by Jay Allan
“Taylor,” he whispered under his breath, his tone dripping with hatred. Samovich had no tolerance for rebels. In his view, the government was to be obeyed. He and his fellow officials certainly knew better how to run the world than the seething masses, and their constant whining over rations and housing and medical care. If only they would accept their place in the scheme of things, so many resources would be freed for more productive pursuits.
For decades his internal security forces had pursued just that goal, rooting out groups opposing the government…and sending their members to the “reeducation camps,” where most of them were terminated as “hopeless” cases. But still, dissent had refused to die, and now, after forty years, the threat of alien invasion, for so long a shadow UNGov used to keep the people in line, was losing its potency. The wars still went on, but after so many years, the belief that the monstrous Tegeri were on the verge of bursting through the Portals slaughtering—and in the most shamelessly excessive UN propaganda, eating—people wherever they went had faded. Fear was a powerful weapon, indeed it was the tool the original Secretariat had used to gain world domination. But now that had faded. The Tegeri were still thought of as bloodthirsty aliens, but most people considered the threat contained, a position supported by UNGov’s own propaganda touting its successes in chasing the enemy from numerous Portal worlds.
Had he not had greater concerns, Samovich suspected he would be spending most of his time cracking down on cells of resistance and the proto-rebel groups he knew were forming all around the world. But he had more pressing matters. Jake Taylor was more than just a rebel, more than some insurgent plotting impotently in a dark hole somewhere. He was a trained warrior, an experienced officer…and a Supersoldier, a cyborg created by UNGov itself. He had defeated every force sent against him, including the Black Corps, a unit composed of cybernetically-enhanced soldiers like himself. The few reports trickling back suggested that many men of the UN planetary armies had defected to his cause, replacing his losses and swelling his ranks.
And worse, Samovich knew, it appeared that the Tegeri were helping Taylor. Indeed, that was almost a certainty. How else could the rogue have kept his army supplied and replaced the ordnance they had expended in battle? That connection spelled trouble, not only because it gave Taylor a supply source, but also because the Tegeri weren’t truly the monsters UNGov had made them out to be. Samovich was party to the dark secret, one few people on Earth knew. UNGov had orchestrated the war with the Tegeri, even going so far as to kill their own operatives who had actually conducted the assaults the aliens were blamed for. Anything to keep the secret. The Tegeri lie was incredibly useful propaganda. The truth, should it ever get out, would light a match on the fuse of rebellion. The secret had to be preserved…at all costs. But Samovich suspected Taylor’s army knew the truth, from the mysterious commander himself down to the lowliest private.
How can we keep the secret? How?
“No,” he said softly to himself. “There is no way.” He breathed deeply as he attacked the problem, trying to decide on his best strategy to counter Taylor. Training the security forces was a step…defeating Taylor’s army, killing his traitorous followers, that was certainly necessary. But crushing the invaders when they finally came would be only a partial solution. He’d never manage to destroy Taylor, to chase down all of his followers, even the scattered survivors who fled the battlefield…not before the word spread. Samovich knew Taylor would do everything possible to tell the people of Earth the truth, to rally them to his cause. And that could cause disaster, even after Taylor himself was dead.
Samovich got up and walked over to the window wall behind his massive desk, a small smile slipping on his face as he did. He stared out over the magnificent vista, for the first time in days taking a moment to appreciate what was laid out before him. Forty years of rule by UNGov had made Geneva and its environs the capital of the world, and the Secretariat members who ruled the planet had turned their enclave into a virtual paradise. If there were slums in other areas of the world, if once-great cities had deteriorated into ghastly nightmares where those with no place else to go picked through the ruins and tried to survive, them men and women entrusted to rule—and protect—Earth had little concern for any of it. They lived in luxury that shamed dukes and kings of old.
