by Jay Allan
“T’arza appears to have chosen well, for the human Taylor has proven to be a highly effective leader.” The First of the Council stood at the head of the great table, his robe reflecting the rainbow of colors emanating from the luminescent crystals on the ceiling 100 meters above. The First was old, ancient even by the standards of the long-lived Tegeri. He spread his hands in the symbol for appreciation and recognition of achievement.
T’arza stood at his place around the table, as befitted the leader of a great house. He bowed his head in response to the First’s words and gestures. “My thanks to you, Honored First. I am pleased that Taylor has achieved success to date.” He paused, a troubled look on his face.
“Please, T’arza, share your thoughts in full with the Council.” The First spread his hands as he spoke. A gesture of security, an invitation to speak at will without fear of condemnation. “You may share freely.”
“I am concerned, Honorable First.” He glanced around the table, locking eyes briefly with the members of the other ruling houses in turn. “We have placed an immeasurable burden on one individual and assigned to him a seemingly hopeless task.”
Tegeri society was loosely constructed, as befitted a race that valued personal freedom above all things. The old families constituted the Council, as they had since the dawn of civilization, but they met rarely, and usually only in times of crisis. Indeed, before the war with the humans began, there had been over a hundred revolutions of the sun without a gathering. The Tegeri had few laws and little tolerance for burdensome government. Freedom was sacred to the Tegeri, and it was restricted only when absolutely necessary to maintain a functioning society. As a race, they lacked the drive to impose their will on others, and they shared a common work ethic. The leadership of a house was considered a burden one was obligated to bear, not an opportunity to accrue personal power.
The First bowed his head slowly, an acknowledgement that he recognized the merit of T’arza’s concerns. “Indeed, we have placed a great burden on Taylor. We did not, as you know, do so without considerable thought. Yet for all this body’s long deliberations, we were unable to divine an alternate plan.”
T’arza bowed his own head, a recognition of the truth in the First’s words, but his expression was still unsettled. “It is truth, Honorable First. Yet I wonder if perhaps we should assist him more directly. There are New Ones on many of the worlds along Taylor’s path.” The New Ones were the manufactured entities the humans called Machines. They’d been created by the Tegeri, first to replace their slowly dying race, but then to face the human armies invading the Portal worlds. “Perhaps they should aid Taylor’s forces instead of withdrawing and allowing the human armies to fight each other.” T’arza’s voice was slow, halting. He knew his words were unwise, spoken without the requisite forethought. But he felt responsible for Taylor, and he couldn’t think of another way to aid the human.
“Indeed, T’arza, we have discussed this at great length in prior sessions.” The First’s voice was filled with compassion. “You are deeply honorable, and it is no surprise you feel the Kzarn’ta, the blood debt, to the human, Taylor. Yet it is not by lack of willingness that you do not aid him further, but simply because there is naught that you can do.”
T’arza had enticed Taylor to pursue his current quest. For a Tegeri, such an act created a reciprocal responsibility. Kzarn’ta was a Tegeri concept, a combination of guilt and familial duty. It dishonored T’arza to convince Taylor to fight a war and then to withhold aid in that conflict.
“Your feelings are pure and do honor to your house, T’arza,” the First continued, “but you bear this responsibility in error. We withhold support not from a lack of will, but because such aid would hinder rather than aid Taylor’s efforts.” His ancient eyes met T’arza’s. “All of the humans on Earth believe we murdered their colonists, that we massacred even the young as they tried to flee. They have been at war with us for 70 revolutions of the sun.” Tegeri years were shorter than those on Earth, and the 45 Earth years of conflict had been almost three-quarters of a century on the Tegeri calendar. “Taylor’s success will require him to persuade many of his fellow humans to join his cause. Were he seen as our ally, that task would become immeasurably more difficult.” He paused, a look of distaste on his face. “We are all aware of the propaganda the human government has employed against us. Most of the population of Earth views us as monsters, murderers who slaughtered helpless colonists.” There was revulsion in the First’s voice, but wisdom as well.
