by Jay Allan
His thoughts raced. For four decades he had detested UNGov, hated the self-appointed rulers of the world. He despised them for killing freedom, for the billions who lived in squalor, for the vast numbers who disappeared in the night, never to return. But now he realized things were even worse than he’d dared to believe.
“Are you saying we fought the Tegeri for forty years for no reason? That they were never a threat?” Carson Jones had remained silent for a long time, but now he couldn’t hold it back any longer. “That all of this was a fraud. That mankind threw away its freedom over a fucking lie…and sent thousands of its soldiers to die for nothing?”
Charles nodded grimly. “Yes…I’m afraid that is what I’m saying. And my brethren were not only forced to go to war—we killed thousands of the Machines, all the while feeding on a false moral superiority. We saw ourselves as the defenders of our world, when in reality we were just murderers, unwitting tools in a terrible fraud.” He paused for an instant, continuing with his voice halting, emotional. “I killed dozens of Machines. I fired at them while they were retreating. I shot them dead in front of me. And now I know they weren’t the monsters I thought they were. I was the monster. Even our name for them is misleading. They were living beings…they lived and died just as we do.”
Wickes looked at the AOL captain, his sympathy clear in his eyes. He was a warrior too, and he related to Charles in a way the others couldn’t. Stan Wickes had suffered in his life…wounds, deprivation, harassment from UNGov. But when he’d gone to war, he’d known the reasons. He’d followed his nation’s flag, fought to preserve what little freedom had remained on Earth. He suspected his view was romanticized a bit, that the government that had sent him across the world into battle had been corrupt and deceitful as well. But nothing like the monstrous abomination that replaced it.
He tried to imagine how it would feel to find that nothing he believed was true, that all he’d fought for was a lie. That his motivations had been all wrong, that those he battled against had been in the right, and he and his comrades the aggressors. The murderers.
He looked at his Resistance comrades. “This is all shocking, I know…all that Captain Charles has told us.” he said softly. “No less to me than to any of you.” He paused. “But, I ask you, should it be? What did you think of UNGov yesterday? Of their totalitarianism, of the luxury they enjoy while people die in the streets, or in the death camps? Would you have imagined them incapable of something like this?” He stopped and looked around the room, glancing briefly toward Charles before turning back to his own people.
“What troubles me the most is my own gullibility. It is easy to condemn those who ran into UNGov’s embrace four decades ago, who gave away their freedom, who reacted with fear of the bloodthirsty aliens they were told about with shockingly little evidence. Yet, I have detested our political masters for all that time, plotted and planned in the darkness, seeking to overthrow them. I reckoned myself wiser, stronger, more dedicated to liberty. Yet never have I questioned the essential beliefs about the war. Not once did it occur to me that the Tegeri had come to us in friendship and not as enemies.”
“But that is what happened,” Charles said softly, getting up and walking toward Wickes as he did. “And that is why we are here. That is why I have followed General Taylor across half a dozen Portals and back to Earth. We are here to right this wrong. To destroy UNGov.” Charles paused for a moment, looking around the room at the rebels. Finally, his gaze settled on Wickes. “My team is in New York because we all lived here before we were drafted. In the city, and in the communities surrounding it. UNGov has perpetrated a monstrous lie, told the world that we murdered our comrades, slaughtered thousands of fellow soldiers. Our forces have been attacked by enraged civilians, and everywhere on Earth people have been told we are monsters, no less than the Tegeri themselves.”
Charles voice was becoming louder, his anger clearer with every word. “We have come to free Earth, but UNGov’s lies have made us hated, despised…they have branded us traitors to our own species. Those lies cannot be allowed to stand. We must find our old friends, our families. We are here to convince them we are not the murderers the government has branded us, and to begin to combat this terrible fraud, one person at a time if need be. It may be slow, it may take years…but the truth must be known.” He looked right at Wickes. “Will you help us?”
