by Jay Allan
“How bad did we get hit, Blackie?”
Black was reaching around behind him, unlatching the heavy harness he was wearing. Part armor, part weapon, the exos amplified the already considerable combat power of an enhanced soldier. A private stood behind Black, holding the heavy rig while the short, muscular officer contorted his way out.
“I don’t know yet, Jake, but it was pretty bad. We lost a lot of good men today.” Black was pulling off the smaller parts of his exoskeleton and handing them to another aide. “We should have some hard data soon.” He paused. “The enemy took it worse, at least. Much worse.” Black had been up to the front line, and he’d seen the results of the carnage firsthand. “The field in front of the trenchline is covered with bodies.”
Taylor nodded, a somber look on his face. This was carnage like he’d never seen before, even in the hell of Erastus. He was beginning to realize the battle between his men and the UN Supersoldiers would be apocalyptic. The two armies would savage each other in a horrific fight to the death, and the winner would have nothing left but a few stunned and exhausted survivors.
He took a deep breath, but he didn’t say anything. He was sinking into dark thoughts, facing the prospect of his army being torn apart. And he had no idea how to prevent it.
Chapter 14
From the Secret Files of Raul Esteban:
As I write this, I know I am nearing my own death. It is a sobering when you finally realize the doctors have done everything possible, that your remaining time is measured in months, perhaps weeks. I don’t think a man can describe how this feels to another who is not experiencing it. Death is an adversary we all must face, and one we cannot defeat. Yet it is a stark reality when you know you can no longer delay it, that its victory is imminent.
My life has been an extraordinary one, and I have spent the last 40 years at the very seat of power in the world. I was born into a fragmented world, carved into nations based on ethnicity, on geography, on past wars. Nations that fought each other, competed economically. I was part of a movement that ended all of that and brought unity out of man’s chaos.
It is natural for me to ponder not only what I have achieved, but also the future and what it may bring after I am gone, to imagine what will become of the new order my allies and I forged so long ago. I am the last of the original Secretariat, and when I am dead, the reins of power shall pass fully to the next generation.
Our government has maintained order throughout the world for four decades; it has largely erased the vast differences in wealth between the citizens of the world. We have controlled harmful speech and dangerous, unsupervised freedom. The state we created is supreme. Men in every corner of the globe are subject to its laws and regulations, and those who would upset the system are tirelessly weeded out.
We have eradicated the foolish notions that allowed disruption and violence in the name of freedom. Freedom is a foolish dream, a philosopher’s construct, beyond the ability of the masses to appreciate. The people want food, security, physical safety…not amorphous concepts like freedom. Our government has given them what they craved and taken from them the responsibility that was beyond their capacity to understand and appreciate.
But can this government survive? Can it maintain its control over the people indefinitely? Or will it be dragged down by infighting and power struggles from within? Will it splinter, fragment again into competing and warring nations?
The greatest challenge we face is arrogance. There is a point in the development of any government where pride replaces judgment, when disputes over the inconsequential attain greater import than debates over vital affairs of state. There are always more aspirants craving power than positions for them to occupy.
It is a natural progression, and one we must make every effort to restrain. We must not only contain the harmful impulses of the population at large, but we must look to control the power struggles of those within the government. The battle for my Seat will be the first test, I fear. Will the Secretariat come together and peacefully select a successor? Or will the parties descend into bloodshed and destruction, striving against each other to grasp the highest power? My death will be the greatest test for this government, the most difficult obstacle for it to clear.
I like to think my work will last long after I am gone, but I’m not sure I believe it will. I will strive, at least, to see that this renegade Taylor and his traitors are destroyed before I die…for the danger they represent is real, and if they reach Earth in strength they can cause massive damage. UNGov is strong, but Taylor’s people represent an idea. And ideas are dangerous.
