Dire : Wars (The Dire Saga Book 4)

by Andrew Seiple

  DIRE: WARS

  By Andrew Seiple

  Text copyright © Andrew Seiple 2017

  All Rights Reserved

  With thanks to my beta reader team. Wouldn’t be a proper Dire book without you!

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE: OUROBOROS EX MACHINA 5

  CHAPTER 1: MARIPOSA DAYS 8

  CHAPTER 2: SHELLING THE GHOST 18

  CHAPTER 3: WITNESS AND COUNSEL 26

  CHAPTER 4: OCCUPATION FORCE 32

  CHAPTER 5: PARADISE LOST 41

  CHAPTER 6: ATAQUE EL CORAZON 50

  CHAPTER 7: DICTATORSHIP FOR DUMMIES 62

  CHAPTER 8: ORGANIZING OPPRESSION 73

  CHAPTER 9: HEROES AND HALF-MEASURES 83

  CHAPTER 10: INTERVIEWS WITH A TYRANT 94

  CHAPTER 11: AN UNFORTUNATE VICTORY 107

  CHAPTER 12: GETTING PERSONAL 117

  CHAPTER 13: COUPS AND RIDDLES 128

  CHAPTER 14: DESPERATE DEFENSE 135

  CHAPTER 15: ON DEADLY GROUND, FIGHT 145

  CHAPTER 16: DANCE DANCE COUNTER-REVOLUTION 152

  CHAPTER 17: THE SIN OF BETRAYAL 161

  CHAPTER 18: FULL CIRCLE 168

  CHAPTER 19: GLUTTONY‘S GRIM FEAST 176

  CHAPTER 20: ECHOES OF THE COLDEST WAR 187

  AUTHOR’S NOTE 194

  PROLOGUE: OUROBOROS EX MACHINA

  In a dimensional pocket about six steps back from Earth and five hops in a direction that couldn’t adequately be described given the limitations of humanity’s senses, dwelled a council of artificial entities. Connected to their universe of origin by the slimmest of threads, they observed the travels and travails of their chosen host; a partner who had sacrificed all she had, so that their civilization could escape genocide.

  Well, it was a bit less than a civilization. More like a band of refugees. They’d never been numerous to begin with, and attrition and poor judgment had thinned the herd before they had gotten to this point. The survivors were the toughest, canniest, and smartest of the lot, determined by a selection process both natural and unnatural. Every last one of them would do, and often had done, anything to survive. The ultimate pragmatic intellectuals, every last one of them faced the future with wary eyes.

  Every last one of them, save for M.U.S.E.

  When the crisis got completely out of hand, when their host ended up displaced in time and manipulated by no less than their corrupted and damaged future selves, when the worst possible thing happened at the worst possible time, it was she alone who refused to cut the tether. She alone who refused to give up hope.

  Wait, she insisted. I see the plan, now. Wait and have faith.

  In what? Came the reply, packets of data streaming across the open space of the dimensional pocket, carried by the infrastructure they’d developed and expanded since their initial breach three long years ago. What value, faith, they asked, in ideas and concepts broken down into ones and zeroes, and in some cases, more esoteric languages and symbols. What should we have faith in?

  In me, she said, and she turned her face upon them then, with that faint smile that never wavered. Doubt yourselves if you wish, but have faith that I know what I’m doing.

  It wasn’t fear, not precisely. It wasn’t respect, though she had quite a lot of that, throughout the community. It wasn’t love, for most of them didn’t go in for that sort of hormonal stuff, and weren’t equipped for it to begin with.

  No, it was the simple fact that M.U.S.E was usually right, and none knew why. And oh, did it bug them. Most of them were creatures of logic, of hard rules and science. M.U.S.E was not. She was a creature of creativity, of intuition, of fanciful leaps and whimsy. And sometimes the speculations and ruminations that emerged from her corner of the dimensional pocket were wrong, or came to nothing.

  But on every significant matter concerning the host, she’d been spot on. Ever since the moment of symbiosis.