Wickes stood up, a smile creeping onto his face. He looked around the room, and as he turned toward each of his comrades they nodded and the same grin came over their faces. Then he took a step forward and put his hand on Charles’ shoulder. “Yes, Captain Charles,” he said. “We will help you.” He paused, looking back toward the others. “And I think I have an idea how to do a damned sight better than one person at a time.”
Chapter 20
From the Office of the Secretary-General:
By ORDER of Anton Samovich, Secretary-General, UNGov, General Jinto Akawa is hereby removed from command of UNGov forces and stripped of all military rank. Ex-General Akawa is to be arrested immediately and delivered to Inquisitor Command in Geneva for interrogation and subsequent disposition for high treason.
MacArthur leaned against the tree, trying to catch his breath. His leg wasn’t just broken. It was crushed. He’d been trying to brace it however he could with sticks and strips of cloth from his uniform, but all he’d managed to accomplish so far was tying twigs to his mangled leg.
The crash had been a hard one. The crew had all died on impact, all except for Falk and himself. But the junior gunner didn’t last more than a couple hours before trauma and blood loss killed him. Now, MacArthur was alone.
He reached down to the sack at his side, pulling out one of the small injectors. He hadn’t managed to take much with him from wreck, just the medkit, a pistol with two reloads, a survival knife, and a sustenance pack. That meant he had six shots each of painkiller and antibiotic cocktail, three days’ rations, and two liters of water…and a gun with thirty shots. That was all he had to make it back at least forty klicks through enemy-held territory. That assumed he managed to rig something around his leg that allowed him to walk, or at least hobble around. And that wasn’t looking very likely right now.
He jabbed the injector into his thigh, closing his eyes and sighing as the painkiller spread through his bloodstream. It didn’t kill the pain, not by a longshot, but it did dull it to the point where it was bearable. He knew he should be going slower with the shots. He only had a few more, and he could already feel the semi-overdose dulling his senses. But the pain was unbearable otherwise.
He didn’t know what he would do when the shots ran out. Even if he managed to create a workable splint, he couldn’t imagine trying to walk without the painkillers. The slightest movement of his leg caused him agony, and that was just lying against the tree.
His eyes dropped down to the pistol on the ground next to him. He hadn’t completely given up hope about getting back, but if he got there, he knew it was an option. He wanted to survive, to return to his comrades. But if the choice was hopeless agony—or capture by UNGov—he knew what he would do.
Okay, he thought. Two doses of painkiller in me…if I can’t do this now, I’ll never be able to…
He grabbed a fallen branch from the tree and started breaking it into sections of equal length. Then he laid them off to his side and took a deep breath.
He pulled himself back, sitting up straighter against the tree, trying to hold in the yell of pain the best he could. He paused, eyes closed, breathing hard. The pain was bad, even with the drugs. He knew he had to stabilize his leg somehow…if he was going to have any chance of going anywhere.
He leaned forward and put two of the sticks against his leg, gritting his teeth against the pain as he grabbed a strip of cloth and slipped it around. Then he stopped, waiting for the agony to die down before he grabbed another two sticks and repeated the effort.
* * *
Akawa stood alongside the battered, shell-marked road, watch
ing his troops move by.
What’s left of them, he thought miserably. He’d always been a very controlled person, able to hide his emotions carefully. But now his rage threatened to burst out. He’d accepted the top command, and he’d developed a plan he still believed could have worked. But then he’d been overridden by his political master, forced to fight before he was ready.
He’d intended to fall back slowly, while detaching as many divisions as he could spare to the flanks of the enemy’s line of advance. Even with incompetents like General Carp in command, eventually numbers would have told. He didn’t kid himself that he’d have been able to capture the Portal or completely cut Taylor’s army off…but he was sure he could have compelled the rebel leader to abandon his advance and fall back to secure his communications. And that would have been the beginning of the end.
He’d tried to explain that to the Secretary-General, but Samovich hadn’t listened. All he could see was Taylor and his veterans heading straight for him…and he’d demanded a decisive battle to destroy the invaders immediately. Akawa had argued, as much as one dared with a terrified dictator, but in the end he’d given in. He’d done his best—and for a few days it looked like his people might just manage it—but when the end came, it came quickly.
