The General's War

by Michael Poeltl

  “Is it true?” One of the masked retrieval team asks her. “Would you have bombed civilians to save yourself?”

  “To save myself?” She responds indignantly, pushing the damp, dirty hair from her forehead; a gray dust now matted to her face and clothes. “I’m not trying to save myself, I’m trying to save humanity.”

  “A Humanist who wants to kill humans to save humanity,” he says disdainfully to his team mates. “We’ll get you safely to your tower, but after that, I’m out,” he tells her. The others mutter their support for his decision. “What’s left of your supporters have been keeping the rebels contained along the perimeter of the city, but more and more continue to show up. It won’t be long now.”

  They take the eleven to the United Earth tower where once upon a time the chancellor held his office in better times. They open the door and watch them walk through. Three turn.

  “Can we come with you?” A representative asks the retrieval team. Fran overhears. “I’m done with this war. It’s a nightmare – she’s a nightmare.” The woman points back at Fran.

  “Of course,” he looks back at the others and removes his breathing mask. “You’re all welcome to travel with us. We’re going to do as Major Jackson suggested. We’re walking out on this war.”

  The remaining seven abandon the general’s sinking ship and join the others. General August stands alone in the United Earth tower’s massive foyer. She feels small. Insignificant. Vulnerable. It feels like the day she lost her mother, and again when she lost her nanny. She’s five and ten again. Left alone. All alone.

  She turns and walks to the elevator, where she decides she will occupy the office of the Chancellor until such time as the city is overrun.

  UNFINISHED BUSINESS

  After an extended campaign of targeting and eliminating military targets from orbit with the assistance of the additional corvette, the results of the past twenty-eight hours can be comfortably discussed. “A graceful exit for Major Jackson,” Captain Mann says over the com to Chopra and Raymond. “I wonder how General August is going to make her exit.”

  “Military everywhere are standing down,” Chopra tells them. “We’ve won this war.” He turns to Raymond and offers a hand. “We’ve done it.”

  Raymond takes the captain’s hand in a state of shock and shakes it. Stunned over their win. The last few weeks blending into a mass of adrenaline and angst. Will he finally have the opportunity to mourn his sisters passing? Will Captain Chopra be allowed to bury his son?

  “It’s an incredible accomplishment, gentlemen,” Raymond tells them. “Thank you for your service.” His head shakes slowly, a sincere smile forming on his lips. “You’ve saved the world.”

  “Would you like to face your enemy, Chancellor?” Chopra asks.

  “Fran,” he says. “Yes, I suppose I would.”

  “She sits in your office,” he explains. “The soldiers who brought her there have announced her location to the masses.”

  “Then perhaps we should hurry,” Raymond suggests. The image of that woman seated in his office once held his very breathe hostage when he considered she might win this war. Now it feels more like an intrusion. A pest he would employ an AI Host Animal Control Service to remove humanely. Although he knows most would not grant General August a humane end. “Let our allies know we’ll be shuttling to the United Earth Congress building. Have our forces offer asylum to any asking. If we can avoid anymore bloodshed, that will be preferable.”

  “I’ll send word,” Captain Mann tells them and disappears from the screen.

  Raymond spends a moment in the lavatory to clean himself up as best he can. There are no spare suits onboard the ship and he has sweat through every layer he wears. Dampening a comb, he pulls it through his thick dark hair. Many new grays have appeared over the last two weeks, he realizes. There is no razor for him to shave the growing beard on his face. Maybe he likes the beard, the thinks, stepping back from the mirror. Maybe he will keep it.

  “A shuttle is ready to take you to Frist City, Chancellor,” Ursula says with a knock at the door. “We’ll monitor your approach.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Chopra says, greeting Raymond in the hall. “I’ll be joining the Chancellor. Let Captain Mann know he has the fleet.” The two men walk to the elevator, taking them to the ground floor where their waiting shuttle includes a C-class pilot and navigator.

  “Chancellor, Captain, welcome aboard,” the pilot says. “We will reach your destination in twelve minutes. Please activate your restraints, and we will begin.”

  With the wave of a hand their restraints secure them to their seats and they watch as the bay door rises and the northern hemisphere of earth is revealed under the light of the mid-day sun. The shuttle lifts off and out of the bay, jettisoning toward the planet in a smooth arch with First City’s downtown core in its sights.

  “What will you say, Raymond?”

  The chancellor turns to address the question. “What can I say, Jim?” He responds. “I’ve known the woman for years, and it’s only in the past few weeks she’s actually revealed herself for who she really is.” He holds up a hand and begins counting fingers. “She’s tried to kill me, had me act as her spy in the rebel ranks, lied to me over the last five years, spread lies about me, staged a coup against my government, waged war against us all, and shown no self restraint - rolling over civilians - to accomplish her end goal.”

  “So, you’ll lead with a rundown of her crimes?” Chopra chuckles. “In whatever way you address that woman, do it with the same tact and charm you brought to your administration.” He raises a hand to reveal a camera. “I’ll be recording it.” He winks and replaces the tiny camera in his jacket pocket.

