commissar thundered his way towards him, his intent evident. He turned to the man and froze himself at attention.
“Your hair’s growing awfully long, do you know that?!” The commissar, once right before him, sized him up with his intense scowl.
“Y-yes sir!”
“Yes sir, yes sir… easiest thing for you pilots to say, isn’t it?” Oralbeg’s hand grabbed a lock of hair on Irakly’s head, and jerked it together with its owner, his eyes wide open to stare into Irakly’s pained grimace, his voice in a gradual rise. “Do you find the atmosphere of this Company pleasant, hmm? Eurysian beauty salon, do you think of it? Here to care for your hair, Miss Lvova?!”
“N-n-no sir!” The force of the commissar’s shakes was enough to cause Irakly to tear up.
Oralbeg’s eyes seemed ready to pop at him. “I thought so.” He let go of the Michman’s hair, and left him a few seconds to compose himself and look back at him. “I expect to see it addressed as quickly as possible, or you will face harsher disciplinary action. Understood?”
“Yes sir!”
The commissar at last let up, and walked away with Jiancheng, whose smirk was well indicative of amusement. Next to a shaken Irakly, Attila walked beside him with a couple slow nods. “Told you.”
There was little to be said between them on the walk back to the school. Even with the combat stims lingering in their systems, exhaustion was beginning to catch up with Asya and Irakly both. The idea of even a minute of sleep seemed wonderful at such a time.
The soldiers hadn’t delayed in transforming the school into something adequate for a temporary base. Barricades had been erected at the plaza’s edge, BTR-24s were strategically parked to optimize a hypothetical defense, and now only an unlucky few were left to stand watch for the night, a few bottles of liquor already carelessly discarded amidst the plaza greenery.
A familiar face welcomed them by one of the double-doored entrances, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall for a smoke. At the sight of them, he pulled away from his half-spent cigarette, exhaling a puff of gray to the side before beaming at them.
“You three did well today. The least we could do is treat these town folk with dignity. Some of the boots still don’t understand that.”
“The less enemies we make, the better.” Attila clicked his tongue. “I don’t plan on sleeping tonight—I’ll be keeping watch so these two can rest.”
Obadiah glanced at the pair before nodding. “Always the selfless one… drop your kids off in class, then. We set a classroom aside for your platoon,” he said, shifting his attention back to the fading cigarette between his fingers.
It was as Obadiah had described—between the 1st and the 3rd’s rooms was their own, desks haphazardly pushed aside to make room for three modest sleeping bags.
“A-are you sure you don’t want to rest a bit, sir?” Asya turned to her stoic superior with a question.
Attila shook his head. “Once you’ve been pumped with stims long enough, you’ll get used to the restless nights. Sleep well—I insist.”
And so they dragged themselves to their makeshift beds. In all their exhaustion, Asya and Irakly somehow understood each other all the better, with just some nods and a few looks at each other to choose for themselves their sleep covers for the night. But with the day still lingering at the back of her mind, Asya absentmindedly muttered one last question in a dragged breath:
“But Raklya… What about your hair…?”
“Tomorrow…”
Before long, the two were taken by slumber, without another word.