Oddly, Taylor, so great a danger, may also aid us. If Samovich is successful in defeating the rebel forces, he may achieve enough momentum to succeed me without a major struggle. A strong Secretary-General with broad support on the Secretariat can take UNGov boldly into the future. A long and bitter power struggle could destroy it.
“Inquisitor Vanderberg is hereby ordered to do whatever General Ralfieri commands.” Samovich was livid, his face red, his fists clenched. He still couldn’t believe the reports. His commanding general and the UN Inquisitor almost getting into a firefight in front of an entire battalion. And they did it in the middle of a major offensive, an attack that crumbled without Ralfieri’s close supervision. “Please assure Vanderberg that if another matter like this comes to my attention, I will feed his miserable carcass to the people he’s crushed under his boot for so long.”
Inquisitors were highly placed operatives, but the position required blunt brutality rather than heavy thinking. They had a tendency to become arrogant and inflexible, especially when they’d held the position for as long as Vanderberg had. Their job was to instill fear, and the individuals appointed as Inquisitors tended to be angry and sadistic by nature.
They were usually employed in situations where incorrect thought or outright defiance had to be rooted out from the population, but this was the first time Inquisitors had been dispatched to the war zones. Samovich made the decision in response to reports of increasing recruitment by Taylor from the planetary armies. He realized something had to be done to stem the flood of desertions to Taylor’s army and, with no idea where Taylor’s people would next appear, dispatching an Inquisitor team to every Portal world seemed to be the best solution.
Indeed, the plan had been extremely successful, at least at first. Vanderberg’s quick action had minimized defections on Juno before the Black Corps even arrived onplanet. But Samovich hadn’t considered the potential for conflict between the Inquisitor and the commander on the scene. The officers in command of planetary armies understood the limits of their authority, but they weren’t used to cowering at the roar of UNGov thugs like civilians did, especially not generals like Antonio Ralfieri. UNGov had learned early in the war that trying to control its generals too closely was a recipe for lost battles and shattered armies, and they’d allowed their senior officers to exercise considerable independent authority in the combat zones.
Ralfieri was a skilled commander, one of the best on any of the Portal worlds. There weren’t many others as capable, and Samovich didn’t want anything to interfere with the destruction of Taylor’s army, especially not a contest of egos between a pompous Inquisitor and his handpicked military commander.
“Yes, Secretary.” Colonel Farrier was typing the message, a response to Anan Keita’s urgent communique. Samovich had always thought of Keita as a clueless fuck up, a warm body to fill a Seat and give him another sure vote on the Secretariat. But he had to admit, his delegate had handled the near-fight between Ralfieri and Vanderberg very well.
Keita had been warned by a Major named Evans, and he’d managed to get to the scene just as Ralfieri and Vanderberg were about to start shooting at each other. The hierarchy between the general and the Inquisitor was fuzzy, a gray area each man interpreted to his own benefit. But Anan Keita was a member of the Secretariat, and he clearly ranked above both of them. The two men were both livid, furious almost past the p
oint of reason. But, however grudgingly and resentfully, they both obeyed Keita’s orders.
The conflict could have been a disaster, but Keita put a stop to it before any serious damage was done. He ordered both men back to their quarters, and each of them barely managed to suppress his rage enough to obey. Samovich reminded himself to congratulate Keita in the communique for a job well done. He’d gotten used to his ally being a burden, but now he remembered why he’d chosen Keita in the first place. He was a fool, but not a total fool, and from Anton Samovich, that was a compliment.
He thought about Ralfieri’s aide, Major Evans. There was no question Evans had prevented a catastrophe by calling Keita. Samovich considered rewarding the officer, but then he remembered that none of the Black Corps soldiers were coming home anyway. It was a shame. Evans seemed like a smart officer, and he’d certainly done good service. He deserved better. But the Black Corps had been created to destroy Taylor, and it would exist only as long as it took to attain that goal. The modified warriors were far too dangerous to keep around. Taylor himself had proven that. The soldiers of the Corps were heavily conditioned, unlike Taylor’s people, but Samovich wasn’t taking any chances. No, there was no way he was going to let his new modified warriors long survive their victory. He couldn’t imagine the chaos men like that could cause back on Earth.
