Of Pride and Power - 54. Chapter 48: “Assume formlessness”

For centuries, traditional warriors who favored superiority through force argued that victory could be achieved by control. This linear concept of warfare was based on the resource demands of armies, from the need for manpower and reinforcements to the logistical challenges of sustaining occupied territories. The increasing complexity of warfare required advances in both mobility and logistics. Strategists like Sun Tzu, Julius Caesar, and countless others evolved this theory, treating it as an undeniable truth—much like religious dogma. Even in my timeline, adherents to these principles remained, profiting by quoting their strategies and ideas like evangelists converting pagans with selective passages from scripture.

However, by the early 20th century in my timeline, a new school of thought emerged to challenge this traditional view of warfare: non-linear or asymmetric warfare. Asymmetric warfare, commonly known as guerrilla warfare, is a strategy employed by smaller, less-equipped forces against a larger, better-armed opponent. Its core principles—mobility, surprise, adaptability, and unconventional tactics—exploit the weaknesses of a stronger enemy. Guerrilla forces typically avoid direct confrontation, opting for ambushes, hit-and-run attacks, sabotage, and intelligence gathering to wear down the enemy’s morale and resources, aiming for victory through attrition. This stands in contrast to symmetric warfare, where forces of relatively equal size and capability engage in conventional battles with clear frontlines, structured formations, and a focus on territory or the defeat of enemy forces. The various goals of both warfare types are control over land, resources, or populations. Symmetric warfare achieved the goal through overwhelming firepower, logistics, and technological advantage. Asymmetric warfare, by contrast, relies more on terrain familiarity, civilian support, and unpredictability to offset the imbalance in power.

In reflecting on both types of warfare with my encyclopedic knowledge, I realized that both approaches made a fundamental error. They were based on the flawed assumption that control is the objective of warfare. In my timeline, wars by the 21^st century had evolved beyond the need for control. During the Cold War, for instance, the United States and Russia engaged in a different kind of conflict—one driven by the threat of destruction rather than control. The doctrine of brinkmanship, with its emphasis on mutual destruction, became the primary objective, though leaders would later claim their real goal was control over geopolitical targets. In truth, they could not predict the outcomes of their actions to gain control, except for the potential devastation they could inflict on one another. This led to a new realization: destruction itself can be the goal of warfare, not merely a means to control outcomes.

Although our tactics may have initially resembled asymmetric warfare to the Russians, the outcome was a redefinition of territories, populations, and resources without the need for active local support. The eviction of Russian forces and civilians from Ivangorod was part of a larger series of strikes. Throughout the spring and summer of 1576, we launched sweeping raids on Russian villages, Boyar estates, towns, and cities. Our attacks spanned as far north as the White Sea coast, south to the Crimean Peninsula, and east to the Ural Mountains. There was no discernible pattern to the strikes—both military targets and civilian centers were fair game. We would first eliminate any military forces and fortifications, then neutralize local leadership, both civil and religious. Civilians and non-ranking soldiers were ordered to evacuate, taking only what resources they could carry. Afterward, we would destroy military bases, supply depots, granaries, and farms to prevent future habitation. In a single day, we could wipe out ten cities or fifty towns, along with thousands of tons of resources. We deliberately avoided attacking the Moscow area, assuring a concentration of refugees there as part of our strategy.

Our drones, with a range of 31 miles (50 kilometers), could connect to our APC’s phantom field generator for real-time telemetry. Though our generator could only link to one drone at a time, the system's potential reach extended far beyond that limit. Drones could be recharged upon reaching their destination, and additional drones could be launched ahead of time to extend coverage. In theory, by spacing drones at intervals of 20 miles (32 kilometers), we could cover an area of 3,840 miles (6,182 kilometers) with our 192 drones, the remainder from the Battle of Narva. Each drone could remain dormant for 16–18 hours, conserving battery power until use. We adjusted their positions as needed to root out Russian presence efficiently. Robert named this tactic, the Protoss maneuver, based on a fictional faction in a computer strategy game called Starcaft from our original timeline.

