JULY 3, 1898
SANTIAGO, CUBA
The solemn moment has arrived to launch into battle. The sacred name of Spain and the honor of her glorious flag demand it of us. I have asked you to attend this rendezvous with the enemy, wearing your full dress uniform. I know this order surprises you, for it is inappropriate in combat, but it is the attire we Spanish sailors wear on great occasions, and I believe there is no more solemn moment in a soldier's life than when he dies for his country."Ha llegado el momento solemne de lanzarse a la pelea. Así nos lo exige el sagrado nombre de España y el honor de su bandera gloriosa. He querido que asistáis conmigo a esta cita con el enemigo, luciendo el uniforme de gala. Sé que os extraña esta orden, porque es impropia en combate, pero es la ropa que vestimos los marinos de España en las grandes solemnidades, y no creo que haya momento mas solemne en la vida de un soldado que aquel en que se muere por la Patria. "
Fire!"¡Disparen!"
Another round of musket fire descended upon the Spanish Armada's Occult Operations' helpless prisoners. Another round of dead men hit the ground like sacks full of potatoes. The prisoners who were still living were made to move the ones that had been executed before them out of the firing range and into a ditch nearby before then facing their own grisly fate.
Reload!"¡Recargen!"
The enemy covets our old and glorious hulls. To this end, he has sent against us the full might of his young squadron. But he will only be able to take the splinters of our ships, and he will only be able to wrest our weapons from us when, as corpses, we float upon these waters, which have been and are Spain's."El enemigo codicia nuestros viejos y gloriosos cascos. Para ello ha enviado contra nosotros todo el poderío de su joven escuadra. Pero sólo las astillas de nuestras naves podrá tomar, y sólo podrá arrebatarnos nuestras armas cuando, cadáveres ya, flotemos sobre estas aguas, que han sido y son de España."
Another round of men were brought into the firing range.
Aim!"¡Apunten!"
One of them had piscine features on his body, including a tail with a fin that dragged along with his tired feet. Another, a thaumaturge, had his hands and mouth bound. A third had two extra arms growing out of his back, which had been bound. The fourth was weeping and pleading:
Please! Take pity on me! I'm not like these monsters! I am not capable of doing what they do! My only sin is reading The Golden Age to my children, I had no idea he was a revolutionary! Plea—"¡Por favor! ¡Tengan piedad en mí! ¡No soy como estos monstruos! ¡No soy capaz de lo que ellos son! ¡Mi único pecado es leerles La Edad de Oro a mis hijos, ¡pero no sabía que era un revolucionario! ¡Por fa—"
"¡Disparen!"
Another round of dead men hit the ground.
My sons! The enemy surpasses us in strength, but does not equal us in valor. Fly the flags high and take not a single ship prisoner! Crew of my squadron: Long live Spain! Battle stations, and may the Lord welcome our souls!"¡Hijos míos! El enemigo nos aventaja en fuerzas, pero no nos iguala en valor. ¡Clavad las banderas y ni un solo navío prisionero! Dotación de mi escuadra: ¡Viva siempre España! ¡Zafarrancho de combate, y que el Señor acoja nuestras almas!"
The line was growing short now, there were only four more men left to execute. The rest of the SAOO's commanding officers had already left earlier in the morning before the American ships were spotted. All that remained of the anomalous branch of the Spanish Empire's reach in Cuba were five men, who had been instructed to fight tooth and nail and assist the non-anomalous navy in their defense of Santiago. If one ignored the musket-fire and death rattles of the prisoners, the voice of Admiral Cervera y Topete could be heard giving the non-anomalous men a speech in the distance.
Commander, there's an anomaly in the manifest. We should only have three prisoners left to execute,"Comandante, hay una anomalía en el manifiesto. Solo deberíamos tener tres prisioneros de sobra," one of the men speaks up.
It's not a problem if we accidentally pulled one from the normal prisoners. The King can consider this insurance."No hay problema si accidentalmente sacamos uno de los prisioneros normales. El Rey puede considerar esto como seguro."
