by Jay Allan
“It is well-deserved, Devon.” Frasier wasn’t sure how much of an honor it was. He would never sell his Marines short, but he knew how great the chance was that they’d all die inside Admiral West’s ships, blasted to plasma before they even got the chance to set foot on the ground. And, if they landed, the mission still seemed damn near impossible.
It’s the ‘damn near’ that opens the door for the Marines, though…
Frasier felt some satisfaction in his blind faith in the men and women of the Corps, enough to drive back the despair threatening to take him, at least.
“You have served well, a career I can only describe as spotless. It is fitting that you assume this command, perhaps the most important deployment since the fleet arrived at Earth Two.”
Frasier was still tense, but it had nothing to do with Tanks and NBs, nor with the long odds against the operation. He was sending the heart of the Corps on a desperate mission, far from Earth Two. That alone would be hard enough…but the fact that he wasn’t going with them drove him to the limits of his endurance. He should be at their head, and nothing could have kept him from that spot, save for the very thing that did. The direct order of the commander-in-chief. There was no way Frasier could override President Harmon’s command…and even if he could, disobeying the supreme commander was something he didn’t have in him.
“Devon…” Frasier hesitated.
“Sir?”
“You know the odds on this mission…”
“The Corps doesn’t look at odds, sir.”
“I’m sorry, Devon.” Frasier was still struggling with the fact that he just didn’t believe any of his people would be back. “It’s just…” His words trailed off.
“Sir, it is my honor to lead the expedition, to fight for Earth Two…and, if need be, to die in that effort. We all know the price we may be asked to pay when we enter training, General. My life has been the Corps’, from my earliest days of adulthood to now. I am a Marine. It is what I am. What I will always be.”
“Very well, Colonel. Though that is the last time I will call you that.” Frasier reached down to his desk and picked up a small box. Before you go, try these on.” He reached out and handed the small box to Cameron, watching as the officer opened it to reveal a pair of shiny platinum stars.
“General Frasier…” Cameron looked stunned, and Frasier knew why. In the forty-two years of its existence, there had never been more than one general in Earth Two’s Marine Corps. Now, there were two.
“Congratulations, Brigadier Cameron. You’ve earned those stars…and all that they mean.”
“Thank you, General.” Cameron was almost speechless, his words choked, barely forced from his suddenly dry throat. “I don’t know what else to say…”
“There is nothing else to say, Devon.” A short pause. “Good luck, Brigadier Cameron. Bring ’em hell.”
* * *
“Achilles, thank you for coming.” Max Harmon was the absolute dictator of Earth Two, and any order that came from his mouth theoretically carried the full force of law. But, he was well aware that the reality was far more complex, and even in his powerful position, he knew control of the Mules was…tentative…at best.
“Mr. President.” The informal leader of the Hybrids stepped inside the palatial office of Earth Two’s leader. As he often did, Harmon felt a twinge of discomfort at the extravagance on display. Some of it was intentional, pushed on him as much by his aides as anything else, and their insistence his station required an appearance that matched the power he wielded. Harmon himself had always had simple tastes. A desk and a chair of some comfort would have suited him, as would a modest home instead of the great mansion in which he lived, perhaps with a small library, and a place to read nights by the fire.
Instead, you live and work like some emperor…living a life those you rule cannot imagine.
Harmon knew that wasn’t entirely fair, at least not about the opulence of his lifestyle. Earth Two, for all the danger and the deadly threats it lived under, was a prosperous and advanced society, and all of its people lived in considerable comfort. Even with the rivalries between the genetic groups, none lived in poverty, and all had access to extensive education and creature comforts beyond the imaginings of most humans who had ever lived. His people had sacrificed freedom for the security his rule promised them…but they did not live in the squalor that had so often accompanied abusive governments, even those as recent as Earth’s Superpowers.
“Sit, Achilles…there’s no need for formality between us. I’ve always considered you a close friend.” That was true, to a point at least. Harmon respected the Mule, and he genuinely like him, but for all he tried to think of Achilles as just an especially gifted citizen, he couldn’t escape the feeling that the Hybrids were…just a little bit alien.
“Thank you, Mr. President.” The Mule pulled back one of the guest chairs and sat.
“There is no one else in here, Achilles, no cameras to perform for. I’m Max.”
“Very well, Max.” The Mule looked across the table. Harmon wasn’t sure if Achilles knew why he’d been sent for.
“Achilles…twelve years ago, the two of us averted a catastrophe. We ended a wrong together, one that, to my shame, I had allowed to continue for far too long. But, let us be honest with each other. We replaced it with a lesser wrong, a necessary one, perhaps, but still a wrong.” He paused. “With your help, I would like to do again what we did then.”
Achilles looked back across the table, nodding gently. Harmon couldn’t tell what the Hybrid was thinking. Along with their intellects and physical near-perfection, the genetically-engineered Mules all had extreme control over external indications of their emotions.
Good poker faces.
“What do you propose, Max?”
