The Gathering Storm

by Marshall Miller

  “You have a question that you are hesitant to ask. Spit it out. You’re not going to the gulags–I’ve heard it all before.”

  Joseph took a drink of his beer, and then a deep breath. “So, Lord… Neptune helped make our slaughter efficient. Just like Himmler and company did with the Jews. Why would you cooperate with a butcher?”

  “Because, Professor, the alternative–extinction as a species–is worse. If the Invasion had taken a turn for the worse… for us, that is. If the Squids had attacked as they originally planned, a disorganized mass, they would have been quickly frustrated. Then, instead of a thousand rocks, try two, three time as many, plus a few dozen nukes. They would have grabbed some breeding stock, and left us with a world freezing from the lack of sunlight thanks to a decade of nuclear winter. Instead of one segment of the human species–the darker-skinned races–being the major source of meat, we would all be. We would have no worth, other than as chickens in a factory farm.”

  Joseph shot a hard look at Adam. “That is an awfully cold and mean decision, Director. And selfish. We sold everyone else to save our own pale skins.”

  “No, to save the human race. Actually, human species as race is an artificial construct to explain local population variations due to environmental effects. We keep the genetic basis for our ‘races’ in the DNA of the survivors. But, at least we survive as an organized species, rather than maybe, small isolated bands at best. And, we rebuild our pre-strike civilization.

  “Our Lordship has worked to convince the others of the idea of our long term benefit, not only as Cattle, but as worker bees like the grays, lizards and robos. It is the lesser of two evils. And remember, unlike the Jews in Europe, there are no allied countries to come to our rescue. Ever.”

  Silence. Joseph stared blankly ahead. Adam knew the Professor’s brain was trying to come to grips with this. As was his heart. Adam continued with his explanation without waiting for a response. “Our Lordship realizes that the Tschaaa needs us, a young species with lots of potential, which is not stagnant. He has also persuaded the majority of the other Lords of our worth, at least in the short term. He has convinced them to give his Protocol of Selective Survival a chance.

  “Because of that, in about two months, a revamped space plane will be launched to Platform One. I want you on it. You will look at those ‘flying saucers’ on board a Tschaaa generation ship.”

  Joseph’s mouth dropped open. “Humans? Going into space, and not as a slab of beef? I don’t believe it.” He finished his beer in one final gulp. “I changed my mind. I need another.”

  Adam laughed. He stood up to get another beer. Joseph sat stunned. His mind was fighting a battle in which only he could decide the outcome. Now was his chance to go to space, to explore the universe from outside Earth's atmosphere. But he would be the equivalent of a trained service dog, of use only as long as his Master, the Tschaaa, had a purpose for him.

  Adam returned and handed him his beer. Joseph sipped on it, silently staring. Adam waited calmly. He knew that Joseph had to get his mind around this. And decide. Finally, Joseph spoke. “Director, this is no bullshit, right? This isn't some cosmic joke? I know we are well past The Twilight Zone’s ‘To Serve Man’ episode, but is there a hidden agenda?”

  “No, Professor, there is no grand conspiracy. No hidden human experiments. The Tschaaa are really not that complicated. They are a species that developed due to evolutionary pressures and the occasional chance variation in their DNA, similar to humans. They just happened to develop earlier than we did, being an older species. And now, a stagnant species in this part of the galaxy.”

  “Director, can the Tschaaa keep their word? Is that a concept they have?”

  “You mean honor? Yes, they do. But, we are still an inferior species, so it is complicated. They may use some of us as a food source, but they do not torture other creatures, like some humans have done. You are either a threat, a food source–or in the last thousand years or so–a client worker species that can perform a function that will help the Tschaaa survive and reproduce.

  “We can be all three on Earth, but in space, all us live ones will only serve as client workers. The Tschaaa, as much as they like fresh kill, have limited space for live food animals on their starcraft. Fresh frozen and an amount of vat grown flesh will for the most part suffice until they reach another planet with a meat species. Except, of course, the huge ships taking the meatcicles, human sperm, ova and breeding stock back to their home world. All except what is important for the survival of the Tschaaa is left behind.”

