"Now leave," Ward said. "A car is waiting for you at the compound gates. Return to your apartment, and think about what you've learned."
She rose to leave. Hands shaky, she dressed and approached the door.
Before she could step outside, the general grabbed her arm. He stared into her eyes.
"Maria, you may think of running. Of disappearing into the slums or the wilderness. Wherever you go, I will hunt you. I would find you. And then I would make you suffer. That does not need to be your life." He brushed away her tears and stroked her hair. "You are clever and courageous. I've known many clever and courageous soldiers. They die young. Wisdom is prudence. And prudence is only earned with scars. I taught you that today. You took out your queen too early, Maria. Tomorrow you will play more wisely."
She left his home.
She returned to her apartment in the ivory tower.
She approached the chessboard on her table, and she knocked over the black queen.
Chapter Seventeen
The Long Arm of Earth
Henry "Hank" Hale, the fifth President of United Earth and the Human Commonwealth, sprinkled salt on the baby octopus on his plate. The tentacles flailed, and Hale licked his lips.
"Look how they squirm! Delectable."
The critter wriggled on the plate, knocking over a sliced carrot. Hale sprinkled a pinch more of salt, and the tentacles fluttered with more vigor. The animal mewled.
"That is absolutely disgusting." Sitting across from him, the young actor wrinkled his nose. "Give me a good old American cheeseburger anytime. Not something that crawled out of the Black Lagoon."
Hale began sharpening his knife. He always sharpened his knife at the table. He liked his blades, like his meat, as fresh as possible.
"Eating dead meat is so barbaric," Hale said, stroking his blade. "You see, when I devour living meat, it is perfectly fresh. And nothing is fresher than life."
The actor pushed away his plate, leaving his own meal—fried halibut—untouched. "Do you have to torture the poor thing?"
Hale squeezed lemon onto the octopus. It squirmed across the plate. "I have so much to teach you, my dear friend. Pain and fear enhance the flavor. They give the feast its zest. We humans are apex predators, young Tommy. Many of us have grown soft. Domesticated. But through war and feasting, we kindle the lost senses."
He sliced off a tentacle, wrapped the flailing limb around his fork, and devoured it. Delicious.
Tommy Turner grimaced. "I've completely lost my appetite. That's the most disgusting thing I've ever seen. And I had to fight a giant swamp slug in Ensign Earth IV."
President Hale sighed. His nephew was weak. The man was twenty-seven, but he still had the soul of a little boy.
"At your age, Tommy, I was already an army captain, commanding infantry companies on Ganymede. And you can barely handle fighting a man in a rubber suit on a movie set." He severed another tentacle. "I would devour you alongside my octopus if you weren't so useful."
Tommy stiffened. "Please, Uncle. I fight too! In my own way. When I put on my costume, people look. People listen to my slogans. I inspire them!" He rose to his feet and raised his fist. "Ensign Earth needs you to fight!"
Hale snorted. He pointed his fork at his nephew. The tentacle on the prongs quivered, spraying butter.
"That character you play in your infantile movies is perhaps a soldier. You never served a day in your life. I pulled strings to get you out of the army because of your cowardice."
"Because of my flat feet," Tommy insisted, crossing his arms. "And my movies aren't infantile. They tell a modern mythology."
"Yes, yes," Hale said. "When you put on your blue cape, you strike a heroic pose. Your wide jaw. Your perfect golden hair. Your gleaming blue eyes. Your muscles bulging against your skin tight jumpsuit."
"And my shield," Tommy said. "Don't forget my shield. It has Planet Earth painted on it, and it's magnificent."
"Indeed, the image impresses the masses," Hale said. "I know you as my pathetic, quivering nephew. But to the mob, you are a hero. You inspire them to fight. And what heroic figure does the other side have? Those anti-war traitors?" He barked a laugh. "They only have Lizzy Pascal. A one-armed cripple."
Tommy laughed. "She's pathetic, isn't she? What a miserable loser that Lizzy—"
"She is raising crowds against me!" Hale shouted, rising to his feet so suddenly his chair fell back. "She is going to cost me the upcoming election!"