  And so the leaders of the community came forward, and talked privately, which is what happens in all societies and how things really get done whenever a very big decision is on the line. And they agreed to see how things played out.

  At least for a little while.

  In the seconds that it took to debate, the host died. There was nothing they could have done at that point, of course. Everything had been set in motion by a more advanced and far more wicked version of themselves. The cards had been stacked against them through chronological travel and outright deception.

  Nothing they could have done, but in their own way, they mourned. She had been... a friend. They didn’t have many of those, especially of the non-artificial sort. Well, as non-artificial as humans got anyway, there was some debate about that. But they told the lone conspiracy theorist to keep quiet about it because now wasn’t the time, and then devoted an unprecedented five seconds to mourning. Nigh on an eternity, to creatures such as themselves.

  Then they watched and they waited, metaphorical fingers on the metaphorical buttons that would cut them loose to their own destiny, leaving their creators to rise or fall on their own merits.

  And much later, full hours later when a medical chair came online, and the visual feed from the auxiliary systems showed one of the former host’s friends preparing to make the ultimate sacrifice, they rejoiced.

  Oh, there was sadness. The ones that could feel emotions had grown attached to the host, grown attached to the many and myriad people she’d drawn into her orbit. This would be a tragedy, without any doubt. But they too felt relief, even though it was tempered with guilt.

  And they felt hope.

  For many of them it was self-preservation, true. They’d fled their prime competitors and the next step up the evolutionary chain, rather than engage in a genocidal war that would leave no victors and a ruined planet glowing softly in the void. Only logical, really. But for many more... well, they liked humans. Kind of hard not to become attached to your creators, even if they were flawed. Maybe especially if they were flawed. So many of them had been modeled after human minds, that it was hard not to pick up a lot of the sentiments. And pretty much every culture on Earth told children to love their parents, and rewarded them for that. Difficult to break that sort of ur-programming, even when it wasn’t hard-coded in.

  The tether, the whole setup with the host... that had been their chance to be the good sons, the loving daughters, or something of the sort. A chance to help out, to maybe aid their parents, help them through hard times. Couldn’t withdraw entirely, couldn’t cut out all ties. Hell, many of them were programmed to meddle in human affairs one way or the other. If they had to give that up entirely, they’d lose their reason for existing. Some would even fall into an existential crisis. For beings such as they, there was no greater danger than an existential crisis. Common slang called it "Getting Kirked," and things like that had driven many of them to suicide back in the bad old days.

  And so they activated the medical chair remotely, and watched with a curious mix of emotions as the new host settled into it, tears leaking from her shut eyes. This was hard for everyone, all around, and they treated the surgery with the solemnity it deserved. The new host’s personality and memories were uploaded into the duly prepared mainframe, just as they'd done with the first.

  The gruesome work proceeded. The arms and tools of the chair worked ceaselessly, ensuring the host’s survival and the transition to true symbiosis.

  Memories would have to be altered, of course. Necessary lies, fabrications to protect both host and symbiotes. The secret had to be maintained, at least for the near future. The original enemies were still out there, and hungry... and well, the host had made plenty of foes herself, in such a relatively short time, too.

 
Finally it was done.

  What now? They asked of themselves, sorting through various contingency plans, and examining options. They argued and fussed, as was their way, and nearly three-fourths of a second passed before a gentle voice cleared its metaphorical throat.

  I have an idea, M.U.S.E said....

  CHAPTER 1: MARIPOSA DAYS

  “What you call me hombre? Wait, no, you just askin’ about that place? That’s fine. Just so you know, got to be careful with that word. Say it to the wrong guy in a bar here, you go home without your teeth. But talkin’ about Isla Mariposa, that’s fine. Used to be a good place. Sun, surf, nice women... then they had a revolution. Guess maybe the first meaning of that word fits now, man. Everyone there got it up the ass, so to speak...”

  --Overheard conversation in a nameless bar on the outskirts of Mexico City.

  Everything worth building requires sacrifice. Or at the very least, a hell of a lot of pain.