  Adam raised his glass. “The one caveat to that is if you die in space and they have your body, you will be eaten as fresh kill. Nothing personal.” He took a slow sip.

  “What if we ate one of them?”

  “They know we ate squid, calamari, octopus, all literal cousins to them. No problems as they expect one species to prey on another, ala Darwinism, if necessary.”

  The Director grabbed another handful of popcorn. “What they do not understand is the idea of cannibalism. The fact that we can eat our own species is the ultimate perversion. They do not have Jeffrey Dahmers. A Tschaaa who realizes he ate his own would go catatonic, then die.

  “And before you ask, how do I know? Our Lord showed me a recording of a catatonic Squid. Killing your offspring, even by accident, or eating Tschaaa flesh causes them to go catatonic, then stop breathing. A disaster that wiped out a breeding area on their home world led to the surviving adults, who were the caretakers and mothers, to go catatonic. Out of twenty-nine adult survivors, all but one died within a week.”

  “How about the one exception?”

  “A breeder. She became one of the few ‘insane’ Tschaaa around. They treated her like a shaman, or an oracle as was the case at Delphi. Happens once every hundred years or so.” Adam chewed his popcorn while he let the images play in the Professor’s head.

  “Professor, we as a species have a wide range of behavior, called cultural variations. Maybe that keeps us vibrant, adaptable. The Tschaaa do not have variations. The Tschaaa have developed a very narrow range of cultural behavior, and definitely no equivalent to our idea of race. The homogenous nature of their culture probably resembles that of historical Japan, pre-World War Two.”

  “Then how do Crèches fit into things?” Joseph inquired.

  “Strictly as extended families, all within a specific cultural norm. They form a

  hierarchy much like the traditional mafia families did. They ensure no one gets out of line, and reward success amongst the young males. Females are breeders and caretakers, only limited numbers become anything else.”

  Joseph sat silently again. An old expression was that you could see someone’s gears working in their head when they were deep in thought. Adam believed the expression fit the Professor to a T.

  Finally, Joseph spoke. “There’s a big chance that all this is a fantasy. But, I can't turn down the chance of seeing humankind in space again, even in a service capacity. We deserve the stars.”

  Adam smiled. “Good. You’ll be given more details tomorrow, after this has all really sunk in. You can change your mind anytime before tomorrow morning. After that, you are literally under my control. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “One for the road?”

  “Yes, Director. I’ll need to be well-lubricated to explain this to Sarah.”

  Adam looked at him intently. “Professor, if she wishes to leave, she may. If she stays, I will find her something to do to use her teaching experience. But, she follows the rules, like everyone else.”

  “Yes, Director. May I ask you one more question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you ever think of telling the Tschaaa to go to hell? To make one last stand at resistance?”

  Adam smiled. “All the time. All the time. As does the Chief.” He drained the last of his glass. “And you will not believe me, but I have told Lord Neptune on a regular basis that I still have those thoughts. His rep
ly was laughter. Yes, even aliens have a form of laughter, and humor. Someday, I’ll have to write a book on that subject. After he laughed, he told me–like the fictional Borg–that ‘resistance is futile’ unless I really wanted another thousand rocks to rain down on us.

  “He knows that if the roles were reversed, the Tschaaa would have to accept or die. Once again, total acceptance of the rule of Darwinian selection based on some ancient religious belief, some protocol. Someone is always at the top of the food chain, and dictates to others who eats whom. As long as they can breed, the Tschaaa will do what is necessary to survive as a species.”

  “How many humans have died during the institution of these… protocols?”

  “From what we can glean about the casualty rate for humans from the Panama Canal to the frozen north, today there are about one hundred million humans. That includes us in the occupied areas, the Resistance, some four million cattle, and an indeterminate number of Ferals still in hiding.”

  He let that sink in for a moment before he continued.

  “Now if you will excuse me, I still have a few things to take care of before our Social tonight. Mary Lou will show you out.” On cue, she appeared at the door.