Protect, Samovich thought, as his smile grew. Of course. That is the answer. The same answer they came to forty years ago…
He suddenly knew what he had to do to defeat Taylor, and he cursed himself for not realizing it sooner. The answer was the same as it always was, as it had been decades past when UNGov had become the sole government on Earth.
They are the same gullible sheep they’ve always been. I had forgotten the lesson taught us by the original Secretariat.
He would devote whatever resources it took to defeat Taylor in the field, to hunt down and kill every last man who followed him. But even before that he would launch a full scale propaganda war, one that would turn all humanity against the rebel commander. Jake Taylor, the tool of the Tegeri, the man who slaughtered his fellow soldiers. The human being the Tegeri had suborned when they were incapable of defeating UNGov in the field. Images were racing through his mind, lies after lies…the things he would see repeated a million times, until the name Jake Taylor was synonymous with treachery, with evil. Taylor, the man who’d agreed to provide millions of humans as slaves, even as food sources for the Tegeri young…all in exchange for the aliens’ assistance in making him mankind’s absolute ruler.
Samovich felt a wave of excitement. Yes, this was the answer. It was the way. He’d already set the wheels in motion to prepare his forces to fight Taylor’s army. Now it was time to begin another war, one fought with words and broadcasts and information networks. It was a struggle he was uniquely prepared to fight. And win.
* * *
“Something is definitely going on. I don’t know what, but there have been too many sudden changes. They’re up to something for sure.” Carson Jones stood in the middle of the small circle, turning as he spoke to look at his companions in the flickering light of a dozen candles.
The meeting was in the basement of an abandoned building, a damp, musty space with a low-hanging ceiling of half-rotten wood. Jones was tall enough that he had to crouch, and he’d banged his head twice already. It was far from an ideal meeting place, but UNGov’s intelligence agencies were extremely efficient, and more than willing to dangle large sums in front of desperately poor citizens to coax them to inform on those around them. Jones wanted to hate people who took government payoffs, who helped to send their neighbors to the reeducation camps. But he knew deprivation wore down a person’s strength and their morality. Most people would do things they were ashamed of to put food in their children’s stomachs, and Carson Jones didn’t feel completely comfortable condemning them out of hand.
The Resistance had been close to wiped out over the nearly forty years of UNGov rule. Jones had known calling the meeting was a huge risk, but if there was an opportunity, a chance to launch a truly credible challenge to the Earth’s totalitarian rulers, he knew they had to take it. He’d almost sent out the signal, the call to other cells worldwide. But he didn’t know enough yet to take such a dangerous step.
“Well, they’ve definitely increased troop recruitment quotas. They’re blackmailing everybody under thirty who gets in any petty trouble or falls a credit behind on their taxes to enlist. I’ve also heard that they’ve been expanding the training camps, increasing their capacity to handle the increased flow of recruits.” Enrique Delacorte was sitting on an old crate, one that looked a bit wobbly but so far had held him up. Delacorte was a precious resource to the Resistance, a UNGov employee. He wasn’t privy to any secrets, just part of the cleanup crew, but any government job was far more lucrative than work anything in the private sector, and Delacorte had every reason to support UNGov, save for one thing. He detested the oppression, the complete lack of freedom, though he’d never known anything else.
H
e was thirty years old, and UNGov had ruled the world since before he was born. But then he’d found a stash of old books, history texts, mostly, all of them on the banned list. He’d almost panicked when he found them, unsure if he should run or if he should turn them in, and possibly risk suspicion that they were his. But instead he opened one up and read a few pages. Then he flipped through another…and another. The books were full of lies…that’s what UNGov’s propaganda said. But something rang true as he read, and it prompted him to continue. He took the books and found a new hiding place. One at a time, he snuck them home, reading every word five times before he went back to get another.
What he learned shocked him profoundly. He read of a world where people chose their jobs, where they went about their business more or less as they chose…where they could move about the streets without papers, travel without a special approval. A place where the population elected leaders…where the people voted, not just a small group like the Secretariat, but everyone.
