The dams of the Meme’s resistance sundered, not so much breaking as crumbling like saturated earth. As memories flowed into him, Spooky realized the nameless creature before him had existed in a state of weakened despair for many years, its only diversion the interrogations that Charles supervised. Every escape attempt had been met with the pain of electric shocks. It had been utterly defeated long ago.
Once it realized blending with this creature represented a way out, its recalcitrance shattered and the Meme tried to process the underling, by methods it had learned long ago but never employed. All Meme prepared for the day when they would blend and pass on to the next stage of life, the paradise of sensations formerly denied, a rich emotional garden matched by exquisite physical delights only hinted at in received, secondhand memory. This one embraced the transition like a terminal cancer patient welcomed an overdose of opiates and its gift of oblivion, or a man imprisoned finding a dangerous exit.
Hope springs eternal, even in a Meme.
Only when the process was fully underway did it face the fact this underling was no blank clone or mind-wiped planet dweller. The underling had a mind of its own, along with a towering will that loomed so far above the Meme’s as to bring it to awe and despair. Those emotions filled it for the few moments before it forgot who it was and became someone else.
Hours passed in assimilation. He who had been merely Tran Pham Nguyen wondered how he could ever have thought so highly of himself in his previous state. Now possessing alien memories stretching back millennia, the core of who he was remained Spooky Nguyen, now expanded like a demigod. Hubris threatened, then subsided as his sociopathic calculation ruthlessly blocked fantasies of glory, of his ego’s desire to bend all to his will.
That way lay madness, Nguyen knew. In a cosmos so recently revealed as infinite, becoming the supreme ruler of a nation, a continent, a planet or even a star system revealed the falsehood of its own path. Whatever he took for himself, more would always lay outward and beyond his reach. In a universe of billions of galaxies, each composed of billions of stars – all perhaps comprising billions of universes or dimensions – such unbridled ambition seemed pointless and self-defeating. Long ago, Spooky had decided to deliberately turn away from that path, seizing power only to ensure his other goals were accomplished, and then relinquishing his authority without regret.
A trite adage came to mind: fulfillment isn’t having what you want, but wanting what you have. Most truths could be boiled down to cliché, no less valid for that.
When finally he ascended from the pool, he smiled, knowing himself a benevolent godling. The others looked on, and the one called Trissk held an automatic weapon pointed at his chest.
“Don’t worry, Trissk,” the new man said. “I’m still me, but more.”
“I can see that,” Rae said with an insouciant grin, and he remembered he was naked.
“I thought I’d keep my own face and build, but decided some additional height would be in order. People often equate height with authority.”
“Yes, they do, though when I blended, it was more about wanting to be beautiful,” Rae replied. She tossed him a yellow robe, and he slipped it on.
“Thank you. And, to answer some of your questions up front, when I said I was still me, I meant it. Rae, when you blended, it was voluntary. Ilona and Raphael contributed more or less equally to the result. Not so here. The Meme provided to me was pathetic, downtrodden, beaten. I absorbed it and incorporated it, turning its own abilities against it once I gained control. I’m no more a different person than if I had database chips implanted in my head. That said, I understand Blends like to take on impressive and unusual names to awe the common folk.”
“Yes, they do,” Rae said. “Charles here was once known as Charlemagne, then Raven, while my daughter Leslie called herself Llewella. Then there’s Apollo, Benedict, Shiva, Musashi –”
“I understand. There is value in an impressive name when matched with an equally impressive reputation. I thought quite deeply about what to call my new self. I settled on Spectre.”
Ezekiel barked a laugh. “Perfect. Like Spooky but with more gravitas. Very cool.”
“Trissk, would you lower the weapon please?” the blended man now calling himself Spectre said.
Silently, the Ryss did so, and then padded over to stand in front of the Blend. Trissk took in a deep breath through his feline nose, and blinked. “You smell precisely the same. That cannot be an accident.”
“It’s not. I have full control over my biochemistry now.”
