Winds of Vengeance (20 page)

“I know you feel what we are doing will harm the republic—and perhaps you are correct. But if the cost of preserving the republic is the sacrifice of our basic rights, indeed, if it is the controlled genocide of our people, that is too high a price to pay.”

“I wish you would stop calling it genocide, Achilles. No one has harmed a single Mule.”

“Your people are fond of superficiality, of exaggerating the importance of words while ignoring the realties at play. What group in human history would have tolerated a complete moratorium on their reproduction, on being condemned to age and die and disappear from the universe?”

“And yet you say, ‘my people,’ as if you are something other. Can you not see in your own arrogance why people fear you? Can you honestly assert that you see in the population of Earth Two your fellow humans?”

“We are what we are, Father. You created us not in the image of mankind, but as an improvement. That was your purpose, to develop beings better than men, was it not?”

Cutter shook his head. “No…never when I was working on your people did I once consider them anything other than human. I wanted you to be smarter, less susceptible to illness and weakness, stronger. But I never intended for you to be different—much less to consider yourselves a superior race—any more than an athlete would view himself as a different lifeform than a physically weaker person.”

“But we are not entirely human, Father. We carry the DNA of the Ancients.”

“That DNA was already part of humanity, Achilles. The Ancients long ago engineered the chromosomes of mankind’s ancestors. I just continued with their work.”

Achilles paused. “That changes nothing, Father. Whether we acknowledge our superiority or attempt to hide it, none of us have ever harmed anyone. We have done nothing but work tirelessly to unlock the secrets of the Ancients. Are we to be condemned to extinction because the others fear one day we
may
do something? Is there justice in that?”

Cutter sighed. “No. How you have been treated is unjust. But you are giving President Harmon no choice, Achilles. He sympathizes with you…he feels regret and guilt for the Prohibition. But you are leaving him no alternative. He is a strong man, one who will do what he must, even if it goes against his own feelings.” Cutter shook his head. “He will crush your revolt with force if you leave him no choice. He won’t like it…but he
will
do it.”

Achilles looked right at Cutter. “I hope not, Father. For we cannot back down. Here we stand, demanding justice, and without it we will never yield.” He paused. “And I fear you defend Harmon for doing as he must and yet deny us the same consideration. He may have the Marines at his disposal, but we are capable of defending ourselves.” He stared at Cutter. “More than capable.”

Cutter was shaken by the coldness in Achilles’ tone, the absolutely certainty. “Achilles…”

His words were cut off by a loud buzzing sound, an alarm. Then the com unit on Achilles’ collar buzzed.

“Achilles, there are Marines approaching the compound. Five kilometers out. They appear to be moving to their flanks…it looks like they intend to surround us.”

Cutter recognized the voice.

Perseus. Another of Achilles’ inner circle…

Achilles looked at Cutter for a few seconds before his eyes dropped down and he responded. “Very well…let them surround us. It only thins their line and makes them more vulnerable at any given point.” A pause. “Activate the defensive AI…and authorize the deployment of the bots.”

“Achilles…”

“I am sorry, Father. But we will not allow them to invade us, to turn us fully into slaves.” Achilles stood up and turned toward the door.

“President Harmon will be fair…”

“I cannot rely on that, Father. All I can say is we do not wish to harm any of them…and we will not be the first to attack.” An ominous tone crept into Achilles’ voice. “But if we are compelled to defend ourselves, we will do whatever we are forced to do…even if we have to kill every Marine who moves against us.”

He stood where he was for a few seconds, looking toward Cutter, but avoiding direct eye contact. Then he turned and walked across the room and through the door.

*    *    *

General Connor Frasier stood on the hillside, watching as his Marines moved out. The small columns maneuvered with precision, working their way around the perimeter of the compound. The Cutter facility was the source of most of Earth Two’s technological advancement, and he knew the republic owed much—if not most—of its prosperity to the Mules who lived and worked in the sprawling complex.