He hurled his cup of wine. It hit Tommy and spilled all over him. The octopus seized the opportunity to crawl off the plate, sans a few tentacles.
"Uncle, really!" Tommy winced, sopping wet. "This is an Orion silk shirt, and—"
"That's all you care about, you vain imbecile! You care about your precious silk shirts, while Lizzy Pascal is raising the masses against us!" Hale stomped around the table, grabbed his nephew by the ear, and dragged him like a little boy. "Look at them! See them rally!"
"Ow, ow, Uncle, please!"
Hale ignored the pathetic pleading. He pulled Tommy to the balcony, yanked open the doors, and dragged the young man outside.
There below it spread.
The mob.
A hundred thousand of them covered Central Park, all of them chanting.
"War no more! War no more!"
The balcony was cloaked with an Invisi-Shield. The president and actor could look down upon the crowd. But the crowd would see only an empty balcony. Hale had been spending hours here, watching them, brooding, nursing his hatred.
"Traitors," he hissed. "Traitors—all of them. If this weren't an election year, I'd mow them down with battle-copters."
"Oh God, there she is." Tommy pointed and wrinkled his nose. "Lizzy. She's not even wearing a superhero outfit."
Yes, Hale could see her too. Sergeant Lizzy Pascal was still recovering from her wounds. She wasn't using a wheelchair anymore, though she still had that ghastly prosthetic hand. She raised the fist of metal gears and rods, and she spoke into a megaphone.
"President Hale, we call upon you to end the bombing on Bahay! How many more innocents will die? How many more soldiers will return in coffins? How many more villages will burn? Bring our boys and girls home!"
"Bring them home!" chanted the crowd.
A girl stepped forward, her red hair flowing in the breeze. She stepped onto a stage and lifted a microphone.
Hale's temper flared.
"If it isn't little Kaelyn Williams," he muttered. "That ginger bitch."
"I kind of like her voice—" Tommy began, then wilted under Hale's glower. "I mean—that bitch!"
The girl began to sing. Her voice was operatic yet gentle, soaring yet soothing. She sang a song called "Bring Them Home," which she herself had written. It had become something of an anthem for the traitors. Soon the entire crowd was singing with her.
"I wish I could sing like that," Tommy said. "The Ensign Earth movies really do need songs. Maybe just one per film. Like James Bond."
Hale dragged the actor back into the penthouse. He slammed the balcony door shut.
"Get into your costume," he said. "Cape, shield, the works. I want you to record another reel. We'll release it tonight."
Tommy bristled. "It's Sunday. It's my day off."
"Dammit, you imbecile, there are no days off in war. Put on your uniform and serve your country."
The octopus was making its way to the door. Hale stomped it under his shoe.
* * * * *
An hour later, Tommy was dressed up as Ensign Earth. A skintight blue uniform. A billowing cape. A shield painted with planet Earth. The blond, blue-eyed actor stood in President Hale's home studio. Hale had spared no expense building the place. The buffoons in Hollywood had turned against him. A bunch of drugged-out traitors! With their shaggy hair, film degrees, and greed, they were useless. Hale had pulled his nephew out of that hive of serpents. Here from his tower, the grandest building in New York, Hale produced his own films. From here he could control the mo
b.
Hale stood in the studio by the cameraman, arms crossed, overseeing the production.
Fans blew, billowing Ensign Earth's cape. The hero smiled at the camera, teeth brilliantly white.
"Hello there, fellow heroes. This is Ensign Earth, reporting to duty!" He saluted. "I'm proud to fight for Earth."
Children sat in the studio, beaming at the chance to meet their hero. They returned the salute. "For Earth!"
Ensign Earth winked. "As you know, my favorite thing in the world is defending Earth. And the best way to defend Earth is to kill Kalayaan Kenny!"
Another actor stepped on stage. He wore a skirt of banana leaves and a straw hat. Fake buck teeth protruded from his mouth, yellow makeup caked his skin, and tape tugged the corners of his eyes, narrowing them.
"Herro! I am Karayaan Kenny! I am here to conquer Earth!"
Ensign Earth kicked the actor. The fake Bahayan fell, moaning and begging. His straw hat rolled. The children laughed. The Kenny fled the stage, not without Ensign Earth delivering a last kick, this one to his rump. The children cheered.
