DEYIS
DEYIS
I could feel around me the comfort of the stadium and I opened my eyes.
Fen Imiirga sat alone in a near vacant section of the stadium, as if contagious and quarantined. Where once he must have sat proudly watching the expanding circles of his descendants, surrounded by his future generations waiting to be born, he was now alone. His children-to-be preferred to sit next to other archons, learning how to live from other, more respectable surnames.
I saw him from a distance, and I saw that he saw me, recognized me. But he did not protest, or speak, or even move.
Before us was the overgrown Imiirga section exactly as I had directed. The stone sphere shattered. Its base engraved with the word CHEAT in great letters. Below that, an exhortation, something Imiirga now wished he had himself said,
My progeny: you suffer because of my misdeeds.
Strive to overcome what I could not.
Perhaps someday they would.
333-501
Aboard BB Inarik above
Zaru 0917 Deyis B874777-9 Ag Ri
Abruptly, I again stood with my eyes closed, now in silence, feeling a slight vibration through my feet. I squinted one eye open enough to see the ship lighting and a gathered assembly of crew.
With it closed again, I spoke, “Who here is senior?”
“You are.”
This was a good start. At least the basic formalities were in place.
“After me, who?”
“Admiral Slintern commands the squadron.”
“Who is the briefer?”
“I am. Commander Slee.”
I at last opened my eyes to the broad expanse of the diplomatic reception deck of an Inarik-class battle. I had been on similar ships before.
“You may begin.” Images flashed on the projection screen as the briefer established that we were concerned with a backwater world brought into the empire in the second century and then more-or-less ignored. Its 94 million inhabitants were about half Humans; the other half were indigenes with a strange caste-gender structure, many arms and many legs, and a dedication to their rural ways. The Humans made their livings buying gathered agriculturals from the natives, processing them, and shipping them to other worlds that seemed to like them.
The current image showed a threat evaluation sufficient to activate me. A local parasite had made the transition from locals to Humans in an unexpected way: it activated endorphins to produce an addicting pleasure that masked a slow, wasting death. Its intersection with Human anatomy made their removal problematic, if not impossible.
The admiral’s staff was proud of their action plan: barriers between Humans and locals; careful testing and isolation of those affected; even provision for palliative care. They especially wanted to preserve the historic Second Millennium Karand’s Palace. It was clear to me that none of this would work, but that was why the hard decision fell to me and no others.
Perhaps I was missing something, but probably not.
“Thank you Commander Slee. This has been an excellent and informative presentation. You are to be commended.
“Admiral. I would like to meet with your staff by section so that they can brief me specifically on the plan. We should be prepared to act by late tomorrow. Can you please ensure that a preliminary quarantine is in place until we make a final decision? Can you and I and a few of your people dine tonight and discuss this further?” Rule 3.
This was always the hard part. I was the interloper; the unknown; the decision-maker that they wanted to rubber-stamp their action plan. At best, I would nod and approve; at worst, I would require validation, or justification, or budgets, or all-night work sessions. My comments prompted several sighs of relief.
Meetings that afternoon covered basics. Local forces in the system: a few customs boats; the squadron called in from a naval base some two jumps away, and a few merchants upset that they couldn’t pick up their promised goods.
The naval crew was loyal and reasonably well-trained; a staff officer candidly admitted that some were not up to standard, but they were working on it.
The cultural and economic reports showed the indigenes happy to be part of the empire but not especially interested in travelling beyond their own world; the Humans, on the other hand, had strong ties to neighboring systems and a significant number travelled regularly. That data point confirmed my own conclusions.
The penultimate meeting was with the medical staff. They showed slides of the parasites: the size of small beans, or small red pearls. They showed graphs of infection rates trending upwards. They shared optimistic projections of controlled territories. Apparently, they had no psychologists among them.