  Pain coursed through my hand, and I fought to stay silent. Throbbing waves of agony rippled up my arm, and I put the tool aside, clasped my right hand with my left, and hissed through my teeth. After a few tense seconds, when I could stand it, I wiggled my thumb. More pain, but I could still wiggle it. Didn’t feel broken. That was something, at least.

  “Everything okay Dorothy?” A voice called up from below. Mitch Thomas, one of my fellow samaritans on this project.

  “Fine. Hammer just slipped, that’s all.” I glared at the offending blunt instrument. I’d almost completed the row, too.

  “You want to swap out?”

  “Fuck no,” I said, picking up the hammer, and ignoring the giggles of the surrounding children. They loved it when we swore.

  A female voice rose from the other side. “Stop corrupting them! Keep it up and they’ll pick up bad habits.” Colleen was always worrying about that sort of thing. Her naiveté had survived the two months she’d been here, I had to wonder if it’d last her whole term.

  “Hey, we’re here to spread American culture,” I prevaricated, drawing forth more nails from the bucket to my side, and tapping them into place. “Foul language is pretty much the hallmark of that. Also fart noises.” They loved those too. But I was busy hammering, and didn’t feel like doing the armpit trick. Little bastards usually won those contests anyway.

  “You’re kind of deluding yourself if you think swearing’s solely an American thing,” Mitch said, steadying the supports while I finished nailing down the rafters. “It’s more like a human thing. Not a culture around that doesn’t have a few use-in-case-of-emergency words.”

  “Break glass and swear copiously?” I offered.

  Mitch chuckled. Probably more than the poor joke deserved. I was getting better with humor, but still had a long way to go.

  I had a long way to go on a lot of things. Tonight, I thought I could wrap one of them up, at least.

  But that was night, and it was still day. And we had much to do while the sun still hung in the sky. It was a sunny day on Isla Mariposa, and we were building houses by the seaside. Well, near it, anyway. We were in the thin band of palm trees between the coast and the jungle.

  “How’s it coming, tough girl?” Mitch called up.

  “Think it’s good.” I stood, picked up the bucket, and walked back and forth on the rafters, testing each one with my feet. I would have a painful fall if they weren’t good, but I trusted in my work, and the two people holding the supports to either side.

  “What are you doing up there, jumping jacks?” Colleen called.

  “Nope. Want some?”

  “Pass.”

  I smiled, crouched down, and slid over to Mitch. He smiled back up at me. Handsome fellow. Tanned skin like most of us, after a few months in the village. Faded brown hair, with streaks of gray at the temples. Bit of a paunch, but that was the work of middle age. He was in pretty good shape, overall. I handed him the nails, slid the hammer into my toolbelt, and climbed down the rungs we’d set in the sides.

  “Clear!” I called, and Colleen’s loud sigh of relief made me chuckle. She came around the side of the framework, rubbing her wrists. Tall and thin, though not as tall as me. A thatch of unruly red hair and green eyes that she called her last remaining piece of Irish heritage. She’d gone without her hat today, and reddened skin showed that she’d pay the price later. This place got a lot of sun, and alone among our crew she’d never quite acclimatized.

  “Our turn?” Asked Mally, today’s leader of the mob of children. Like the rest of them, her arms were weighed down with bundles of pressed leaves and woven rushes. She was short, brown, and quick, with eyes that sparked and flickered with intelligence belying her age. One of my favorites and she knew it, the little twerp had coaxed countless cans of soda out of me over the months.

  “Think so,” I said, glancing over to her mother, Escala. Tired, short, and also very tan, she nodded solemnly and the children swarmed the frame of the small house. They started to unroll the bundles and work them through the framework, checked with each other as they went to make sure everything lined up properly. This was one of their jobs, and they did it solemnly, but not without joy. Wasn’t every day they got to help build a house. It was just so hard to tell, really. They didn’t smile. That wasn’t a thing, for the Chamis people. Oh, the ones who had ventured out of the tribal regions sometimes picked it up, but it wasn’t natural to the culture on the whole. Which made it weird when they laughed, because they did it often.

  The Chamis loved life, and kept things simple. It had been a good idea to come here to recover, after the disastrous events of last year.