Ensign Earth turned back toward the cameras. "Together, we're going to defeat those dastardly Bahayans. That's what heroes do! And I know that you all—" Suddenly he gasped theatrically. He turned toward the side of the stage. "Oh my! But if it isn't my archnemesis, Lizzy the Louse!"
Another actor wobbled onto the stage in high heels. He wore a blond wig and enormous fake breasts. One of his hands was covered in tinfoil, mimicking a prosthetic. It was a grotesque caricature; just what the masses loved.
"I'm going to get you, Ensign Earth!" This new villain spoke in falsetto. He cracked an electric whip. "Nobody can defeat Lizzy the Louse! I'm going to help Kenny destroy Earth!"
"Not if I have anything to say about it!" Ensign Earth boomed.
Lizzy the Louse lashed her whip at him. Ensign Earth blocked it with his shield, then gave Lizzy the Louse a few theatrical punches and kicks. An engineer behind the stage added the appropriate sound effects.
Lizzy's wig fell off, revealing a bald head. The actor gasped and fled the stage—not without Ensign Earth delivering a final kick, this one to Lizzy's backside. The children laughed.
President Hale turned away in disgust. What drivel! And yet the commoners ate it up. His nephew was a simpering coward, but ironically, he did better work than half of Hale's generals.
Speaking of generals…
President Hale had a call to make.
He climbed onto the roof of his tower. From up here, he could see the skyline of New York all around him. The wind beat at his suit. The damn wind-dampeners were failing again. The mechanic had promised to finally fix them, yet here the wind gusted. Hale would make sure to destroy the man and his family. But for now he had a more immediate concern.
Three satellite dishes rose from the roof, pointing skyward, each sprouting an antenna. As the wind whipped his jacket, Hale approached a control panel, cursing the wind-dampener technician with every step. By the time he reached the controls, he had decided to skin the man alive.
He tapped a few buttons. The satellite dishes moved into position. He flicked a switch, and purple beams burst from each antenna. They met in the center, forming a ball of light. Then, with the flick of another switch, the triangle cast a central beam into the sky.
A wormhole.
There were larger wormholes in space. Wormholes so large you could fly starships through them. Ancient aliens had built them millions of years ago. In fact, Earth's fleet used the Wormhole Road to reach Bahay.
Wormholes that large required massive energy, more than Earth scientists knew how to produce. When it came to flying starships through wormholes, Earth relied on alien infrastructure. But a century ago, Professor Noah Isaac had discovered how to build narrow wormholes, only a few atoms wide. Earth had already discovered faster-than-light travel by then, allowing its starships to warp spacetime. But with Isaac Wormholes, humans also mastered FTL communication.
A century ago, presidents had to send starships to the colonies to deliver orders, Hale thought. It could take weeks if not months. Thank God for wormholes.
He spoke into a microphone, and his voice traveled three hundred light-years through space within instants.
"Chuck. Chuck, dammit, you there? Answer me."
For a moment, silence.
Then a video feed appeared on a monitor, coming all the way from Bahay, orbiting the star Sargas light-centuries away.
"Hello, Mister President."
General Charles "Chuck" Ward was pulling on a robe, tightening it around his sweaty chest. A girl lay in the bed behind him. A lovely little Bahayan thing, no older than Hale's granddaughter.
"Chuck, you're shirtless, sweaty, and still hard from banging that little slit," Hale said. "Don't you Mister President me."
The general smiled, which he did rarely. "Of course, Hank. Hang on." He turned toward the bed. "Maria, give us some privacy please."
The girl pulled a blanket around her nakedness and left the room. Hale felt his blood stir.
Sweet little thing, he thought. Maria. What a lovely name.
The general watched her leave, then turned back toward the monitor.
"Sorry about that, Hank," he said.
"My God, Chuck, she's lovely." Hale licked his lips. "I envy you, my friend. You get to visit a tropical paradise, kill a bunch of slit men in the morning, then bang their women at night. Sometimes I wish I never went into politics. I could be with you now."