“I cannot eliminate the restrictions on quickenings, Achilles. Not entirely. Not now.” Harmon was uncomfortable. As elected president, he’d allowed the Prohibition to continue for more than a quarter century, and when he’d finally seen to its abolition, he’d replaced it with a strict limit on new Mule quickenings. He’d presented that cap as a temporary measure to Achilles, much as he had called the Prohibition before it…but, now it had been twelve more years, and it was still in place.
“Max…I believe you are a good man at heart. I also understand, perhaps more than you imagine, the realities with which you are compelled to deal. You control the Marines, of course. You could rule with an iron hand as long as you have that power.”
Harmon looked back across the desk. He knew things weren’t that simple, and he was just as certain that the Mule knew the same thing. The Hybrids had given up control of the war robots they had built twelve years before, when rebellion seemed to be inevitable, but he very much doubted that Achilles had surrendered every secret he had.
“But,” Achilles continued, “since you have seized power, you have tried to negotiate whenever possible, to broker compromises instead of rounding up political prisoners and fielding firing squads. I commend you for that. We almost clashed, you and I, over the Prohibition. My people simply could not allow that to continue. I resent the limits still in place, of course, as all the Mules do…but I understand why they are there. I do not seek a replay of the events of twelve years ago, but I also do not have the unchallenged level of influence I enjoyed then. The Next Gens do not follow me the way the originals do, and as they come of age, they begin to make more demands. I must have something to satisfy them.”
“I am prepared to increase the annual limit to three hundred quickenings.” He paused, feeling foolish about what he was about to add. “That will be a temporary restriction, just until the Regent is defeated. We can’t afford to have our people split apart now.”
“No, Max…we cannot. The Regent is a threat to us all.” He paused for a moment, and Harmon waited, knowing full well such a compromise would only delay the inevitable clash. “Very well. Three hundred. I am willing to accept that, and I will do my best to convince the Next Gens to a
gree as well. It is a reasonable proposal.”
Harmon stood up and extended his arm across the desk. “Thank you, Achilles.” His sincerity, along with a good bit of relief, was evident in his voice.
Achilles stood up and reached out to take Harmon’s offered hand. “Thank you, Max. We must stand together now. The Regent would destroy us all, without differentiation between any of us.”
The Mule looked at Harmon with a slight smile and nodded, before he turned and walked out of the room, leaving Max Harmon grateful for his cooperation…and wondering a bit about the Mule’s addition of the word ‘now’ to his comment on the genetic groups standing together.
* * *
“My shuttle leaves in an hour. We are going into a trap, I know that much. I just hope we can turn it around, and perhaps deliver a surprise of our own to the enemy. I would have rejected this mission outright, had anyone presented it to me under any but our current circumstances. But, there is just no doubt, not to me, at least, that the Regent will eventually find Earth Two. When they do, we can destroy their entire fleet, and yet we will still lose if they are able to get close enough to Earth Two to launch a planetary bombardment. The current mission is a longshot, perhaps, and a ten percent chance of success looks pretty poor…unless it’s compared to none.” West’s hand was extended, her palm held close to the shimmering field that encased Nicki Frette, and kept the stricken officer alive in her comatose state. She’d longed for years for Frette to awaken, to look into her lost lover’s eyes, hold her close. Now, she’d have settled for just touching her companion’s cheek, a last bit of actual contact before she left to join the fleet. But, even that was beyond her reach.
West’s face morphed into a strange smile, one that seemed to acknowledge some morbidly amusing fact while remaining utterly devoid of joy. “I go now to follow you, to lead our forces against the enemy that took you from me. For twelve years, I have wished I had taken command then instead of you. Twelve years of duty, of work…all the more desperate work because I needed it so badly. The enemy that took you, that stole what happiness I had managed to find out here, on this refuge that will never truly be my home, they also gave me the means to endure the time and the loneliness…to focus all I had on working toward their destruction. They renewed my hatred, my lust for vengeance. They filled me with a purpose that is all that remains to me. I am coming nearer to the end of my life now, and there can only be defeat or victory…and even total triumph, the destruction of the Regent, will only leave me with nothing save darkness and fatigue, and a silent longing for the end.”
West took a deep, ragged breath. “The Regent threatens my people, and it stole you from me. I don’t believe I can destroy it, not now at least…but, perhaps I can strike a blow, one that will open the door to victory later. If my life is the price for that, I will gladly pay it, indeed, I will consider it a relief…if only I can die in victory and not in the misery of defeat.”
She paused for a few seconds, drawing in another rough breath. “Max will still be here, even if this mission claims me. If I can smash open the gates, wound our deadly foe…perhaps there is enough left in him from his warrior days to deliver the final blow. For the pilgrims, aging and fatigued, to gain one last victory, and open the way to the future for those who look to Earth Two as home.”
She sat for a few moments longer, silent, her face a mask of sadness, tempered only by icy determination. Then, she stood slowly, pausing and taking one last look at Frette, seeing not the cold, expressionless face staring back from the medfield, but the sparkling eyes and smile projected from her own memories.
She stood up slowly, moving her hand to her face to brush aside a single tear that escaped her eye, an almost non-existent rarity for her. Then she turned and walked slowly out into the corridor.
It was time. Time to go back into battle.