I mentioned in passing that I would like to talk to security: the leaders of the three watches, the Marine commander (a captain appropriate for this level of force) and the senior non-commissioned officer. We met in the hour before supper.
As we sat down, I started with the officer.
“Captain . . . ?”
“Sranti, sir.”
“Captain Sranti. Have you read Imperial Edict 97?”
“I have read the summary, sir. I cannot say that I have read the entire text. I have had the training.”
“I understand. It is long, legalistic, and complex. Suffice it to say, I have been activated under its provisions and it makes me the ranking authority on this ship, and in this system. You understand that, of course.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. You are to not report the contents of this meeting to anyone without my assent. Not the Admiral. No one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. We’ll leave it at that for the moment.”
“Sergeant Major. Have you read Imperial Edict 97?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the implementing regulations?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me, in your own words, your understanding about Quarantine Agents. Ignore warrants for the moment.”
“Sir, you are the Emperor’s Agent, with his total confidence. You speak with his voice. I am to render you every assistance.”
“Even if it’s stupid? Or suicidal? Or without explanation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Captain, do you understand this situation similarly?”
“Yes, sir.”
I turned to the three sergeants, asked them the same, and received the same answers.
“We are now operating under Imperial Edict 97. Share this information with no one. We will meet in the barracks at 0300.”
“Meanwhile, I need the following: A flight jacket with the Imperial Sunburst on the back and my surname preceded by the word: Agent, above. What is my surname?”
“Lagash, sir.”
“Is he a good man?”
“Good enough. Supply officer. Keeps to himself mostly.”
“I also need:
“A chestplate with a frontarm. Make that two; one lethal. Have them ready for me in the barracks.
“Wake tablets. Have them in my stateroom by twenty.
“We’re done here. Captain. Send your regrets; you will not attend dinner tonight.”
Dinner in the wardroom was typical of naval formal dining. I sat as the guest of honor at the head of the table. The Admiral at my right was a sparkling conversationalist, although he bridled a bit at not being the center of attention. I took control of the table conversation by emphasizing that I was 16 years out of date. Who was the current emperor? How fared the empire? What was the latest fashion in naval strategy? I got to know, however superficially, the staff officers, the exec, and a few of the department heads. After four hours, I begged off and retired for the night.
But I didn’t sleep. I had too much to do, and every sleep I took would bring me closer again to oblivion.
The barracks meeting went well.
334-501
Aboard BB Inarik above
Zaru 0917 Deyis B874777-9 Ag Ri
We met in a side compartment off the hangar deck of Inarik: admiral and immediate staff.
“I am Agent Lagash of the Quarantine. I serve under Imperial Edict 97, which makes me the highest-ranking officer on this ship, in this squadron, in this system, indeed in this sector. My absolute power is confirmed by the silence of everyone present.”
I waited several beats just to make sure there were no objections.
“Gather round. I want you all to hear and understand me. We’re going to talk, and you should be comfortable as we do.
“Commander Slee. Please give your briefing as you gave it to me.”
When it was over, “Thank you Commander.
“I’ll be blunt. This scheme is flawed. If any part of it fails, the entire plan fails.
“That world below us is infested with a parasite that makes people happy and then kills them; no quarantine or isolation or barrier can keep that sort of thing in, or people who want it out. This world must be sterilized before it can infect the empire.
“Nothing you will ever do is as important as what we will do in this mission.”
We moved to address the assembled crew on the hangar deck. I think the Admiral was surprised.
We knew we had an agent on board. We had all been buzzing on what he would do. Smith called him a zombie. Trint told a tale of an agent who united a crew into an efficient team with magic words that no one could remember later. They called a mandatory mass assembly for midwatch. They posted marines on each deck; our consoles set to automatic.
No one knew what he would say. No that’s not right. The marines did. Every one of them wore gloves.
He wore the body of Lieutenant Lagash. He stood on the platform and addressed us without notes. He began abruptly. I missed most of his first sentence. Most of us did. But no matter. What I heard was enough.