Ralfieri wasn’t coming home either. The general hadn’t been modified, and Samovich had originally planned to allow the commander to return to Earth and retire. But things had gotten too messy, and he felt it was better to cut all ties with the entire sorry episode. He sighed. It wasn’t fair, none of it. But he’d never let that interfere with his decisions. Fairness was a quaint concept, the stuff of weak minds and fantasy, but good governance required ruthlessness. Individual people didn’t matter when the good of the state was involved. Except for those at the top, of course, the ones who made the decisions.
He would probably let Vanderberg do it when the time came. That would salve the Inquisitor’s bruised ego. But he promised himself it would be quick and painless. Ralfieri was serving UNGov well, and if he defeated Taylor he would deserve a parade through Geneva and a king’s ransom as his reward. Since none of that was going to happen, Samovich figured the least he owed his general was an easy death.
Like any despotic government, UNGov was suspicious of successful generals, and the systems and procedures they employed were designed to prevent any rebellion arising from the military. Rank and file soldiers and junior officers got one way tickets to the Portal worlds where they fought. Most died in the fighting, but those who survived remained where they were, never to see Earth again. The last thing UNGov wanted was a bunch of veteran soldiers wandering around, seething with discontent or rallying to some old general.
The senior officers and commanders did get return trips to Earth, and sometimes reassignment to other Portal worlds. But their soldiers always remained behind. Forever. The very idea of allowing a victorious general to transit back to Earth at the head of his army was anathema to the paranoid political minds that ran the Secretariat. The men in charge of UNGov believed in secret police, surveillance, and draconian laws, but they were always uncomfortable with the military.
“Send that communique at once, Colonel.” Samovich wasn’t going to take any chances. He didn’t want Antonio Ralfieri interfered with, not until he had destroyed Taylor’s forces. “That should settle things between Ralfieri and Vanderberg.” And if it doesn’t, he thought angrily, Lucius Vanderberg will come home in a box.
“Send a second message, Colonel, this one under Secretariat Seal to Anan Keita.” He paused. “If Vanderberg causes any more trouble, Secretary Keita is authorized to have him summarily executed. Along with any of his men who resist.” It was a superfluous message, he knew. As a member of the Secretariat placed in charge of the operation on Juno, Keita already had the authority to execute anyone on the planet at will. But Samovich wanted to reassure his beleaguered political ally, to stiffen his spine. The unspoken message was clear – I’ll support anything you have to do to keep the operation on track.
Samovich waved his hand, dismissing the colonel. “Send those immediately.”
The messages would be hand carried through the Portals and then transmitted across each planet by the fastest available communication. Arleon was already pacified, and its permanent infrastructure was under construction. There were active communications satellites in orbit, so the messages would be transmitted to the Oceania Portal almost instantaneously.
Oceania was still contested by the Machines, though the battle there was progressing satisfactorily. The communique would travel by aircraft to the Juno Portal, which was on a small island far from the main landmass. Overall, it would take about 9 hours for the communique to reach Juno. Less than half a day. With any luck, he thought, there won’t be any other disasters in that time.
Chapter 15
From the Journal of Jake Taylor:
Is there anything as stressful as command? I am a veteran with 14 years of service on the most violently hostile world where men have tried to fight. I am the commander of an army on a crusade to free mankind from tyranny. I have seen thousands of men die and killed vast numbers of my enemies. I was turned into a cyborg, half machine, my enhanced biotech implants making me one of the deadliest warriors in history, if somewhat less human.
Yet I constantly question my judgment, second-guess the orders I issue. I try to rely on my experience, but my confidence fails me. Every command, every strategy leaves me uncertain, questioning if I made the right choices, wondering how many men will die as a result of my orders.