Russian strategists had long based their defenses on the assumption that no enemy could penetrate deep enough to gain absolute control over their vast territory. Historical examples from my timeline, like the failed Ottoman attack on Moscow in 1591 following their successful invasion in 1571, showed how Russia’s terrain and population could make invasions costly and unfeasible long-term endeavors. However, this defensive strategy, while effective, was reactionary and lacked a long-term plan for non-occupying opponents.

Despite their reactionary stance, the Russian Empire did not sit idly by as we attacked. We faced some resistance at strongholds like Novgorod and Kyiv, including more plasma bolts, though they couldn't defend every area. Our speed and flexibility allowed us to strike nearly anywhere with a nearby drone. Russian forces tried to slow us by destroying roads and flooding rivers, but their methods were ineffective against our advanced transit technology. Attempts to shoot down our drones with bolt-action rifles were futile, as our drones, equipped with advanced 360° sensors and controlled by a core, essentially a supercomputer, easily evaded such conventional attacks. Snipers couldn’t reach drones flying above 1,500 feet (457 meters), and even Russian flak guns or captured Habsburg IR-guided missiles struggled to hit our agile, low-heat-emission drones. Fewer than ten drones were ever shot down, and our attacks continued largely unimpeded.

By August 1576, after we had devastated a thousand square miles of Russian territory and driven half a million people toward Moscow for shelter, the first phase of our grand strategy was complete. Food shortages during the winter were inevitable due to the destruction of grain fields and reserves. If I compared my actions to historical examples, the effects were similar. Yet, I had to remain aware of two key factors. First, the majority of the Russian Empire’s forces and production facilities in Europe remained concentrated around Moscow, untouched. Second, though their agriculture and population centers were concentrated in Europe, many of Russia's material resources lay further east in the Caucasus and Central Asia. Despite these considerations, neither I, Robert, nor the twelve mecha knights wavered in our commitment to the war’s completion.

Importantly, I did not allow any Royal Marines to join us on these deep-strike missions or witness the assaults firsthand. This wasn’t to maintain secrecy—they knew what had happened in Narva would be replicated elsewhere. The reason was the psychological toll of witnessing such widespread human suffering, something that normal human beings, with their consciences and beliefs, might not endure. In my timeline, there were always those who demanded soldiers fight for victory, while others insisted on limiting their actions. Neither side was entirely wrong—it was a paradox of moral philosophy in war. There is nothing wrong with promoting mercy and equal treatment, except when considering the nature of national security. Most humans with a moral compass cannot reconcile the bloodshed and suffering of war with their desire for justice. Yet, for the mecha knights, Robert, and myself—who had transcended life and death and were free from the judgments of any imagined creator deity—there were no moral limits in achieving our objectives.

We were engaged in destruction and execution. Many resistors refused to leave and fought to protect their homes to the bitter end, including elders, pregnant women, and children. I spared as many as I could by offering them opportunities to leave the area, but war is not a game with humane rules when your goals must be obtained. I will not sugarcoat our actions or claim a divine right to judge the Russians; I don't possess that right, regardless of what people may say. We acted to achieve the goals of the campaign and innocent people suffered. I’m not proud of those actions, nor should anyone who reads this account.

For the unengaged Royal Marines, their specialized skills were useful elsewhere. Hundreds of Royal Marines were stationed in the liberated city of Narva, serving as our rear guard with resources we had seized from military warehouses and factories that the Russians had built to supply their Baltic Fleet. The Royal Marines established our small industrial complex on the western bank of the Narva River, powered by hydroelectric dams as well for more advanced machining. Although our force had minimal need for food or ammunition, there were potential scenarios—such as harsh weather or radiation contamination—that required specialized equipment on short notice. Originally, the plan was to manufacture replacement components and lead shielding, but Robert’s expertise in manufacturing allowed us to expand our arsenal. We added rocket-propelled explosive shells for demolition purposes and even replaced drones lost in battle. Refining quartz and processing its internal structures for electrical systems was painstaking without the Avalon facility’s artificial intelligence, and with me out in the field directing the phantom energy field, time constraints were severe. Despite these difficulties, we managed to build 47 new drones, along with new weapons and other supplies.