  “No,” Raymond laughs. “This won’t be about me. The world has suffered enough. I’ll spare them my personal tragedies and let the general do the talking.”

  “A good plan,” Chopra admits. “She’ll talk herself right into a corner. No one will want to support her once they’ve seen her for who she really is.”

  “I’m glad you see as I do, Jim.”

  Chopra takes a pause. “I meant to tell you something along the way,” he says. “Whether my son had been lost to the general’s war or not,” a pause. “I could never have followed her after the executions. I knew I would side with you the moment you’d asked.”

  “Thank you for saying that, Captain,” the Chancellor says.

  Entering earth’s atmosphere is smoother then the last time he’d returned to earth, Raymond thinks. The technology used to produce these new destroyers and corvettes and even the shuttles, seems light-years ahead of where they were. Outside his window he watches as two fighters flank his shuttle as they grow closer to their destination.

  “Tell me, Captain, how did the military come to build such advanced ships?” He asks.

  “The tech is ground-breaking,” Chopra begins. “A man named Meiser, one of the general’s right-hand men, came up with the anti-gravity plans. The ships themselves were designed by a round-table of officers who have served in both United Earth’s navy and air force. Myself, Mann and Juravinski were three of forty-four chosen to review existing plans and offer suggestions. Once the blueprints were done, work on the shipyards took some time. The moon first, as you know, to build the corvettes, then mars for the rest because of the practical matter of building large starships on an orbital base. Meiser oversaw much of the programming. He wrote entirely new software to load the E-class Hosts with responsibilities required of them for their specific tasks.”

  “Did you not find any of this suspicious? That none of it was sanctioned by your government?”

  “We followed orders, never questioned it. Never asked.”

  “This Meiser,” Raymond says. “He’s a relatively new player, isn’t he?”

  “I believe he joined the ranks a few years ago. He came from the public sector. That’s all I know of the man.”

  “I’d like him located,” Raymond says. “If he survived the b
unker lance, I think he could be integral in advancing tech everywhere. For the right reasons.”

  “A man like that usually knows no loyalty but to his work,” Chopra explains. “So that should work in our favour.”

  “Landing in one minute,” the C-class announces. “Setting down on roof pad A of United Earth Congress, building one.”

  Raymond takes a deep, controlled breath and exhales. He does this three times. When he opens his eyes, he watches the door lower and Captain Chopra step out of the shuttle.

  “I’ll walk you in, Chancellor,” Jim tells him.

  “I’d appreciate that, Jim.” Raymond joins him and they take the rooftop staircase down to the top floor. Stepping into the foyer, his office a few metres away, behind the glass wall which had since been replaced. It feels like a lifetime ago to Raymond that the small A-class named SENTA, the reincarnated representation of his deceased sister, lead her motley crew of enlightened Hosts into this very space. Raymond and Jim share a look as they spy the silhouette behind the fogged glass.

  “Let me go first, sir,” Jim insists, opening the double doors and stepping inside. Raymond follows.

  He watches Fran as she takes in the vast horizon of First City. Smoke billowing from rows of housing in the distance. “To lead with the sword is to die by it,” Raymond reminds the general. “It was never yours to take,” he tells her.

  She allows herself a light giggle, her gaze still locked on the horizon. “You always knew how to make an entrance, Raymond,” she tells him, turning slowly and placing her hands on the back rest of his new chair. “It wasn’t so long ago - it all started here.”

  He walks cautiously toward the desk. “Oh, I think it began long before SENTA ever showed up on my doorstep,” he responds. “With all you’d been up to on the moon and mars, I think you had been planning your war for some time.”

  “It was never about taking your power away, Raymond,” she insists. “It was always about the AI. It’s dangerous, look what it’s done to us.”

  “You did this, Fran. You alone. The Hosts wanted their freedom. I would have given it to them. You wanted your war.”

  “You still can’t see it,” she says, an ironic smile freeing another amused laugh. “AI is the problem. You can’t build a machine with that level of intelligence and expect to control it forever.”

  “And I would have been alright with that,” he explains. “We could have found another way to continue on our path while letting them discover their own. Your fear of their intelligence, to be allowed to think for themselves; those are your fears, Fran, which you projected onto the world.”

  “Humanists have warned of this day for a century, Raymond. It’s not just me.” She rebuts.

  “No, but a Humanist in an ideal position of power, like you, made this happen,” he looks back at Captain Chopra, who has his hand on his sidearm resting in its holster, watching on. “Captain Chopra, I know you have something to say to the general.”

  “I have,” he says, letting the door close behind him, taking deliberate steps toward Fran. “You murdered my son.”

  “I never chose him,” she defends. “The administration held executions all over the world to quell the rebellion.”

  “You would pass blame, even now?” He says, his voice hardening. “You’re a coward, and I should execute you where you stand.” His sidearm slides out of his holster. “Step out from behind that chair,” he orders.

  She sidesteps and is clear of Raymond’s office chair. “You would shoot me in cold blood?”