  “Thank you, Director,” Joseph said, and shook Adam’s hand.

  “No, thank you, Professor.”

  Sometime later, the Chief knocked on Adam’s door, then entered. “Boss, it’s almost six o’clock. The Social starts at 7:00pm sharp.” The Chief already had on his suit and tie, the Social being the only event that forced him to wear them.

  “My suit takes just five minutes to put on, Chief. Take a seat and you can brief me on what else you found out there.”

  “Another poodle gun–sorry, M-16–with a complete military sight package. A small amount of ammo with it, including twenty rounds of match grade hollow-point. No other military stuff. Most places have been picked clean in six years.”

  Out of a small kitbag he seemed to always have with him, the Chief pulled a smaller-sized replica of a Colt Peacemaker. He handed it to Adam. “This is for you. Six shots of twenty-two magnum. It works. I tested and loaded it.”

  Adam frowned. “And this is for...?”

  “Remember... Lord High Executioner?”

  Then Adam remembered. He had wanted something smaller, but effective, in case he ran into any more baby-rapers in his midst. The 9mm he had used then had created a hell of a mess with a short range shot to the head.

  He still remembered earlier today when he had told all the new arrivals that he was the Executive, Legislative, and Judicial branches all rolled into one. Then he had told them he was the Lord High Executioner as well, that he would handle in person any mistakes he let in. Like a certain serial pedophile. Judging by the silence and the looks on their faces, they believed him.

  “Thanks, Chief. Here’s hoping I don’t have to ever use it.” Adam slipped the gun into a drawer in his desk, and locked it. He raised his glass.

  “I’ll drink to that idea, tonight.” Chief raised his in kind. Both men took a drink.

  “Now, what about the air defense system I have you working on?”

  “Four former ship-mounted Phalanx systems ring us, plus a five-inch and a three-inch gun. We have over a hundred Stingers on various mounts, and one old Chaparral system with Sidewinders. We are short ammo for the Phalanx, but I think I found some more in San Diego.

  “Our gunship’s about ready to fly. Plus, two GAU 30 ex A-10 weapons are en route, with over a thousand rounds of ammo. One 20mm Gatling gun is being recovered off of an F-15.”

  “Sounds like, short of a general war, I think we have enough firepower.”

  “Yes, Boss. We have enough for a small war. For land forces, Eglin will have four M-1 tanks up and running this week, added to a dozen Bradleys.”

  The Chief slapped his forehead. “I forgot. We have a hundred AT-4s, a dozen SWAWs and six Dragon anti-tank weapons coming, so we won’t have to rely on those RPGs I ‘liberated’ from Cuba.”

  The Chief had done some wheeling and dealing with the small groups of survivors in Cuba. For food and other supplies, he had gotten a boatload of Cuban cigars, plus RPG launchers and a hundred grenades of various manufactures. By similar means, he had also obtained a thousand hand grenades, Claymore mines, and even a few anti-tank mines, from various sources in Central and South America.

  “Find anything else interesting, Chief?”

  “No new evidence of any cannibalism. I think we have pretty much nipped that in the bud. The Church of Kraken has helped, since His Lordship sent that recording to the titular head–the Most Reverend James Kray–explaining what being a Tschaaa really means.”

  Some humans had a unique ability to develop new belief systems at the drop of a hat, coming up with some new revelation to explain the meaning of everything. Creating a new religion based around the Tschaaa and some traditional Pagan beliefs was what the Church of Kraken was. The problem was that early adherents felt that to be a Kraken meant you had to consume human flesh like the Tschaaa did.

  Lord Neptune, at Adam’s prodding, had developed a filmed recording explaining that the eating of one’s own species was an abomination that would result in a quick trip to a harvester–after Adam and Company were allowed to ‘tenderize’ the blasphemers. When your new gods’ local representative tells you directly that you are screwing the pooch, you usually listen. At least in public.

  On the base, there were some one hundred members of the new church. Amongst the Conch Republicans, close to a fourth of the some five thousand humans were converts. They bent over backwards if Adam mentioned that the Tschaaa Lord wanted something done.