By the time the population displacement campaign ended in September 1576, we had received sufficient supplies of sensitive materials from Avalon and Cadbury Hill facilities for our next phase. The clearing of the Baltic Sea of Russian ports and warships was meant to make it possible to establish this direct supply line for these hazardous materials, including a certain enriched herbicide. I had authorized mass production and enrichment of the herbicide’s components, though Robert and I debated whether to introduce this chemical into the Russian campaign. The herbicide, known as Agent Orange, had a notorious history in my timeline. I was cautious about producing the complete chemical in England or Greenland, given its destructive nature, so we only manufactured the base enriched components, which were then shipped to Narva for final assembly.

Though many people in my timeline mistakenly believe Agent Orange was used solely by the United States in the Vietnam War, it was actually a joint British-American project, first deployed by the British during the Malayan Emergency (1948–1960) to combat communist insurgents. The British, facing inferior troop numbers to control the vast lands, sought a way to tilt the conflict in their favor. Decades later, it was revealed that the British company Imperial Chemical Industries had been tasked with experimenting with the herbicide. However, much of this research was destroyed during Britain’s Operation Legacy (1950–1970), a campaign to cover up what many later consider international crimes. The Malayan Emergency ended with the defeat or retreat of all insurgents, and British casualties were limited to 1,443 killed. I was inspired by the untold history of this chemical weapon, knowing that by 1570, my realm had the industrial and scientific capabilities to produce vast quantities of this herbicide.

When I saw the first batch of canisters, Robert asked me, “I would go to hell with you, but… are you sure?”

I nodded, offering no reply. There was no moral justification for what we were about to unleash in the second phase of the campaign. It was just our best choice to achieve our goals.

Agent Orange, primarily designed to defoliate forests, was first used to decimate Russian woodlands, stripping the trees of their leaves and turning vast areas into barren wastelands. The presence of dead, dry trees provided fuel for massive fires, which we spread for hundreds of miles using another chemical, Triethylaluminium, amplifying the devastation. The ecological destruction crippled Russian industries reliant on forest resources, from timber for housing to fur for winter clothing. When applied to fields, the herbicide drastically reduced crop yields, further worsening food shortages, and famine already exacerbated by the destruction of grain stores and the refugee crisis.

Unseen among the immediate impacts, there was a far more dangerous consequence: a chemical byproduct that would have devastating long-term effects on the land. Scientifically, it was known as 2,3,7,8-Tetrachlorodibenzo-p-dioxin (TCDO), but it was widely inaccurately called dioxin. Dioxin, a highly toxic byproduct of Agent Orange, is one of the most dangerous chemicals ever introduced into the environment. When our enhanced dioxin is absorbed by the human body, even in small amounts, it disrupts cellular functions and accumulates in fatty tissues, where it can persist for years, causing continuous harm. Dioxin exposure leads to severe health issues such as cancer, birth defects, immune system damage, and reproductive problems. Those directly exposed often suffer from chloracne, a severe skin condition resembling acne that marks them for a painful shorter lifespan with low fertility rates.

In the soil, our enriched herbicide is extremely persistent, binding to organic matter and resisting natural degradation. This contamination renders the land infertile, unsuitable for agriculture for decades, and poisons the local food chain. As plants and animals ingest the contaminated soil, the toxin moves through the ecosystem, eventually affecting humans through food consumption and amplifying its destructive impact. The long-lasting presence of dioxin creates an enduring environmental and public health crisis, scarring landscapes and communities for generations. By using such a chemical in various parts of Russia, I had laid the foundation for the second phase of our strategy: de-habitation.

Perhaps, in a more civilized era, future generations will say I was too harsh in my actions. Others might claim that what I did was righteous and merciful compared to the genocides committed by my contemporaries elsewhere in the world. To the former, I admit I was imperfect and petty in seeking vengeance rather than considering less destructive alternatives. But our strategy relied on devastation—there could be no half-measures. To the latter, you must not perceive my actions as righteous or merciful. The Russian civilians who were forced back into these poisoned lands by the remnants of their empire died agonizing deaths from cancers that consumed their bodies slowly, without the benefit of our advanced medical technology or Omega abilities, unlike the residents of Narva who we did aid from cross-contamination. I knew I had thoroughly poisoned the land for centuries. I did not offer aid to these people, nor did any other nation, except for the Ming Dynasty, their nominal allies. That was the price of peace, not a display of mercy.