He’d heard of such things before, when he was young and mostly from older people, the ones who’d been adults before the Tegeri attacked and UNGov took control. But such talk was forbidden, and people learned to keep their mouths shut…or they vanished in the night, taken to reeducation camps for “reorientation.”
“Are you sure, Enrique? About the quotas?” Jones’ words shook Delacorte from his daydreams.
“Ah…yes, Carson. I’m sure. It’s all classified, but they act like I’m not even there when I’m cleaning. I suspect if anyone high up in Intelligence saw how careless they are he’d have a fit.
Jones nodded. “So what does that mean? Maybe the Tegeri are winning the war.” UNGov broadcast a steady diet of news reports profiling military heroes and great victories pushing the Tegeri and Machines steadily back. But Jones didn’t believe a word UNGov said or published.
He stared down at the floor for a few seconds. “If that’s the case, perhaps there is nothing we can do now. UNGov is evil, but if the war is going badly…”
“That’s not it.”
Jones turned, along with everyone in the room, looking at the shadowy figure carefully climbing down the rickety stairs. Devon Bell was the newest member of the cell. He’d been excluded for a long time, mostly because no one else had trusted him. Bell was a UNGov employee just like Delacorte, but he was ranked considerably higher. He was a genuine beneficiary of the largess UNGov showered on its own, and he lived in the gated sector, in a home none of the others could even imagine.
He’d insisted he sincerely wanted to help overthrown UNGov, but none of the others, scared to death that he seemed to know who they were, believed him. Not until he told them the identity of a genuine double agent who was on the verge of infiltrating their cell. His warning got them out just in time…and it got him a long awaited invitation to join the group. There were those who still didn’t trust him, who thought he was just infiltrating, hoping to identity some of the other cells the group dealt with…but Jones had decided to trust him. And Bell had never given him cause for regret.
“Devon…how do you know that?”
Bell stepped into the dank cellar. “Sorry I’m late, by the way. I didn’t want to take any chances, and I had a hard time getting away.” He looked over at Jones. “I know because no reinforcements have been sent to any Portal world. Not in over a year.”
The room fell silent, save for the occasional sound of rats scurrying across the floor above. Finally, Jones spoke. “Are you certain about this?” He looked around the room, and he could see the expressions of his comrades. Clearly, some of them doubted Bell’s report.
“Yes, Carson. I’m absolutely sure.” Bell paused, everyone in the room staring back at him. “You—all of you—know I have…access…to UNGov’s information systems.” Bell’s work was in encryption, helping to develop the encoding systems that kept sensitive data secret. Upon occasion it also allowed him to—very carefully—decode messages he wasn’t supposed to see. It was deadly dangerous, and one slip up was enough to get him buried in a ditch somewhere, but he’d done his best to provide the Resistance with useful information. That had made him both more and less suspect, depending on the member of the cell making the determination. “I have seen three different communiqués. All troops coming out of the training program are being diverted somewhere…I don’t know where. But UNGov is trying to put together an army on Earth, there is no doubt of that.”
“But that could support the idea that the Tegeri are breaking through. UNGov is preparing for a last ditch defense…here on Earth.” Delacorte’s voice was shaky, tenuous. He’d grown up on propaganda about the Tegeri, about how they had attacked and destroyed the first colonies. He had come to despise UNGov as well, and to believe that a more open and just government could also lead mankind against the alien menace. But if Earth was about to be invaded…
“No,” Bell said, his voice stern. “Taken alone, I can understand that interpretation, but I have additional information. No troops have been withdrawn from any of the Portal worlds. None. The new recruits are completely inexperienced…if UNGov was truly preparing to face an imminent invasion, they would pull back veterans from the Portal worlds. Even if the Tegeri are winning, our forces could retreat, and the experienced soldiers would be spread out through the new units.”
