Markis himself had been dressed in a simple black suit with a high collar, twin to Spectre’s own but lacking the yellow piping, which he understood to be indicative of Blended status. “Blends…” he’d said to Spectre with a tinge of disgust. “The new lords of the Earth. Somehow it seems the Meme won anyway.”
“Now, Daniel,” Spectre replied, “that’s like saying the designers of the Eden Plague won, or the developers of the Tiny Fortress nanobots won.”
“I don’t see the analogy,” Markis said as they strolled deeper into the palace complex, attended by a phalanx of alert Skulls who shooed everyone out of their way.
“When a Meme blends with an underling, to one of the Pure Race it becomes that underling: contaminated and lesser. It is no longer Meme. To put it in mid-twentieth-century terms, it’s as if a respected and powerful man gave up all responsibility, wealth and influence to join a hippie commune, smoke dope and screw everything in sight. More fun, far less power.”
“The difference is, these dropouts have special privileges in the commune,” Markis retorted.
“You think so?”
“They rule and enforce your will, don’t they?”
“I think I’ve given you the wrong impression, DJ. With the exception of myself, my Blends are required to wear the yellow all the time so the Skulls can keep a close eye on them. Any found not so marked, even in private, can be executed on sight. The only privileges they have are to follow my orders or die. In fact, of the original sixty-four Blends, only forty-nine remain, and of their children, less than half. I had to purge the rest of them.”
“Purge? You mean kill.”
“I mean execute as enemies of Earth. Those embodied the worst of the traits of corrupt power – the traits you pointed out.”
The two men and their attendants swept around a broad corner into a courtyard where only a pair of gardeners tended the greenery, which was covered by netting on poles. Markis could see and hear birds among the bearing fruit trees – peaches, pears, plums and others. January was, of course, midsummer in the southern hemisphere.
“I hear you had to purge a lot of non-Blends too.”
Spectre reached out to set a hand on Markis’ shoulder. “I’ve done what I had to do. With only a few exceptions, I’ve never been cruel, or reveled in it.”
Markis eyes narrowed. “A few exceptions? I’ve found those often prove the rule.”
“Yes. You want to know which cruelties I enjoyed?”
Markis nodded slowly.
“You remember Huff, the man who kidnapped your children and Larry’s?”
“Of course.” Markis said with indrawn breath.
“What punishment is sufficient for such a heinous act?”
“He didn’t kill them.”
“Only because I prevented it. He would have, without compunction.”
“Isn’t that what Psychos do?”
Spectre sighed. “That’s merely a catchall term for those that fall too far outside the norm. There is no one profile for such an Outlier. There’s an enormous difference between amoral – lacking in moral compunction, which is how I see myself – and immoral, those who do evil for its own sake or for the pleasure of doing it. Huff was of the latter type, though if you remember he was never infected with the Eden Plague. His twisted soul was all his own. The nanites he received merely convinced him of his own power. He chose to do evil of his own free will, and I punished him for it.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“What if he had killed them, Daniel? What if I returned mangled corpses to you instead of live children? Does it matter what he managed to do, or was his intention and demonstrated willingness to do evil enough to convict him in your mind?”
Markis licked his lips and turned away, thinking. “He needed to be stopped.”
“And punished, whether you admit it or not. I did so. I inflicted continuous and exquisite torture upon his body until his mind broke. And what’s more, I enjoyed this vengeance on your behalf.”
“Dammit, Spooky, why are you telling me this?”
“Because you need to know what kind of man I really am. You’ve fooled yourself for too long, thinking that I am somehow greater than you. But I’m not. I am a monster: a monster you need, to create the better world you’ve always talked about.”
Spectre waved Markis to a seat at a table that servants had rapidly set up, bringing food and drink to set upon it before withdrawing. Pouring two glasses of wine, the Regent of Earth placed one before Daniel and sipped from the other.
Markis ignored the drink and said, “We don’t need monsters in government to scare the populace into doing their utmost. The invasion did that. As I understand it, every schoolchild and every worker is thoroughly briefed on the enemy. They know if they don’t work as hard as they can, everyone here will be eaten. Isn’t that enough?”
Spectre raised an eyebrow. “Did you know that protests and sabotage are increasing? That agitations for more worker rights, more consumer goods, more time off is spreading?”
“All the more reason to begin loosening your fist. People work better when fear isn’t their only motivator.”
Spectre set his glass upon the linen tablecloth and rotated it idly by its stem. “Did you know that no revolt, no real revolution was ever driven primarily by oppression?”
“What do you mean? Everyone knows that when you trample on people, they push back.”
“That’s folklore, yes. ‘Common knowledge.’ Ask a professor of history or sociology, though, and he will tell you that the great revolutions and civil wars of history were precipitated by threats to rising expectations. The French, the Russian, the American revolutions; Mao’s red revolution. The English and American Civil Wars. The most dangerous time for any society is when the increasing prosperity of the lower and middle classes, the uptick in their standards of living, perceived or real, is endangered, not when they are downtrodden.”
“What about Spartacus and the slave rebellion?”