While Russian civilians and military personnel struggled to survive the coming winter of December 1576, Robert, the mecha knights, and the Royal Marines celebrated Christmas in Narva. I did not join them, as I was fasting for my own reasons. We briefly considered returning to England, but the transit time would have delayed our campaign. Theoretically, we could have used the APC’s phantom energy field generator to return, as its quantum-entangled core can link to another system regardless of distance. However, Robert and I rejected the idea, fearing the technology could be used in reverse to bring a Russian legion onto English soil if we were defeated and they had someone with similar abilities to my own.

Christmas was a somber affair for the Royal Marines, mecha knights, Robert, and me. Frances had specifically chosen these Royal Marines for their mentality and skills. Every soldier had lost a close family member during the Russian attack on London, giving each of them a personal reason to seek justice in this campaign. They had spent years training under rigorous conditions, acquiring technical expertise, but their grief was never forgotten. This mindset was psychologically unhealthy for those seeking to move on with their lives, but these soldiers, like us, had chosen to be avengers.

Robert and I also carried the grief of our eldest son’s death for the past seven years, clinging to it like a drowning man to driftwood. Christmas was normally a time to release that grief in the company of family and friends, but this year, the campaign prevented that. It was the first Christmas that Will and Jamie spent without either of us, and though it wouldn’t be the last, we hoped the success of the campaign would bring some respite from military operations. We wanted the war to end, but one final blow was still necessary to complete our task.

On the evening of January 6, 1577, the day before the Eastern Orthodox Church celebrated Christmas according to the Julian calendar, we launched our final move toward Moscow. This date held significant meaning for many Russians, both for its religious importance and its historical value in my world. In my timeline, January 7, 1942, marked the end of the German offensive to capture Moscow, a turning point in the Russian-German conflict of that era. During the Soviet era, the victory was celebrated as a triumph of Russian sacrifice over mass murderers, supporting the narrative of good defeating evil. After the fall of communism, Eastern Orthodox Christians continued to promote this moral victory in their propaganda, emphasizing its proximity to their Christmas.

In the early 21st century, several theories circulated about an attempted coup on this date in January 2020, allegedly orchestrated by Russian agents within various insurgent groups in the United States. If true, it would suggest that Russians viewed this period as a time for divine vengeance against an enemy that destroyed their empire, the Soviet Union. Although I paid no heed to such unproven theories, the symbolism was undeniable. Attacking during this time became a crucial part of our strategy to achieve the third and final goal of the Russian campaign: demoralization.

This war began with depopulation through attacks on densely populated civilian and military centers. It continued with de-habitation by destroying natural resources and food supplies. It ended with demoralization, breaking any remaining hope for material or spiritual resurgence. It was, in effect, a total war from conception to conclusion. In my timeline, a controversial 21st-century political thinker from the United States, Richard Perle, once spoke of total war: “If we just let our vision of the world go forth, and we embrace it entirely, and we don’t try to piece together clever diplomacy but just wage a total war, our children will sing great songs about us years from now.” His words inspired our three-pronged Russian strategy. But unlike Perle, who applied his idea to limited geopolitical gains in the Middle East, we sought long-term advantage by dismantling the Russian Empire entirely.

With its population scattered, its educated leadership eliminated, and its land resources poisoned, Russia would no longer be able to exert influence in Europe, let alone threaten our island for centuries—not until the dioxin had been filtered from the soil and their population recuperates from low fertility rates. While technological superiority can create shock and awe, Perle’s failed campaigns in the Middle East taught us that demoralization was necessary to prevent resurgence. To achieve this, we needed to leave one area relatively untouched, where displaced Russians could gather: Moscow. A crucible in Moscow was always the conclusion of this campaign.