“Perhaps things are worse than we thought. The Portal armies could have been wiped out already. Maybe the Tegeri are massing now, building their forces before following up with an invasion.” Jones began with an assured tone, but by the time he finished, he sounded doubtful. It just didn’t feel right. After forty years, what could have happened to utterly destroy the Earth armies? And could the war being going the same way on every world?
“I thought of that too, Carson. Which is why I checked the logistics reports for last month.” His tone was odd, and Jones got an impression how great a risk Bell had taken to get the information. “We are still sending supplies to the various armies.” He paused. “It’s strange. Food shipments have remained normal, but weapons and ammunition flows are sharply off for a number of worlds.”
“They wouldn’t be sending provisions if there weren’t troops left there…and if the armies were being pushed back, making a desperate stand, they would need ordnance, wouldn’t they?”
“Yes…they would. Even more than if they were conducting operations normally.” Bell took a look around the room, finally taking a seat on a pile of boxes. “What’s even more difficult to understand is that some worlds have been receiving military supplies while other haven’t. So if we’ve got some armies still there, eating food but using no weaponry, what are they doing? It sounds more like a scenario where they have driven the enemy offworld…or where the Tegeri chose to withdraw.”
“So what does that mean?” Jones asked the question, to no one in particular. “Fighting on some worlds, but not on others…and UNGov building a secret army on Earth?” He took a deep breath and ran his hand over his head, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “It doesn’t make sense…”
“Perhaps it does.” The voice came from the far end of the room, from an old man who had been silently watching until now.
Everyone in the room turned, almost as one, and they stared in rapt attention at the gray haired man in the corner. Stan Wickes was tall, but his body was hunched over, likely the result of years of poor nutrition. His face was worn and wrinkled, and he looked every day of his seventy years and then some. His clothes were soiled and ragged, and he looked like the homeless wanderer he was. All except for his eyes. There was a brightness there, an unmistakable intensity. And something else too. Defiance, burning brightly.
“What if it is the Tegeri who are close to defeat? What if the UNGov is preparing for the day they must control Earth without the fear of alien invasion to keep the people in line?” Wickes’ voice was far stronger and louder than one would expect looking at him. His tone was commanding, decisive.
No one answered right away. Finally, Jones spoke, his tone
heavy with respect, “You may be right, Captain. That makes considerable sense.” He turned toward Bell. “Anything you’ve seen to suggest this may be possible?”
“Nothing specific,” Bell replied. “But it certainly fits with the reduction in ordnance shipments. If the planetary armies have defeated the Tegeri and driven them off planet, there’s no need for ammunition, certainly not in wartime quantities.”
Jones turned back to Wickes. “So, if that is the case, what do we do, Captain?”
Wickes stood up and walked to the center of the cellar. He had a pronounced limp, the result of age and more than one beating by UNGov goons. He moved slowly but steadily, and he turned around and looked at each of his comrades in turn. “We can’t know, Carson…and I don’t know if we should try to find out. Sending people like Devon to try and spy more aggressively is extremely dangerous. Whatever is going on, it won’t be easy data to reach.”
The old man turned slowly as he spoke, his eyes panning over each of the revolutionaries sitting around him. “Sometimes we must make decisions with less information than we might want…we must rely on gut instinct. And my gut tells me it is time to make our move.”
He stopped and faced Jones. “Give the word, Carson. Contact the other cells. If they agree, then we go.” He slapped a fist down in his palm. “By God, yes…we shall strike. And after forty years of crawling in the dirt we will strike a blow for our freedom.
He appeared more energetic than he had just minutes before, as though the promise of action rejuvenated him. He walked over and took Jones’ hand, pulling him up from his seat. Then Bell…and the others one at a time. “Stand with me my friends, my comrades, and remember, we are brothers in arms.”
“Yes, Captain,” Jones said, his own voice feeding off the older man’s enthusiasm. “We are all brothers in arms.” He looked at Wickes, his eyes settling on the small pocket on the old man’s tattered jacket, and the black letters printed there, barely visible after so many years. USMC.