The Ryss stared at Spectre for a long moment. “I accept this.” He put out his paws for a Ryss-style handclasp with the Blend. “Just don’t ask me to do it.”
Spectre laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I would taste you,” Bogrin said, moving ponderously over and holding out a hand.
Spectre reached and touched, and then froze as the biochemical connection was made. Almost, he sprang to battle as he felt the light intrusion of thought passed along nerves and via complex molecules. Yet the conversation that took place was deep and rich with overtones, and he realized at that moment how hard it would be to lie to another Blend while using this method.
But he resolved to learn.
After exchanging pleasantries with Bogrin, Spectre stepped back and waited, knowing the conversation had been more than a hello. “Did I pass the test?”
“It is he, Spooky, or Spectre, as he calls himself now,” Bogrin said. “He is too young yet to block my survey. I am satisfied.”
“Excellent,” said Charles. “Then can we please get started on taking over the world?”
Chapter 22
Spectre put on his best sneer and flicked an invisible piece of dust off his black uniform piped with yellow accents. Devoid of rank and insignia, still it called to mind rank and power with an elegance impressive for its simplicity, in the manner of dictators throughout history.
Stepping into the Shepparton, Australia mansion’s large, luxuriously furnished ballroom, he glided around its outer edge, taking stock of the gathering of fifty-three others clothed in various forms of yellow and gold. A few were grossly fat or hugely muscular, but most conformed to the accepted human ideals of beauty: tall, fit, graceful, sculpted of face and body. All wore expressions ranging from confident to haughty, though nervousness showed through as well.
They had been called here – some escorted and forced, to be frank – by declaration of EarthFleet, ratified by broadcasts from the Meme ceding all authority on the planet. The change of power had caught them all by surprise. So had the populace’s quickly melting support for these oligarchs, their former masters, though some of the more benevolent among them retained loyal followings. The habits of a lifetime were not always easy to break.
Once he’d gotten a sense of them, Spectre mounted the stage at one end, nodding to the captain of the unit of Skulls that secured the estate. The insurgent group had slowly become a disciplined cadre serving under the legendary Spooky Nguyen, second only to their namesake as an icon of anti-Meme resistance. There’d been some wavering when they realized he was now a Blend called Spectre, but the ecstatic shock of throwing off the Empire had brought them around. Now they formed the core of his new Direct Action enforcers.
The Skulls blocked all the doors, their weapons at the ready, and every eye turned toward Spectre. “Good evening to all who wear the yellow,” he spoke in rich tones. “I am Spectre. I had you all brought here to personally inform you of the changes in your situations, and to make sure you understand them. You will note that there are fifty-three of you here, whereas sixty-four original Meme Blends composed the senior oligarchy just two days ago. The other eleven resisted capture so strongly that they had to be killed.”
A roar of protest broke out among many of the Blends there, calmed only when the Skulls raised their weapons at a signal from Spectre. “If you are wise and flexible,” he said loudly, “you might survive the return to humanity’s self-govern
ment.” He waved a hand until the muttering died.
“Let me tell you a story.” Spectre stepped down from the stage to walk slowly among the Blends, most standing, others lounging or sitting on divans and chairs. He plucked a flute of champagne from a tray and took a sip.
“Sun Tzu, an ancient general and exceptional military strategist, was summoned by the King of Wu, who challenged him to apply his methods of command to turn women into warriors. The King of Wu was setting Sun Tzu up to fail, and so he offered 180 of the most beautiful concubines of the palace to be test subjects.”
“What does this have to do with anything?” sneered one woman near him, waving a cigarette in a long holder.
“That will soon become clear,” Spectre replied. “Sun Tzu immediately took the challenge, with the stipulation that he have, in writing, complete freedom of method.”
“Get to the point,” said a hulking brute of a man, pacing and flexing his hands as if he wished he could grab the speaker and tear him limb from limb.