T’arza crossed his arms, placing his open hands upon his chest, the Tegeri symbol for agreement. “You speak truth, Honorable First.” He paused for a moment then added, “Nevertheless, I wish there was more we could do to aid Taylor.”
“He has the amulet,” the First replied, “and he begins to understand its true power. Do not underestimate the value of that you have already given him.”
T’arza crossed his arms again. “Yes, Honorable First. You are wise. Indeed, he has quickly discovered many of the amulet’s capabilities.” Taylor had used the device to project the true images of the massacres on the early human colonies. It had been UN forces and not the Machines who destroyed the settlements, an act that profoundly confused the Tegeri at first. The very idea of killing innocents to assist in a power struggle was an alien concept to them. No Tegeri would ever formulate such a plan and, if one did, he would be driven by shame to take his own life in atonement. The two races were genetically similar, but human psychology was vastly different than Tegeri.
“Taylor has discovered the communications capability of the device, and he has used it to great effect.” The First nodded slowly. “Indeed, he has achieved considerable success to this point, and the knowledge we provided him of the Portal network will be invaluable as well.”
“You speak truth, Honorable First.” T’arza bowed his head.
“Yet you are still troubled, T’arza. Are you not?”
T’arza hesitated, looking back at the First but saying nothing.
“I bid you to speak your mind at full.” The First fixed T’arza in his gaze. “For your word carries great weight on this Council.”
“Yes, Honorable First. I concur with the logic of what you have said, yet I find myself conflicted.” T’arza paused, the discomfort obvious on his face. “Taylor is indeed a highly capable human but, even if he fights his way back to Earth, how can he possibly defeat the combined resources of an entire world?”
“He cannot.” The First spoke slowly, deliberately. “We do not trust in his victory solely by force of arms.” He gazed at T’arza with ancient, watery eyes. “Indeed, we place our trust not only in Taylor, but in all the humans. For it is in their race as a whole that our only hope lies. Taylor’s crusade can succeed only if the people of Earth rise up and support him – and overthrow their sadistic and repressive government.” The First paused, and T’arza could see the uncertainty in his eyes.
“Taylor must succeed, and we must have faith that he will. For most of a century we have fought the humans. We have long realized their dysfunctional leadership was to blame for the war and not some inherent evil in their souls. I cannot understand the methods by which the humans select their leaders or the lack of wisdom they appear to employ in the process. I have often wondered if we do not share the blame for this tendency, for we visited them centuries ago and, while we sought only to aid them in developing their civilization, we allowed them to view us as gods. We did no more than the Ancients did with us, yet perhaps the humans were more susceptible to blind obedience and unquestioning worship. I fear we may have contributed to infantilizing their understanding of leadership.”
The First turned to look around the table, gazing for an instant at each of the assembled Elders. Finally his eyes returned to T’arza, and he spoke softly, a deep sadness in his voice. “We have fought this pointless and wasteful conflict for decades, meeting the human armies with weaponry similar to their own. We have held back from deploying our greater
technology and allowed the New Ones to suffer thousands dead in battles against an enemy we could have long ago destroyed.” The First’s voice changed, his grief for those lost in the war obvious in his tone. “Such is the path we have chosen. Eradicating the humans, destroying their race would be a moral crime unequalled in our history…and it would doom us to destruction as well, for we need our brother race to face what is coming.” The First spoke slowly and with great emotion, even foreboding.
“For the Darkness is returning. The Seers have felt its approach, and there is no doubt. We have little hope to defeat this evil, that which destroyed the Ancients, alone. We must have the humans as allies. For if we do not stand together to face what is coming, our races will surely die…and naught but the unburied dead shall remain on our silent, windswept worlds.