  “Well, Chief, let me put my party clothes on and we’ll get going. I believe this will probably the last one of these we will be doing for a while. I think I need to get everyone settled before we bring anymore newbies in.”

  “What about the Cubans?” The Chief had recruited six surviving Cuban military members and their families who had helped him obtain some of the leftover hardware, Cuban cigars and–for the Tschaaa–sugar cane. Apparently, raw sugarcane was something that did not exist on the Tschaaa home world, although something similar but not as flavorful did. The Tschaaa here had suddenly developed one hell of a sweet tooth.

  In the early days of the Invasion, when some ninety percent of the Cubans had been harvested due to the relatively dark skin of the populace, the survivors hid in the hills. Cuba had been split between the Tschaaa Lord that controlled South America and Lord Neptune in a resource sharing agreement. The South American Lord was not that interested in the Islands so he had let Neptune take over the Cuban area after a week of hectic harvesting. A small Crèche breeding area was set up in the warm waters.

  When Adam and he Chief had come on the scene and made a foray looking for salvageable goods on a depopulated island, they had made contacts with the survivors and had brought back a bunch of raw cane, not only to satisfy everyone’s sweet tooth but also in the hopes of possible ethanol production. By pure chance, the Tschaaa had also tried eating some of the cane as it resembled a bamboo like plant from their home world they used for medicinal purposes and “teeth” cleaning (The Tschaaa had their version of dental structures).

  One taste and it was a match made in heaven. Now, a small group of humans tried to keep some of the fields producing, as well as harvesting wild plants. Adam had brought some plants back, and was growing them in their greenhouses. He was also trying to get some fields growing near Miami.

  The Tschaaa young would eat all they could find, and the breeders claimed it helped during their pregnancy. Now there was another reason to look kindly at humans other than as a snack. The six surviving Cuban military members and their extended families–some fifty men, women and children–wanted to relocate to the Base. They were entirely beholden to the Chief for providing supplies that kept them alive, and would do anything for him.

  “Well, let’s bring the families over in a few months, with the caveat that they help us
keep the sugar cane available. It gives us a nice bargaining chip with Lord Neptune and the Lord in South America.”

  “Yeah,” the Chief said. “Lord Neptune acts like a kid a the candy store when you mention sugar cane.”

  “Then it’s settled. Now, let me get ready for this damn Social.”

  At two minutes before 7:00pm, Adam entered the large auditorium, now reimagined as a large party room. A dozen or so round dining tables had been set up with multicolored tablecloths and decorations. As delightful as the surroundings were, they were not what truly set the festive mood of the event. It was the women. Every woman had been provided with a glamorous, formal dress that was tailored specifically for her.

  Adam had found some dozen former dressmakers, designers, and tailors and convinced them to come to Key West. It was an easy decision for starving individuals in a currently underutilized profession. Not to mention some hairdressers and makeup artists, survivors of Hollywood. Additionally, he had several young apprentices gleaned from the children brought in the last four years to learn the ropes.

  The transformations at these Socials were always surprising, and some simply astounding. Women, who a few days before had the beginnings of the thousand yard stare, were now alive, attractive, and sometimes downright ravishing creatures. As Adam began to make the rounds with the Chief, mingling, a woman would suddenly come up to him, grab his hand, hug him, or kiss him, usually speechless. The husbands of those married would be there, usually in the background, telling Adam and the Chief with a look, “Thank you for bringing back the love of my life.”

  A more than occasional tear would threaten to ruin makeup, and Mary Lou, Jeanie and Jamey would hustle the woman off for a quick repair job. Maybe it was a crass fantasy that he was perpetuating on some very vulnerable people, but Adam did not care. He could not save all humans, but he could make a difference in a small number, one day at a time. If some of them felt beholden over an act of kindness, so be it.

  As he was extricating himself from a bear hug from a very small but very powerful woman, his gut suddenly told him there was someone behind him. Before he could turn around, he heard “Hello... Boss.”