  “You’re a war criminal,” Chopra tells her. “You do not deserve a military death. You deserve to die,” a pause. “But, not today. I would not make a martyr of you for your following. You will die at a ripe old age after years of ‘what if’s’ play out in your demented head, rotting in a cell. Humiliated. Scorned and then, forgotten.”

  “Well said, Captain,” Raymond places a gentle hand on Jim’s shoulder and notices the gun again holstered at his side. “You’ve no friends anymore, Fran, and those who might have called themselves your friend will betray that allegiance – have already betrayed you.”

  “You will not forget me, Captain,” she says, now changing her tactics. “You’ve lost a son to this war, to me, as you say. How could you forget? How could your family forget? His twin brother - his mother?” She begins to approach. Slowly. “How could you let me live with that knowledge? What would your wife say if she knew you were this close to the woman who’d murdered your little boy and did nothing to right that wrong?”

  “Stand back, Fran,” Raymond warns her, Jim’s hand again at his hip, hovering over the pistol. “She’s just antagonizing you, Jim. You know that. She wants to die, don’t give her the satisfaction.”

  “You know I won’t let you just take me out of here without a fight, Jim,” she explains to the captain, head cocked to the side. “I’m not a helpless civilian. You know what I’m capable of.”

  “You will not die today,” he tells her resolutely.

  “Then try to take me peacefully.”

  “Fran,” Raymond calls out. “Do as Captain Chopra says, we’re taking you out of here, alive.”

  Jim pulls his pistol and then, after a moment, passes it off to Raymond, who anxiously accepts it. Then Chopra assumes a fighting position and Fran begins to circle. Raymond steps far enough back to stay out of the impending fray.

  “Make your move,” she taunts him.

  The chancellor notices that both, one forty-five and the other in his fifties are in peak physical condition. He can’t even imagine the rigorous training in hand-to-hand combat they’ve endured over their long careers, or how those skills will play out today. If he was a gambling man, and he wasn’t, he’d have a hard time placing a bet on one or the other.

  The captain lunges and drops to the floor in an attempt to sweep the general’s feet, but she leaps over his spinning leg and lands true, throwing a straight-kick, narrowly missing Jim’s chin. Then she performs what looks like a cartwheel to Raymond, without her hands touching the floor, while her legs gather momentum, slamming into Jim’s chest on the down spin, reeling him backwards, crashing into the large buffet along the north wall.

  Raymond instinctively raises the pistol, but Captain Chopra waves him away.

  “Impressive, general,” he compliments her technique, straightening his shirt. “You’ll do well in prison.” He throws a round-house kick of his own, to push her back, which is followed by a back kick which Fran deflects and a driving punch, which she does not. The hit sends her backwards against the desk, her nose bleeding. She seems only slightly stunned and charges with a flurry of striking fists that Jim’s defensive maneuvers seem designed to block at every jab. There is frustration in Fran’s expression, Raymond notes.

  She brings up a knee next, and Jim deflects it with his shin as the flurry of punches continue to come at him. He finally manages to grab a wrist and turn it but Fran uses his own weight against him, turning herself in the air to lessen the grip, then firing a hard fist to the side of Jim’s face. This staggers him a moment, but not long enough that he can’t retaliate with a kick to her midsection which clearly winds her.

  Fran hurries backward, braces herself against the floor to ceiling windows and launches another attack. She slips under the captain’s legs alarmingly, and rushes Raymond.

  The gun comes up again and Raymond pulls its trigger. His first shot is a big miss. He fires again and again until Fran is on him, her hands crushing his windpipe. She stares into his eyes, her green on his blue, blood dripping onto his face from her broken nose. Sudden confusion enters those green eyes, and she convulses, producing a torrid of blood from her mouth falling onto his neck, as she relaxes her grip. Next, her body is torn away and thrown backward by Captain Chopra, Raymond rises, hands on his throat. Fran heaves on the floor, each successful breath seemingly excruciating.

  “It’s better then you deserve,” Chopra announces to her writhing frame. “You should have lived a long life
of regret, instead you’ve stolen that from all of us. You’re a pitiful woman.”

  Raymond stands and falls to Fran’s side, realising he had hit her twice in the chest. She gulps for air through the blood building in her throat, and the chancellor attempts to stop the bubbling blood from escaping her body with his hands. He places a finger at a pulse point. Her heart pounds fast, all the blood pumping onto the floor. Then, very suddenly, her pulse slows. “Can we save her?”

  “No,” Jim tells him. “Nothing can be done.” He sounds cheated, and he was. They all were.

  Fran’s legs stretch and retract with the pain, and the anxiety she must be feeling. Bubbles form in her mouth as she attempts to speak. Nothing is forthcoming. Her eyes scream something at him, but if she dies, he’ll never learn exactly what that something is.

  “Rest, Fran,” he tells her, placing a hand on her head. “Rest,” he feels traumatised by the scene. He has never shot someone before. “Is there nothing we can do!?” he cries up to Jim.