Taylor’s people managed to get around the flanks, despite how thinly spread they were on the enormous front, and Akawa’s army collapsed, its rookie units throwing down their arms en masse or surrendering to the advancing enemy. In a matter of hours his forces still in the field had shrunken to fewer than fifty thousand, and the victorious and vengeful soldiers of the AOL were moving relentlessly forward.
How does he inspire his soldiers so? How does he get them to make such superhuman efforts? To sacrifice themselves the way they do?
Akawa had seen too many instances of heroism by Taylor’s soldiers to explain in any other way…his men were true believers. And they weren’t the traitors and murderers UNGov had branded them as. Akawa had never been a believer of UN propaganda, but now he began to wonder at the depth of the government’s dishonesty. Despite his measured cynicism, Akawa had long been a creature of duty, but now he wondered…do Taylor and his people have a legitimate grievance? Are they traitors? Or is their rebellion justified?
He shook his head. None of that mattered now. He only had one duty…and that was to see to his soldiers, do all he could for them in however much time he had left. The Inquisitors were on the way, almost certainly. He had no actual indication that they were coming, but he knew enough about UNGov to be sure he wouldn’t. He had failed…failed spectacularly, and he knew he had almost no hope of stopping the enemy before they reached Geneva. Anton Samovich was not a forgiving man under the best of circumstances…and now he was scared, probably on the verge of panic.
It is strange, he thought…staring at one’s imminent death. Not like a soldier on the field, in the heat of combat, but just waiting, working, knowing that later today, tomorrow, the next day, men would come and kill him.
If I’m lucky.
There were many ways to die, and Akawa had no desire to experience the worst the UNGov Inquisitor Corps could manage. The thought of suicide passed through his mind. Quick, painless. Indeed, it was almost certainly what one of his ancient ancestors would have done. Though he had to acknowledge it was fear of torture rather than some version of modern samurai honor that drove the thought for him.
Or I could just leave, walk off and not return. I could head toward Taylor’s army. At least I might discover the truth…
“No,” he said softly to himself. He looked again at the soldiers still in the steadily moving column. They had fought a terrible battle, one they’d been ill-prepared to handle. They had followed his orders, fought hard, and now they clung to the colors, these few good men, despite the disintegration of the rest of the army.
How can I leave them, repay their steadfastness with abandonment?
He knew their reward would be bitter, most likely death in some hopeless stand before Geneva. But he owed them to stay with them, to do whatever he could to save even a few. No matter what.
* * *
Taylor stood in the open area, barely a few meters from where Bear had been shot. His friend’s body had been taken away, carried back to the field hospital as Taylor had ordered. He knew there was little sense to the urgent order he’d given…there was nothing anyone could do. But he couldn’t leave his friend lying in the dirt. He wouldn’t.
His aides had begged him to move, to take cover in the headquarters shelter, in case another sniper had managed to get within range. But he’d chased them away with barely restrained rage, screaming at them to get more troops, to send them out into the woods around HQ. To find the man who killed Bear. Whatever it took.
He looked down at his uniform, still wet and sticky with his friend’s blood. He felt like he was surrounded, the walls on all sides closing in on him. He remembered the rage he’d felt when T’arza told him what UNGov had done…the instant he’d realized the alien was telling him the truth. The rage…and the determination. Taylor left T’arza that day determined to do whatever it took to destroy UNGov. His anger fueled his drive, and he was alert, aware, his energy almost limitless.
Now he fought the urge to slip down to the ground, to sit in the center of his headquarters and not move. Every action seemed like a tremendous effort, and all he wanted was to be left alone, to empty his mind. He’d thought war against the Tegeri had been hell, but the last four years had been worse. Again and again, he’d faced armies, humans like his people, men who should have been allies and not enemies…all save for UNGov’s lies. But he’d killed them all the same, in the thousands. And thousands of his own soldiers died in the wars too. It was a river of blood.