“Even that. The slaves of Rome were generally well treated. These weren’t like the slaves of the American South. Roman slaves could own property, had a certain level of civil rights enshrined in law, and had a respected place in society. The slave of a patrician lived better – and freer – than many free men.”
“You haven’t addressed Spartacus.”
Spectre drank from his glass. “Spartacus was an enslaved military man sold as a gladiator, who rebelled because of his own individual desire for freedom. His leadership inspired other enslaved gladiators to join him, and then others with nothing to lose – quarry slaves, for example. Fear of his rebellion caused Rome to clamp down on the rights of its numerous urban slaves, threatening their prosperity and driving thousands of them to join the revolt. You see?”
Markis picked up his glass and took a convulsive drink of the wine. “So what’s your point? I thought you were going to put me to work here, maybe improving conditions of this society you’ve built. Now it seems you want me to become an oppressor like you.”
Spectre shook his head slowly. “No, Daniel. I’d never want you to become like me, though I will say any oppression I have perpetrated was all for the cause of the defense of Earth and for the re-education of the humanity I inherited. Actually, I want you to do exactly what you’re doing: opposing me in private, though for now, only in private. Later, we will orchestrate your opposition to me in the public sphere.”
Markis strangled a cough. “You want opposition? Aren’t you ruthlessly suppressing it right now?”
“I want considered opposition from a man who’s governed nations, not knee-jerk protests from those who wouldn’t know what to do with freedom if they had it.”
“How do you know what they’ll do with it if they never have any?”
Spectre pointed his finger. “That’s exactly what I mean. You say things I need to hear, things full of truth and idealism I lack. You are the light to my dark. I’m not such a fool as to think the world
can prosper in my shadow. The night is necessary. Without suffering through it, how can they appreciate the dawn? But prosperity comes only in daylight.”
“I don’t buy that. Not the way you’re implementing it. Putting people through a certain amount of hardship builds character, but your Skulls are killing people. The dead don’t learn anything.”
“No, but they provide a powerful example to others.”
“An example that builds resentment,” Markis said.
“In that, you are correct. That is why my time is limited to only long enough to set you up for success.”
Markis rubbed his temples. “This is all too Machiavellian for me.”
“Funny you should use that term. Do you realize where it comes from?”
“Some old Italian politician, I believe.”
“The Florentine Niccolo Machiavelli wrote The Prince in the early sixteenth century. It details how to rule in the real world, and explains why many fail. One of his stratagems for maintaining power through changing times is illustrated in Frank Herbert’s classic Dune. Have you read it?”
“A long time ago. I really don’t remember it very well. Lots of politics.”
Spectre stood up to pace around the table, plucking a pork rib from a plate and eating as he walked. “I’ll simplify the story as much as I can.”
“That would be nice.”
“The world of Arrakis, named Dune by most, produced the most precious substance in the known universe, called Spice, a drug which extended life, among other things. When the widely hated Baron Vladimir Harkonnen was ceded control of Arrakis by the Emperor, he knew he would have difficulty inspiring the populace and maintaining Spice production, so he brought in his nephew Rabban, nicknamed ‘The Beast.’ This man oppressed the people worse than anyone before or since, committing terrible atrocities in his quest for more and more Spice. Soon, the planet had been brought to the brink of revolt.”
“Proving what I said about oppression bringing rebellion.”
“Actually it proves my contention. It was not the atrocities that invited opposition, though they fueled its fear. The Beast Rabban threatened their prosperity, their livelihoods, their hope for the future.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
Spectre laughed and pointed a finger at the sky. “But the Baron had a plan. His goal was to put his favored nephew and heir, Feyd-Rautha, in charge for the long term. So, just as his spies reported that the various opposing factions were about to unite and rebel, he swept in, apologized to the people of Dune, executed Rabban and installed Feyd. Feyd was as cruel and corrupt as any Harkonnen, but by comparison to Rabban he was a saint. The local powers-that-be welcomed him with relief and open arms, and counted themselves lucky to be delivered from the Beast.”
“And did it work?”
“Actually, the Emperor had a Machiavellian plan of his own. All along he had intended to make Baron Harkonnen his Beast, with his daughter, Princess Irulan, cast in the role of the Machiavellian Prince to rescue the poor suffering people of Dune. A maneuver within a maneuver.”
Markis realized he was getting hungry, and reached for food to begin building himself a sandwich out of lean roast beef. “So I’m to be the Irulan to your Beast?”
“I knew you’d understand.”
Markis spoke around a mouthful of red meat. “It would have been much simpler to explain that plainly. Then I could make a straightforward decision.”
“Oh, where’s the fun in that, Daniel? Besides, I suspect you’ll remember this little talk for a long, long time. Or at least, its conclusion.” Spectre clapped his hands and a servant came running. After a word in his ear, the messenger hurried off and the two men sat and ate in silence for a few minutes.
As Spectre and Markis moved on to dessert, a group of hard-eyed Skulls led a coffle of six men and three women, hands and feet chained and wearing magenta jumpsuits, to stand them against one blank stone wall of the courtyard. Some of the prisoners seemed defiant, others defeated. All wore tight leather gags buckled over their mouths.