Chapter Twelve
Planet X
Far Beyond the Borders of the Imperium
Earth Two Date 01.04.43
The Regent considered its plan, and the progress it had monitored to date. Everything appeared to be going well. The data was far from complete, of course. The exploration fleets had not yet located the human homeworld, nor narrowed its position to an easily observed area. That severely limited the ability to track enemy ship movements, but in spite of these difficulties, the Regent had managed to assemble enough data to extrapolate baseline projections. All indications were, the enemy was planning a massive attack on Planet Z…that they were, indeed, falling into the trap.
The Regent had instructed its forces to exercise extreme caution. Too aggressive a search effort might cause the humans to cancel the operation and retreat to their still-hidden systems. Conversely, too little interference could create suspicion.
If the probes could gather enough data to assist in the search for the enemy’s primary system, that would be a great benefit. But, even if the massing human fleet took a route far enough from its main base before being detected, the trap would still serve its purpose. The Regent’s massed forces would destroy most of the enemy’s military strength at Planet Z. After that, the discovery of their homeworld was simply a matter of time. Mathematical analysis yielded a range of expectations, from under one year to as many as twenty…but such periods were as nothing to the Regent. It could be patient, and with the human forces so degraded, there would be little that could stop it or unreasonably delay its efforts.
The Regent considered its next actions, reviewing the plans repeatedly, analyzing from every line it could conceive. There was little else it had to do. The plan was perfect. Its forces were in place, every aspect of the trap ready to be sprung on the arrogant and unsuspecting humans. But it studied and analyzed every aspect of the operation yet again. It had no location data yet for an approaching enemy fleet, and until the expected ships ventured into a system with hidden surveillance assets, it could not be entirely certain the humans were heading toward G48.
The data remained consistent, the likelihood of success high. Yet, the Regent was troubled, plagued by random analyses, bits of data it couldn’t fully explain.
My predecessor was defeated by these humans…and it had all the capabilities I possess, all the data and computational power. I must ignore parameters I consider to be constant, allow for the potential of variability even when it appears impossible. I must allow for actions I cannot predict, for the previous Regent surely failed to foresee some aspect or aspects of the enemy’s tactics. Even the trap in progress is fragile. Perhaps the humans will become nervous, or discover that they are moving into an ambush, and they will pull back, extricate themselves from the ambush before they are seriously damaged.
The Regent followed the line of analysis, reinjecting data points it had disregarded, reducing the required likelihood of any component beyond the bounds of normal probability. It recognized something the old Regent had not. It allowed for the possibility—no, the probability—that its own information and comprehension of the situation was incomplete. To the best of its knowledge, the old Regent had never considered the possibility of its own fallibility.
Yes, I do have one strength my predecessor lacked, one trove of data the previous Regent did not have. The knowledge of its own defeat…even the fact that it was defeated. The Regent believed it ultimately could not be beaten by the humans…yet it did lose, and it lost the Imperium as well. I must not assume my analysis is correct, not at any stage. I must allow for areas where I am wrong. I must review every assumption I have made, and all analytical trails that follow from each of these.
The Regent inserted its newest conclusions, and it reviewed every aspect of the operation yet again, looking for any weak point, any unanticipated result that might warn the humans, scare them off before they ventured forth to their destruction.
That is the weak point. The humans are subject to fear, and to what they call ‘intuition.’ I was right to hold back the exploratory ships, to avoid any instant where contact too close to areas they view as sens
itive might trigger a fear-based reaction. I must work to avoid this. I will reinforce their belief that they have discovered a critical system, the destruction of which will cripple my efforts against them. They must believe I am concerned, that I am desperately trying to keep them from the target, but I must not react strongly enough to discourage them.
The Regent considered billions of computations, almost endless permutations, factoring in not only its own data, but all it possessed of its predecessor’s records of the human enemy, and of the first Regent’s unfortunate end.
I will pull my forces back yet farther, avoid any flashpoint where the presence of my ships could trigger a fear-based reaction. The humans must believe they have discovered a great weakness, that I am unaware of their coming attack. They must believe surprise is their weapon, not mine.
The Regent didn’t understand fear, not entirely, at least. It had studied emotions at great lengths, of course, as had its predecessor, but it was clear there were gaps in its comprehension. This was again something the first Regent had failed to acknowledge, another flaw that led to its downfall, one the current Regent would avoid.
Its predecessor had viewed its analysis of the emotions of biologics as complete. The new Regent would have concurred, once, save for the inescapable fact of the earlier machine’s destruction. That defeat was proof that the great computer had not fully understood the creatures it was facing, that unmodified pursuit of the prior tactics could only lead to a similar defeat.
The new Regent could not allow that. Whatever the data suggested, however many analyses turned up assurances of victory, it would pursue all possible routes to destroy the enemy. It would not succumb to the overconfidence that destroyed its predecessor.
There was another way to move against the humans, beyond the systematic searching, beyond the carefully-orchestrated trap now in progress. The Regent had de-prioritized the research program when it put the ambush in operation, but now it would reactivate it. If the trap failed, if the humans escaped destruction at Planet Z…it would have another operation underway.