He’d expected nothing less, but it was one thing to set forth on a long quest, swearing victory or death…and another to enduring the cost, the endless pressure and pain. The shadowy dead faces of soldiers, of friends, staring back from his nightmares. Taylor knew he was close, that his forces stood at the verge of final victory. But he didn’t know if he had the strength to continue.
He tried to center his thoughts, focus on the next stage of the campaign. But the strength was gone, and there was nothing left but sadness and fatigue.
“General Taylor…sir?”
He heard the sound, calling to him, pulling him back from the dark road in his mind.
“General?”
Taylor turned and looked at the officer calling to him. The man stood in front of half a dozen soldiers. They were holding a prisoner.
“Yes…Phillips…what is it?” Taylor’s mind was clearing, and his neural implants had fed him the captain’s name.
“Sir, we have him. The sniper who killed General Samuels.”
Taylor felt the rush of adrenalin through his body. The fatigue was gone in an instant, replaced by focused rage. He stared at the captive. It was obvious his troops had not been gentle. The man’s lip was cut, and his face swollen. There was a nasty gash down one side of his face, and he had a gunshot wound in the arm, one that was still bleeding badly.
He stood almost at attention and glared at the prisoner. He’d expected someone in civilian clothes or a UNGov uniform. But the captive wore the uniform of the AOL. “Are you sure, Captain?”
“Yes, sir!” Phillips replied. We found a sniper’s rifle near him. One round had been fired, and it was a match for…for the bullet that killed General Samuels, sir.”
The captain’s voice cracked as he mentioned Samuels, and then he paused for a few seconds. Bear had been one of the most popular officers in the army. “We scanned the weapon, sir, and matched DNA residue to the prisoner, sir. He’s the one.” A short pause then: “We got his name out of him, sir. Mitchell Klein.”
Taylor felt nauseous. One of his own had tried to kill him. Had killed Bear. He’d known there were UNGov agents in his army, men who’d been sent to spy on the planetary forces. He’d weeded out most of them, but he’d never tried
to fool himself into thinking he’d found them all. Now, he suspected, here was one of them, one who had escaped his notice, with tragic consequences.
A coldness flowed through his body, a terrible resolve. He stared at the captive, watching as the miserable creature struggled to return his gaze. “Please,” the prisoner said, his voice choked with tears. “Please…”
“You want mercy?” Taylor’s voice was like ice. “Were you going to give me mercy? Did my friend, General Samuels, get mercy? You ask for what you were unwilling to give yourself. Having failed in what you had planned, now you would have me take pity on you? But you are nothing but a murderer, a traitor, another UNGov drone drunk on lust for power, and damned the cost to anyone else.”
Klein sobbed uncontrollably, his fear completely in charge of his actions. He made a weak attempt to wriggle free of the guards, but they held him like iron.
Taylor stood and stared for another moment, his gaze like death itself. What a miserable creature, he thought…and yet this excuse for a man killed Bear. The cost of war astounded him, though it had been his life for all of his adult years. Taylor had done many terrible things in the name of the quest, and while his resolve had always remained strong, he’d regretted some, and carried the guilt for them. But mistakes in war were one thing, and cold-blooded murder was another. Now, there wasn’t a shred of doubt in him, not a gram of pity. There was just cold vengeance.
“Crucify him.”
* * *
Akawa walked through the sparse woods, his four bodyguards positioned, two in front and two behind. He’d almost tried to slip out without them. He needed to be alone, to think about what to do…but he knew most of the army had already moved out. Four guards weren’t going to protect him from Taylor’s pursuing army, but they’d come in handy if he ran into a couple pickets or scouts.
He had spent his whole life trying to stay out of trouble, to attain a reasonable level of prosperity for his family while avoiding the vicious political rivalries that often made UNGov service dangerous. He’d managed to follow that strategy for a long time…right up until Anton Samovich ‘offered’ him the top command. It was something he hadn’t imagined, but he knew there was no way to refuse. Now things had gone exactly as he’d feared, and he knew it was just a matter of time before he progressed from Samovich’s protégé to his scapegoat.