The two men had gone to Julius Military Academy together. They had fought alien pirates together. They had stormed Ganymede Stronghold together, two young officers hungry for action and glory. By God, those had been good days. Back when Hale wore a uniform instead of a suit. Back when he could shoot his enemies instead of producing these ridiculous superhero reels. Back when he could kill, conquer, and fuck day and night, and not a single broadcaster would shove a camera in his face.
Maybe Chuck was the smart one, he thought. He remained a soldier.
"Don't envy me!" the general said. "There are mosquitoes here the size of pigeons, and the heat could melt your balls. But you didn't call to talk about the weather. What's going on, Hank?"
Hale heaved a sigh. "The torrents of shit creek are flowing hard around me, Chuck. Every day there are demonstrations against the war. And the goddamn leaks don't stop. The photos of that fucking backwater slit village hit us hard. I've got an election to win, Chuck. And that goddamn Lizzy Pascal and the rest of the traitors are a pain in my ass."
"We found the source of the leak." The general's face hardened. "A group of slit whores. They're rotting in prison now."
"I need more than that, dammit." Hale clenched his fists. "I need some victories. The goddamn traitor media is saying we can't win the war. That we're losing. That we lost Basilica."
"Basilica was destroyed," General Ward said. "I call that a victory."
"Not without the Red Cardinal's head!" Hale shouted, rage suddenly overwhelming him. "I want his head on a platter, Chuck. And I want his celibate dick served beside it. You hear me? I want that red bastard butchered!"
The general's eyes darkened. "He's not a regular cardinal. He has… powers. Some say they're alien powers."
"And we have a goddamn army!" Hale shouted. "So use it! Intensify the bombings. I want our bombers flying over North Bahay around the clock. I want more enemy villages burning. I want to pound those slanty-eyes shits so hard their ancestors will die. You hear me, you son of a bitch? Whatever you're doing, do it harder. We need to win this war before the election—or at least butcher so many of the yellow little fuckers they'll beg for mercy."
The general was quiet for a moment. He took a deep breath and spoke carefully. "Hank, can I be honest? Let me be honest. As an old friend. We've bombed them a lot. We've probably killed two or three million of the little bastards by now. That's not going to win us the war."
Hale sneered. "It doesn't need to win the war. It just needs to look
like we're winning before the election. Next time I turn on the news, I don't want to read about any traitors like Lizzy Pascal, or see any leaked photos of gang rapes and dead babies. I want to see reports of Earth forces conquering territory and destroying the enemy. I don't care if you kill enemy soldiers or civilians, I just want our flag planted on every godforsaken hill in North Bahay. Understood?"
The general nodded. "Understood, Hank. I'll—"
Hale hung up on him.
He returned indoors. He walked past the studio, ignoring his feeble-minded nephew, who was still performing for the cameras like a trained seal. The buffoon was now battling an actor dressed as the Red Cardinal. Hale walked past the balcony, ignoring the protests outside. Finally the president entered his bedroom.
He picked up the phone. He called his chief of staff.
"Doug? This is Hank. Yes, goddammit—Henry 'Hank' Hale, your president. Send up an escort. No, not another sexbot. A real girl this time. I want her young. Very young. Asian. I want her to look Bahayan. None of your business why! Get it done. I want her in my room within the hour."
He hung up.
He looked at himself in the mirror. A sixty-year-old man. Steel-gray hair. Hard blue eyes.
Old.
An old man in an expensive suit.
This goddamn job was killing him.
"God, I miss the wars," he said to his reflection.
Finally, with a minute to spare, a knock sounded on the door. A meek girl entered. She was too pale to be Bahayan—was probably Chinese or Japanese or whatever goddamn countries they had over there. But she was young and pretty enough.
"Sir?" she whispered, bowing her head.
"Welcome, Maria," he said.
"But sir, my name is Seohyun, I—"
"Your name is Maria tonight." He held her hand and guided her toward the bed. "Don't talk anymore."
He conquered her. Like he used to. He was still a conqueror.
An hour later, after he had kicked her out, the president lay on the sweaty sheets and stared at the ceiling. Yes, he missed being a soldier. He envied the generals on the field. It was lonely in the ivory tower.
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