He was clad in full armor, as all his people were, but his helmet was retracted. He marveled, as he still did every time he suited up, at how much more comfortable the modern suits were than the one he’d worn in the days of the fleet. The AIs in the old suits had interpreted the wearer’s movements, providing a powered assist through the suit’s servos to help move the massive weight. But the new ones tied right into the cerebral cortex, and the AI literally read a Marine’s mind. He found the whole thing a little creepy, but he had to admit it was a massive improvement, one that turned a multi-ton iridium-armored suit into something that felt as graceful as a light robe. It also cut years off the training time necessary to teach a recruit how to move around in a suit of armor.

Frasier had been a Marine all his life, and he’d served under some of the most legendary warriors mankind had ever produced. He’d never given a second thought to his chosen profession. His father had been Angus Frasier, the commander of the old Scots regiment, and one of Erik Cain’s closest comrades. There had never been any question what career Connor would choose, and he’d rarely regretted the path that had been cast for him in stone. Whatever else he might have been, he was a Marine, now and always.

But today was one of the few days he questioned all he normally believed without the slightest doubt. Commanding Marines on a mission felt natural, normal…his life’s work. But this time his people would turn their guns not on the robots of the First Imperium, not even on the soldiers of a rival superpower. No, his people were here to confront the Mules, the very beings responsible for the technological advancements he so noticed in his suit.

Arrest…it sounds so reasonable, so clinical. But the Mules will not yield…and they will not be taken down easily. So when the veneer is stripped away, I am here to shoot down my fellow citizens, to turn the guns of the Corps on those we are sworn to defend…

He sighed. For most of his life such thoughts would have been anathema. He was a Marine, and Marines fought…and they did so wherever they were sent. A Marine might refuse a truly immoral order, but it wasn’t up to the leatherneck in the line to review commands, decide which ones to heed, and which to reject. It wasn’t the way the Corps worked…not for the private standing in a trench somewhere, and not for the general in command either. But Frasier had a different perspective. His wife was Ana Zhukov. Hieronymus Cutter and Zhukov had long been partners in science…and their work had almost certainly saved the fleet thirty years before.

They had also created the Mules, an attempt to increase abilities in humans, and to eliminate sickness, weakness. It was the kind of thing that made sense, but created a chilling feeling nevertheless. Nevertheless, amid the desperate need to populate the republic in those early years, the project was approved, and one hundred sixteen superhumans were created.

The Mules scared people, they intimidated humans possessed of more normal ability levels. They were stronger, faster, and far more intelligent. And they showed every indication of having lifespans vastly longer than those of normal humans. A perfect recipe to combine fear and jealousy…to turn people against the Mules.

Frasier knew many of the enhanced beings. He remembered them as children, watching them grow up, the remarkable work they were doing at ages when normal boys and girls were playing games. And he’d seen the backlash, the Prohibition…and the other restrictions imposed on the Mules. He’d watched them withdraw from normal society, to remain together in their compound, researching the mysteries of the First Imperium and rarely mingling among the republic’s other citizens.

Frasier had lost some of his empathy for the Mules, especially amid the concern that the enhanced humans would act out, challenge the laws of the republic. But Ana had let him have it, and the two had gotten into a fight the likes of which neither had ever seen. They both said things they were sorry for almost immediately, and they’d both apologized too. But the struggle had shaken Frasier, and cracked the façade of the martinet that had grown up around him over the years of commanding the Corps.

Now he was uncertain. He had to obey his orders…and he knew President Harmon’s hands were tied. Harmon sympathized with the Mules too, but he had political realities to deal with. Frasier thought about the Mules he’d known, Achilles, Callisto, Heracles…they’d been active children, energetic and endlessly curious. They had been playmates to his own children, and frequent visitors to his home. Now was he supposed to kill them all? To gun them down and watch them die?

“General Frasier…” The voice was familiar, but before could even place it or check the roster on his display, his AI put the information directly into his mind.

“Yes, Lieutenant Cameron.”