Chapter 5
Classified Secretariat Directive:
To: Chief Surgeon, Supersoldier Program
From: Anton Samovich, Secretary of Internal Security
You are hereby authorized and instructed to implement the proposed frontal lobe interdiction procedures set forth on the attached schedules on all Black Corps trainees prior to deployment. As we have suffered considerable control problems with the previous group of modified soldiers on Erastus, it has been deemed necessary to supplement standard conditioning with these surgical procedures. We consider it of crucial importance to eliminate the capacity of the enhanced soldiers to exercise free will and to ensure their unquestioned obedience to orders. The potential long term effects to the candidates have been reviewed and determined to be insufficient cause to cancel the procedures, particularly as current plans call for the survivors of the strike force to be euthanized upon completion of the mission. The Secretariat has voted unanimously to approve this resolution.
Samovich stood atop the raised platform, watching the recruits moving swiftly across the training field. No, he thought, not recruits, certainly not anymore, if that label had ever been accurate. The Black Corps began mostly with veterans, and now they were surgically modified and fully trained to fight with their implants and exos. The soldiers marching before him were the ultimate warriors, ready in every way to face Taylor’s forces.
The Supersoldier reboot had gone well, better even than he’d expected. He’d been observing all morning, watching the Black Corps troopers put through their paces for his benefit. The modified warriors could run 40kph, at least for short bursts, and their artificial eyes could see three times as far as a normal human’s. They had better stamina than an unmodified soldier, and twice the strength. Each of them was superior to a normal man in every aspect.
There was more to the soldiers of the Black Corps, Samovich knew, than their enhanced physical capabilities. Their neural implants would allow them to remember everything they saw with complete recall, and that knowledge would always be there, pushed into their conscious mind, even when they were scared or tired or overwhelmed. They would never forget any aspect of a battle plan; they would remember every centimeter of terrain they saw, recall every bit of cover wherever they passed.
Samovich had managed to pull over 15,000 veterans from the various planetary armies, replacing them with a flood of new recruits. Overall, the whole thing had worked fairly well. There’d been some minor setbacks, but mostly the lines were holding everywhere. Casualties were off the charts, especially for the newbs being pushed through the system in larger numbers, but Samovich considered that a perfectly acceptable cost. If producing his veteran cadre cost an extra 50,000 casualties among the recruits, so be it.
The other 5,000 candidates for the program were the pick of the conscripts. Samovich would have preferred to have all veterans, but he’d bled the line commands as much as he dared, and he still had a shortfall. The only other option was delaying the deployment of the Supersoldiers, and that was out of the question. Taylor was rampaging from planet to planet, his army an unstoppable force, utterly destroying every UN contingent they met. Wherever Taylor and his people marched, the Tegeri and their Machine soldiers pulled back, allowing them to pass freely. Any place humans were battling each other, the aliens stepped aside and let the two Earth forces fight it out.
Samovich was counting on his new Supersoldiers to wipe out Taylor’s army. They were equals, products of the same set of enhancement procedures. But Samovich had twice as many of them. He’d have had three times as many, or even four, if it had been remotely feasible. But producing even 20,000 enhanced warriors in such a short time had almost stripped the planetary forces of veteran cadre and bankrupted UNGov. Twice as many would have to do.
A victory would restore the situation on the frontier, allowing the UN planetary armies to continue their respective conquest and pacification campaigns. But there was more to consider than just the tactical situation. For Samovich, everything hung on the outcome of the battle against Taylor. Victory would provide him almost irresistible momentum toward the Secretary-General’s Seat when Esteban finally died. Failure would, even more definitively, result in his complete political destruction, and probably his death at the hands of an ascendant Chang Li. No, there was nothing more important than destroying Taylor.
Samovich had taken on considerable additional responsibility, handling every aspect of the Supersoldier program himself. It was a step out of bounds for him. The off-world military was Anan Keita’s portfolio, not his. But the wily Russian wasn’t about to trust his fate to Keita’s handling of things. He’d micromanaged every aspect of the training program himself, turning his fellow-Secretary and ally into a rubber stamp.