I must keep my uncertainty to myself, look to no one for my own reassurance. Command is the loneliest of all things, and I will burden none of my people, not even my top officers, with the doubts I feel. My soldiers, even my closest friends and toughest veterans, look to me for strength. They have made me into an unstoppable force, a resolute commander, sure of every decision, never doubting the right course of action. It is a fiction, but it is one they need, so I must maintain the façade.
The responsibility is overwhelming. So many men die. I tell myself they do not give their lives for me, that my soul doesn’t bear the weight of so many good men dead. They die for the cause, to free the world, to fight against the evil that represses mankind. I tell myself they don’t die for me, but I don’t really believe it.
“General Taylor…I’m sorry to wake you, sir…”
Taylor was lying on his bed, futilely trying to sleep. “You didn’t wake me, Lieutenant.” If only he knew how little I slept, Taylor thought. “What is it?”
“Um, well, sir. You have a visitor.” Lieutenant Warne’s head was poking through the tent, and the expression on his face was as bewildered as his tone.
“Visitor? What the hell…”
“He refers to me, General Taylor.” Another figure, clad in a gray hooded robe, slid past the canvas flap and entered the tent. He stood silent and still for an instant then he reached up and pulled back the hood.
“T’arza.” Taylor sat up, staring at the new arrival, his eyes wide with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Taylor had only seen the Tegeri once, but that day had been a turning point in his life, one he could never forget. He’d been hostile at first, regarding himself as a POW and the alien as an enemy. That changed quickly when T’arza began to show him what had really happened on the early colony worlds, how the war had truly begun.
Taylor had resisted at first, but somehow he’d known everything the alien showed him was true, that all he’d been told his whole life was nothing but a series of lies. He would never forget the feeling. In an instant he lost the only belief that sustained him, the thought that his sacrifices, UNGov’s despotic rule, all of it, had been necessary to save Earth. Not only had that been a lie, but the responsibility for the death and destruction of 40 years of war did not rest with the Tegeri as he’d so long believed. Taylor realized it had been him – and al
l his men – who were the murderers, the aggressors, not the Machines and the Tegeri. It was overwhelming, a realization that shook him to his core, and he was still struggling to accept it all.
The Tegeri moved forward slowly. “I have come to offer you counsel, General Taylor, if you will take it.” He nodded. “Among my people, encouraging an individual to action, as I have done with you, creates an obligation to assist. Honor demands that I help you in any way that I can.”
“You can send an army of Machines to help us.” Taylor knew it was a foolish thing to say. There was nothing he needed less than to give UNGov the propaganda tool of his soldiers fighting alongside aliens the people of Earth still considered murderous monsters.
An odd expression came over T’arza’s face. Taylor didn’t recognize it, but somehow he knew it signaled guilt and frustration. “Indeed, General Taylor, I wish such a simple expedient could aid your task.” The Tegeri spoke softly, gently. “However, I believe such an action would decrease your chances of success, rather than aiding you.”
“You are right, T’arza.” Taylor stood up and walked toward his visitor. “Which is unfortunate, because we are facing a serious fight here, and we could use all the help we can get.”
“I have received some data on your battles to date.” T’arza stopped short of disclosing that the Tegeri had monitoring devices watching every step Taylor’s army took. The omission caused him discomfort. Tegeri could lie when necessary, but it was a stain on one’s honor – and T’arza was one of the most honorable of his race. Failing to disclose information wasn’t exactly lying, but Tegeri culture frowned upon such hair-splitting technicalities, considering them unworthy of a great race. “It would appear that your adversaries have deployed forces with the same modifications as your soldiers.” The Tegeri spoke calmly, evenly. There was something oddly soothing about his voice, despite the grave nature of the topic. Taylor had noticed it back in the cave on Erastus too. There had been no trace of anger or resentment toward Taylor or any of his people, not even after more than 40 years of war provoked by the humans.