The Skulls attached their hands to steel rings set above their heads, and then backed up. Seven formed a line in front of the captives. They began checking their weapons. As they did, a cameraman and an earnest young female reporter with a microphone stood off to the side, taking video.
Markis put aside his bowl of ice cream. “Is this what I think it is? A firing squad?”
“Exactly,” Spectre said, his eyes flat and hard.
“What did these people do?”
“They committed various high crimes. Rape. Murder. Sabotage. The man in the middle glaring daggers at me organized an assassination cell and came close to killing one of our Blends.”
“But why?”
Spectre turned his black eyes on Markis. “Workers here on Earth have a hard life. Long hours, bland food, few consumer goods, minimal entertainment.”
“While we sit here eating well.”
“The people expect their overlords to have privileges. This table isn’t extravagant. It’s little more than a good backyard barbecue in the old days.”
“Everything’s relative.”
Spectre shrugged. “We’re at war, after all. But even were they given Paradise, some snakes would be unhappy. It’s in the nature of people to find something about which to be dissatisfied. They crave power or desire to perform an act of significance, even if it’s evil, in order to prove their lives have meaning. And, an established power structure is always a lightning rod for opposition.”
“But you don’t need to execute them. Capital punishment has never proven to be an effective deterrent. Not to people committed to a cause.”
“This isn’t about deterrence, Daniel. Not really. We simply don’t have the resources to put people like this in prison, and incarceration for thirty or forty years, which in former times turned hardened criminals into the decrepit elderly, is also pointless with our long lifespans. No, this does two things. It reminds the larger populace, the great unwashed who are like sheep, that helping evildoers carries the ultimate penalty…and it eliminates them as individual problems.”
“Doesn’t it create martyrs?”
“My media is very effective at portraying them as degenerate criminals, not people to be admired. Unlike some fools throughout history with their ‘war on drugs’ or ‘war on terrorism,’ I never declared a ‘war on rebellion,’ or a war on anything except the Scourge. Declaring war dignifies the opposition, and that creates martyrs. No, I piss on those that oppose me, and then I kill them.”
Markis shook his head. “I can’t agree with this, Spooky. I can’t be part of this.”
“I know. That’s why I want you to replace me. So you can do away with such harsh measures and restore society to a semblance of normalcy.”
“Why can’t you do it yourself? Change your policies?”
Spectre rubbed his knuckles as if they hurt. “Pain is often necessary, but few are grateful to the one that inflicts it, especially after the threat is gone.”
“To him I will give authority over the nations; and he shall rule them with a rod of iron, as the vessels of the potter are broken to pieces,” Markis quoted, his eyes far away and avoiding those chained to the wall.
Spectre raised an eyebrow. “Revelation 2:26-27.”
“You have a good memory.”
“I have a perfect memory. It’s a curse and a blessing of the Blending. But as I said, I am no messiah.”
“That passage doesn’t refer to the messiah,” Markis said, still staring at the prisoners with hooded eyes. “It is the Lord God speaking, and it refers to ‘one faithful man’ he will appoint as his Earthly ruler during the Millenium. And it goes on to say, and I will give him the morning star. That alludes to the position of primacy among all created beings, the one held by the angel Lucifer before his rebellion.”
“Exactly! That’s you, Daniel,” Spectre said, leaning forward with great intensity. “You are the rightful holder of the morning star, not me.”
The leader of the detail of Skulls held up a hand and gave the command, “Ready!”
Markis gripped his glass until his hand shook. “This isn’t right, Spooky. You wouldn’t have done this in the old days. Did Blending change you so much?”
“No, Daniel. I haven’t changed. You simply never knew what I had to do in Australia back then because I didn’t do it publicly. I made people like this disappear. They were interrogated, given bullets in the head, and then dumped into unmarked graves. Now my purposes have changed. I want this publicized. Thus, the reporter and camera.”
“First criminal. Aim!” the officer called, and the firing squad brought their assault rifles to their shoulders.
“Your purpose? I thought you claimed your purpose was to protect Earth.”
“It is, in the long run. But I refer to my immediate purpose, which is to remove threats…and to be hated.”
Markis shifted his gaze back and forth from Spectre to the prisoners. “Stop this, Tran! What you’re doing is insane. It can’t end well.”
“Not for me, no. Not here and now. But for you…”
“Fire!” A volley of shots rang out and the first man in line sagged, his chest turned to hamburger. The other prisoners writhed and tugged at their chains, but to no avail. “Criminal number two: Aim!”
“Stop it, Nguyen! I’ll take over for you, only stop this killing.”
Spectre shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
“Then I’ll refuse to do what you want.”
“You can’t have it both ways, Daniel. If you want the authority to change the system, you have to accept the power and responsibility that comes with it.”
“Fire!” Prisoner number two sagged and died.
Markis’ face became a mask of anger as he stood to seize Spectre by the front of his uniform. Skulls raced to point weapons, but the Blend held up a hand to halt them. “You see? You know how to apply violence too, Daniel, and deep down you know I’m right about this. The more they come to hate me, the more they’ll love you when you rescue them from the Beast.”
“Criminal number three! Aim!”
Conquest and Empire (Stellar Conquest Series Book 5) Page 6