A man in a black combat uniform, a modified soldier with exos fully deployed, came running toward the platform, interrupting Samovich’s thoughts. He looked up and said, “Would you like me to parade the troops again, Mr. Secretary?” He looked like a grizzled veteran who could blast the skin off a recruit with just his voice, but when he spoke to Samovich, his tone was downright obsequious.
“No, Colonel. I have seen enough.” He stepped up to the rail and looked down at the officer. “When will they be ready to ship out?”
“Anytime you are want, sir. They are fully operational.”
Samovich smiled. “Very well, Colonel. You will have your orders shortly.” Very shortly indeed, he thought. Just as soon as we know where Taylor and his rebels are planning to hit next.
* * * * *
Samovich leaned back in his chair, twisting his neck, trying without success to get comfortable. He felt the fatigue in his entire body, and he struggled with the effort to stay focused while his mind and body screamed for sleep. Supervising the Supersoldier program was a full time job, even more than that. But he also had his own portfolio, internal security. Keeping an entire world pacified and under constant surveillance was not easy, and it was proving more difficult than usual in recent months, requiring a greater amount of his attention than it ever had before.
UNGov had clamped down hard on all information regarding the rebellion on Erastus, but it was almost impossible to keep something completely secret. UNGov had sent 50,000 security troops through the Portal with orders to destroy Taylor and his rebels. Not one returned. The troops who were lost weren’t lifetime conscripts, they were professional UNGov security forces. They had friends and families and, despite the best efforts of the propaganda machine, their disappearances had gone largely unexplained. It was easy enough to crack down on a few overzealous family members who became too aggressive in their quest for answers, but that did little to change the fact that there was a lot of simmering anger out there.
The increased conscriptions were also causing discontent. The normal program of disguising the draft by recruiting petty criminals and tax delinquents was entirely incapable of raising the numbers of troops Samovich needed to replace the veterans he was pulling out of the line units. Rookies had ten times the casualty rates of veterans on some worlds, and Samovich found himself replacing the replacements at an alarming rate. It had taken well over 100,000 raw trainees to take the place of his
15,000 veterans, and raising those numbers so quickly had forced UNGov to drop its amnesty pretenses and simply conscript openly – and forcibly - from the lower classes.
He tried to get ahead of any problems, determined to stamp out unrest before it could spread. He’d ramped up the issuance of warrants for reeducation, hoping to instill more fear in the population and discourage any unhealthy interest in what was going on. Reeducation was promoted as a government service, an effort to treat dangerously psychopathic citizens before they could damage the greater good. Samovich knew the truth, of course. The facilities returned a few heavily conditioned inmates back to their former lives to maintain the official image but, for the most part, they were death camps, designed to quietly eliminate the most problematic citizens before they had a chance to cause any real trouble.
His efforts had so far prevented any major civil disobedience, but he knew there was a pressure building, and that portended future trouble. Brutality could crush imminent rebellion, but it was a tool that demanded selective use. In the long run, too much of it upset the delicate balance that had ensured UNGov’s power for so long. Samovich’s department worked to instill fear, without inflicting too much pain. A man, even a craven one, backed against a wall facing his own imminent death will fight to survive.
The secret to effective sustainable oppression was leaving the citizens just enough that they feared losing it. Push them too hard, and they will feel they have nothing to lose. A population that reaches that point becomes very dangerous. The oppression becomes counter-productive, as each brutal crackdown only causes the rebellion to spread. The mob becomes an animal, fearless, violent, deadly.
Earth’s population was disarmed, at least as much as UNGov had been able to enforce, but hundreds of millions of people were hard to control, even when they were throwing bottles and your forces had automatic weapons. Samovich knew his enforcers could crush scattered riots, even localized rebellions, but he also realized there was a tipping point when the security forces would be too few to deal with the situation. He was determined to make sure that never came to pass.