“Sir, one of my squads in on point along the northeast perimeter…and, well, sir, we were told to contact you directly with any…”

“Yes, Lieutenant…you did the right thing. What do you want to report?”

“We’ve got movement, sir, at the base hill below the compound. It looks like some access doors, probably from some underground level. We’ve got something coming out.”

Frasier tensed up. He didn’t really think the Mules could resist his Marines…but then he didn’t expect them to give up easily either.

“Send your data right to HQ, Cameron. I want nonstop surveillance. Keep your scanners on that spot.” He looked up at the compound, off to the right, about where Cameron’s people were. He couldn’t see anything from his angle, but he flashed a thought to his AI, and his helmet snapped up and into place.

“Project visor data from Lieutenant Cameron.” He spoke the command, even though he could have just directed the thought his AI. His visor darkened, blocking the outside view. An instant later another perspective replaced it. He was fourteen hundred meters from the base of the hill. And there was definitely movement. His eyes were fixed, locked on the spot just outside of the doors. He watched as a shadow moved forward…and then he saw it…

He felt his throat close up, his stomach tense. The object was familiar…too familiar. He froze in place for a few seconds. Then a wave of fear snapped him out of his funk.

He cleared his visor with a thought. Then he directed the AI to put him on the master channel.

“All Marines, pull back to primary positions. Grab whatever cover you can get, and prepare to repel any assault.”

Frasier’s visor no longer displayed the input from Cameron. But he could still see it in his mind, standing tall, menacing…and he knew it for what it was. Death, horror…constructed in a vaguely humanoid form. And one question worked at his mind, digging at him, stirring anger, confusion.

How the hell did the Mules get a First Imperium warbot?

Chapter Seventeen

From the Journals of Admiral Terrance Compton

Thirty Years Ago – Just After the Fleet was Trapped

All my adult life I have served. My only memories of civilian life are those of a child. My father was a wealthy man, and my early life was one of luxury, even if I was only the bastard child of the lowborn woman who gave him comfort after his wife had died. My half-brothers and sisters despised me, perhaps as much because they saw me as a rival to inherit the family’s wealth and political positions as anything else. But they needn’t have worried. I never wanted that life. And I took pity on my father, restored peace to his world by loudly declaring my intention to go to the Academy, to embrace a military life.

I never wanted my siblings’ inheritances, nor their claims to political office. All I ever wanted was to be accepted by them…to be one of them. But I realized that was never going to happen. They were too sick with greed, too focused on becoming part of the power structure of the Alliance. So, I sought my future elsewhere, alone, someplace where I wouldn’t be the mutt, the outcast.

My father got me my appointment—I’m far from certain I could have passed the entrance exams—and he came to visit me twice. I remember him from graduation, and I think he was truly proud. But I had always been a complication in his life, and even as he hugged me that day, I could feel that I had lifted a burden from him by leaving home. And though I do believe he loved me, my perceptions proved to be true. My father lived almost forty years from that day…yet I saw him fewer than half a dozen times during that period. Part of that was the call of war, my own duty and responsibility that kept me in space most of the time. But I think we both knew things were better this way. He had his real family back home, following in his footsteps. And I was well-cared for, and successful in my chosen career. It was easier to fall back on long distance messages and holiday greetings.

I was at war when he died, commanding a fleet in action. I didn’t find out until almost two months after it happened. I have long been at peace with my relationship with my father. What is past is past. Yet, if I could change one thing, I would have seen him one last time. I have reasons for resentment, and for gratitude as well, but none of that matters. In the end, he was my father, and I hadn’t seen him for a decade before he died.

These old thoughts serve me now, for every man and woman in the fleet must adapt to the fact that we are alone here, that anyone left behind the Barrier, friends, parents, siblings…they are gone to us, as gone as my father is to me. How much unfinished business was left between them and their loved ones? How many will crave just what I do, one last meeting, the warmth of a hug, an hour to talk about old times, to smile at memories of days past.