Ignoring the interruption, Spectre continued. “The next morning Sun Tzu met the women on the parade ground and divided them into two divisions, appointing a commander for each, and told them to have their groups follow his simple commands to turn left or right. Then he issued the command. Do you know what they did?”
“They laughed at him, the way some here are laughing at you now,” a grossly obese man sprawled on a sofa said, his beady eyes wary.
Spectre fixed the speaker with a penetrating gaze. “I see you know the story, but you are not laughing.”
“This situation does not amuse me.” The man took a chocolate truffle from a bag and popped it into his mouth. “I know how it ends.”
“Gilgamesh, isn’t it?”
“At your service, Lord Spectre.”
Spectre smiled, an expression that reached nowhere near his eyes. “You seem a bit wiser than your comrades. I may have a place for you.”
“I’m counting on it, my Lord.” Gilgamesh reached into the bag again.
Spectre continued his oratory. “The women laughed, and did not obey. Knowing his instructions had been clear, simple, and well within their capabilities, Sun Tzu knew the fault lay with them, not him. Therefore, he had the two women beheaded. He then appointed two new commanders. When next he issued his instructions, the women followed them to the letter, and soon he had the formations marching and wheeling about the parade ground in perfect order.”
As Spectre paced slowly among the crowd, he had made a circuit until he stood in front of the woman who had sneered. “What are you called?”
“Cleopatra,” the woman answered.
“And you?” Spectre said, turning toward the muscular monster who had also mocked him.
“Nero,” said the man.
Moving to the stage again, Spectre mounted it and said, “You two, come stand here, now.” He pointed clearly to the floor at his feet.
Perhaps something in Spectre’s eyes convinced her, for the woman sashayed over to stand where he indicated. However, the man said, “Go to hell,” and stuck out his huge jaw.
With a motion invisible for its swiftness, Spectre reached inside his uniform sleeve and brought out a laser pistol, firing as soon as it lined up. A neat, smoking hole appeared in the big man’s head and he dropped like a sack of grain.
“You know,” Spectre said conversationally into the stunned silence, “These men and women around you, these Skulls, they want to execute all of you. The rest of the resistance movement wants to try you as war criminals, and then execute you. Your former masters the Meme have abandoned you. To them, you are not of the Pure Race, you are underlings and they have explicitly relinquished all claim to humanity. The Empire holds no sway here anymore and you live at my sufferance.”
Cleopatra held her ground. “So your story was just an illustration of rule by fear and naked power.”
Spectre shook his head. “No. You fail to understand the lesson, which is about something larger than fear.” He looked over at Gilgamesh.
“I believe I understand, my lord,” the fat, oily man said. “It’s about motivation. Provide the proper incentive – or disincentive – and one can accomplish great things quickly.”
“Precisely. I play no games, my fellow Yellows. If you fail me, you die. If you test me, you die. I can accomplish my goals with half your number, perhaps fewer. If you serve me well, you may regain status, privilege, power and wealth. The only reason you are not now dead is because I have places for you.”
“And what places are those, my Lord?” said Gilgamesh.
Spectre nodded to the man. He was a toady, but could be made useful. “As skilled workers no different from any other enhanced human. You and your children, all you Blends, will give up all your privileges to take charge of living ships and bases, assisting preparation of our defense against the Scourge. You will still wear the yellow not as a mark of superiority, but of suspicion. Everyone will be watching you. You will make your way on your merits, not by virtue of your genetic heritage, and you will earn your place in my new society. Does anyone wish to opt out of my scheme?”
Silence reigned, broken only by the small sounds of movement as the fifty-two remaining Blends glanced at each other or took convulsive drinks from their glasses. Fear rolled off of them in waves of biochemicals, fear Spectre could smell. “Excellent. I take your lack of response as assent.” He put away his weapon and stepped off the stage. “Now, let’s get to know one another.”
Chapter 23
“TacDrive ready,” Master Helmsman Okuda reported.
“Initiate,” Captain Absen – Admiral Absen again, he reminded himself – replied.
“Pulse in three, two, one,” Okuda said, and the drive field snapped on.