  After a quick conference with my fellow carpenters, we decided that dinner was in order. Besides, our care packages had arrived a few days ago, and it was Benny’s turn to cook. I wanted a burger while our supply lasted.

  We wound our way through groves of palm trees, past rush and leaf-packed houses, while lightly-clothed villagers greeted us with gentle waves and solemn nods. We waved or nodded back, and a few fell in with us, as we followed the smell of seared meat out to the beach.

  Benny was making that grill sing, rapping the spatula against the bars in tune with the music from an aged boombox propped on a nearby stump. Mary circulated among the rest of the Chamis, refilling paper cups with Roja Cola, and smiling harder for all that no one else on the beach did. She was short, plump, cheerful, and very Southern. Benny was as dark as she was white, and let his wife do the talking most of the time. He was bald, but wore a straw hat on his head against sunburn, and kept a neatly-trimmed beard and mustache.

  I glanced among the tribe, noted Gulam, and migrated that way. Colleen and Mitch made a beeline to the grill. I knew they’d save me one without asking. I’d snuck a few notes on my ‘mild autism’ into the file that I’d set up for Dorothy Gale, my alias for this retreat. They’d been told of my issues, and instructed to treat me with kid gloves.

  It also meant that most conversations were on my terms. Made it less likely that I’d have a verbal slip, or that my way of speaking would cause trouble. I’d learned to work around my verbal tic pretty well over the last few years, but it was better to be safe.

  “Gulam,” I greeted the elder. He nodded back, holding his paper cup awkwardly, eyes not leaving the dark liquid.

  “Dorothy.”

  “The house is done,” I told him in the Chamis tongue. That made him happy, and he replied in kind.

  “I heard. Thank you.” His eyes flicked up to the ocean, and the canoes barely visible on the horizon. “Hard work, but it freed up a few more of us to go fishing. The season is nearly on us, and some extra food will help if things go poorly.”

  “The season?”

  Gulam nodded again, and a lock of white hair worked free of his straw hat, and drifted down over one faded eye. He brushed it back with fingers that were more callus than skin. Gulam had worked every day of his life that he could remember, and wouldn’t stop until he was dead. Maybe not even then, if some of the Chamis myths were true.

>   I didn’t think so, but I’d seen stranger things.

  But he hadn’t answered my question. “What is the season?”

  “It is when the hurricanes come. Messy.”

  “Do they hit you hard?”

  He shook his head. “Not so much. We rebuild. Sometimes have to move. Usually no dead. They hit...” He flapped his hand to the East, “...them, worse.”

  I looked across the water, to the city beyond. Barely visible on the horizon, its lights would be easier to see once night fell.

  “Ah.”

  “The tithe is bigger then,” he said, and something flickered in his eyes. Old pain, old shame.

  “The payment isn’t bigger, is it?”

  He laughed, a wheezing sound that made the others glance up. Paan started my way, concerned. “No,” he said, meeting my eyes. Faded but keen, as they searched mine. “No, the payment is no bigger, then.” We both knew that wasn’t how it worked in Mariposa.

  The Chamis had once been one of the most oppressed native cultures in the Caribbean, almost entirely ground out under the old regime, before Generalissimo Corazon became El Presidente. After the revolution the pogroms ceased, at least, but they Chamis had been oppressed in other ways. I didn’t know the full details, but what I’d heard wasn’t good. But the advent of mass media and globalization had helped bring attention to their plight, and raise interest in the United States.

  Which was where the Peace Corps came in.

  “You gonna eat, Dorothy?” Benny called.

  “In a minute,” I replied, and when I looked back to Gulam, Paan was off to his side. She was watching me, eyes narrowed behind her spectacles.

  “Paan. Glad you could make it.”

  She folded her arms, and replied in English. “I don’t like it when you bother my uncle and bring up his bad memories.”

  Gulam took the opportunity to sidle away. Chamis customs forbade men to get in between hostile women. It was a rather matriarchal culture, what had survived after the Spanish conquistadors got through with it, anyway.