After the remaining prisoners tossed the bodies of the previous four into the ditch, the commander menaced them with his saber to form a row in front of the gunmen. One of them ignored him and proceeded to wipe his hands clean of blood on the rags of the pleading prisoner.
Are you in a hurry to die, idiot? I'll run you through right where you stand,"¿Tienes prisa por morir, imbécil? Te atravesaré donde estas parado," the commander brandished his saber at the man. The other prisoners looked on, all hope having been long drained from them. The man, however, kept wiping his hands. Look, boys, this one fancies himself immune. I hope you like berylium-coated lead! Aim!"Miren, muchachos, este se cree inmune. ¡Come plomo recubierto de bronce de beryllio! ¡Apunten!"
The man kept wiping. The four gunmen turned and raised their muskets, pointing them all at him. The other prisoners averted their gaze. The commander snorted.
"Disparen!"
And on went the little toy soldiers to war.
In the end, one American was injured, and only one more died. Three hundred forty-three Spanish were killed, one hundred fifty-one were wounded, one thousand eight hundred eighty-nine were captured, four armored cruisers were sunk, and two destroyers were sunk.
The ASCI detachment accompanying the Americans would come to find Santiago's SAOO operations base devoid of any useful objects, but rich in corpses a mere eight hours later. They would also find seven very frightened men, as well as the grave where José Martí had been buried disturbed.
In an instant, a barrage smoke went up from the muskets, their berillium bronze-coated musketballs sailing through the air toward the man. Before they could impact him, he vanished into a dark-colored puff of smoke and the bullets landed in the dirt.
Shit! This type of anomaly wasn't in the manifest! Reload! Prepare for counterattack! "¡Mierda! ¡Este tipo de anomalía no estaba en el manifiesto! ¡Recarguen! ¡Prepárense para el contraataque!" Before he could open his mouth to speak again, the smog swiftly moved up his nostrils, causing his eyes to roll back in his head. He dropped his blade as the oxygen was forced out of his lungs, falling to his knees.
Fuck! Run!"¡Joder! ¡Huyan!" the men dropped their weapons and fled into the castle behind them as their commander's limp body fell. The prisoners scattered, and the smog slowly poured out of the man's now-gaping jaw. Mere instants later, it reformed into the man who now stood at the center of the former firing range.
He looked down at his still bloodied hands.
"Me temo que aún estan sucias."
"Leider immer noch schmutzig."
"Still dirty, I'm afraid."
He sighed, approaching the downed commander to wipe off his hands on his clean uniform. This seemed to please him, as he could actually see the blood coming off his hands on the commander's white outfit. Then, he felt it: a heartbeat. He frowned. He had not been thorough enough.
"Aún sigue vivo, Comandante?"
"Lebst du noch, Kommandant?"
"Still alive, Commander?"
You won't win, you lout, "No ganarás, patán," he spat out between coughs. The Commander's bloodshot eyes turned to the man who had nearly suffocated him. The giftschreiber chuckled and clicked his tongue disapprovingly.
"No es cuestión de "si". Es cuestión de "cuándo"."
"Es ist keine Frage des „Ob“, sondern des „Wann“."
"It's not a matter of 'if'. It's a matter of 'when'."
The Commander nearly hacked up a lung. With the last of his strength, he reached for his saber, which he had dropped. Take this! "¡Toma" he roared, lunging forward and thrusting the specially made blade into the other man's arm in a surprise attack. The giftschreiber leaped back in pain, quickly extracting the sword from his arm and applying pressure to the wound. The special alloy coating the blade had severely weakened him, and would continue to suppress his abilities for a long time.
Long live… Spain! "Viva siempre… ¡España!" were the Commander's dying words as he left his mortal coil.
The giftschreiber briefly considered his own hubris which had led to this injury he found himself afflicted with. He wouldn't be able to make away with his prize in these conditions, especially not with the might of the American fleet descending on Santiago so soon.
He would have to improvise.
He would have to rely on them.