Absen held his head still while he thought about the rapid changes going on around him. He rode the tiger here, several tigers at once, really.
One was his own and his people’s hatred of the Meme, stoked by the savaging of Earth they had witnessed just weeks before in relativistic time, almost fifty years ago in reality. The grief seemed fresh, and making peace with the aliens who had wiped out the families of many strained the limits of their discipline.
Another tiger was the changes taking place among Earth’s populace. Fifty years ago, the few million survivors had been rousted from their shelters, enslaved and put to work rebuilding the planet’s ecosystem with the help of their new Blend masters and their biomachines. They had made startlingly rapid progress during the last five decades using sophisticated Meme terraforming techniques. They had also been forced to breed, there was no other word for it, by mandatory administration of fertility drugs, resulting in litters of babies that increased the population explosively in the first few years, then again as the generations hit puberty.
The resulting society was unrecognizable to Conquest’s crew. It operated more like a group of feudal kingdoms than the old nations. Workers served overseers, who in turn served administrators, who owed fealty to their Blends.
Absen shook his head, then regretted it as the field effects gave him violent nausea. Despite his reservations, he was glad he had smart people working for him, drawing up ways to govern now that the Meme had withdrawn from the process.
“Dropping pulse in three…two…one. Mark.” Okuda’s voice coincided with the normalization of the universe, and soon the bridge screens and holotank flickered to life. Absen saw that Conquest had arrived just where he’d directed, a million klicks above the North Pole looking down on the Earth-Moon system. This ensured that, no matter what, the Weapon could not bear on the boat, dug in to Luna’s far side equator as it was.
Eight Meme Destroyers still cruised below, gorging themselves on the many asteroids and comets in orbit, a moveable feast for the living ships. “Mister Ford, calculate engagement solutions for all of those Destroyers, just in case. Okuda, I want to be able to pulse out at the first sign of trouble. Maintain battle stations. Scoggins, do we have Roger yet?”
“Go
t his transponder ten thousand kay off the port bow and closing, Admiral. Should be entering the launch bay in about five minutes.”
“Good. Captain Scoggins, you have the conn.” Absen left the bridge and met Leslie Denham on the way down, escorted by Sergeant Major Repeth and a squad of Marines sealed into their battlesuits. More Marines in armor lined the launch bay deck, ready for any eventuality. The reports from Earth had made him happy, but there was still the matter of verifying Blend identities.
Bogrin stepped out of the little ship first, nodding to Absen, then moved aside for Ezekiel to advance and shake the admiral’s hand. The Blend’s face fell slightly as he touched the glove Absen wore, and then he sidestepped to allow Rae to exit. Rather than walk forward or embrace him, Rae turned to introduce the tall, shaven-headed man behind her. “Admiral Absen, this is my son Charles.”
“You’re certain?” Absen asked, looking at Ezekiel and Bogrin. Both nodded, confirming that both were who they claimed, which relieved him no end. The admiral shook Charles’ hand, though did not take off his glove, then asked the group, “I know you said Spooky is doing his thing in Australia, but where’s Trissk?”
“Decided he had enough of confined spaces and stayed on planet,” Bogrin replied. “He wishes his mate to be allowed to join him at earliest time.”
“Granted. Now…” Absen waved Leslie forward, and gestured at Ezekiel and Bogrin again.
The two put out their hands to touch palms with Leslie, and the Marines raised their weapons, even as Ezekiel hugged the Blend claiming to be his sister. “Good to see you, Lizzie.”
“Oh, I hate you!” Leslie said, hugging him even more fiercely.
“It’s her,” he said, tears coming to his eyes. “It’s good to be home.”
“Stand down,” Absen said, waving the Marines back. “Either you’re all imposters, or nobody is. I guess I have no choice than to trust you. Rae, I hate to do this to you, but I need you to go over to talk with SystemLord again and pick up the data he promised, and then drop off the schematics for the lightspeed drive.” He handed her a tiny data spike.
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