“. . . of the Quarantine.” He paused before this next statement.
“Nothing of value is without cost.
“Our mission is to save literally billions of lives. If we fail, those billions, on dozens of worlds, will die. We cannot let that happen. We will succeed.
“But there is a terrible cost that we face as well.
“The world below is Deyis. It joined the interstellar community in the Fifth Millennium of Star Flight, happy for occasional trade and visitors. It is infested with a parasite that, if loosed on the empire, will utterly destroy it. Our mission, our responsibility is to prevent that. This is not a telenovela. There is no last-minute surprise solution.
“Tomorrow we will scrub Deyis to the bedrock. Tomorrow we will destroy the biomes of Deyis, and with them 90 million sophonts. Make no mistake: they are people. Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, sons and daughters, babies. Their lives and their lines will end forever. We have no choice.
“This is not a task we undertake lightly.
“We will push buttons and activate salvos and watch on display screens the terrifying fruits of our labors. We can even congratulate ourselves on a job well done. But years from now, you will wake in the night with nightmare visions of the people we have murdered so effortlessly.
“Trust me. I absolve you of all guilt. The Emperor himself will ratify your actions. But that will not be enough. There will be nightmares and hauntings. The spirits of the dead will cry out to you and you will have no answer.”
He paused as his words settled into our minds. After just the right interval, he continued.
“Nothing of value is without cost.
“There must be a cost to us for our actions. We must ourselves taste the pain and the loss that those below will suffer. We must ourselves bear a constant reminder of our participation and know that we ourselves have suffered with them.”
This time he sounded like he did not want to continue. But he did.
“Each of you will sacrifice the least digit of your non-dominant hand. Your commanders have bolt cutters and will begin the process now; they will make their sacrifice first. The pain of anticipation will be short-lived; the pain itself is momentary; the loss will stay with you forever as your cost in achieving this mission of great value.”
The Admiral interrupted. “This is barbaric! I will not have it!” He stood, towering over the agent in rage. The Agent remained calm; turned to face him fully. He answered in a conversational voice, yet powerful beyond description.
“It is barbaric. We are going to kill ninety million people because we have no other answer.
“Would you not kill those below? Would you risk the very existence of the empire? We have no choice; no alternative; there are no other options.”
The Admiral raged on. “This is unnecessary. Our crew, our team, is trained and ready to do its duty. I countermand your order!”
Agent Lagash’s fingers twitched in Marine battle language as he simultaneously spoke. “Kill him.”
The Admiral dropped, collapsed in an awkward heap, almost before the sounds of the guns could be heard.
To our credit, only a few of us dropped to the deck; the rest stood transfixed by this drama.
Louder now:
“I speak with the voice of the Emperor himself. Strip his rank insignia from his collar and send it to his family with the message that he disobeyed me. Take his finger; I will not allow him to avoid participating in our sacrifice. Then dump his body on the world below.”
Turning his attention back to us, the assembled crew.
“Years from now you will understand.
“Begin.”
222-514
Delp 0709 Modesta B857400-8 Ni Ga Pa
I hated that agent. He was so calm and arrogant. He expected us to obey him without hesitation, and then literally gave us no choice.
We operated like machines. Targeting. Launching. Monitoring. Runners brought us tasteless meals to eat at our consoles. We slept like the dead; some took pills to avoid the dreams. It took almost a month.
I served in the Navy for another ten years, and I have come to realize that he did indeed have our best interests at heart. He could have just told us what to do and I agree that I would be having nightmares now because of it.
My lieutenant cut off my finger himself. By the time he got to me, he was no longer apologizing. He just did it; the faster for the med to apply a salve and give me a pain pill. It hurt more that I thought it would; I still shudder to think of the barbarity of it all.
And yet.
I understand today, in a way that words could never have told me then: we were going to do far worse to millions of people. It was right that we should suffer. And for every one that we killed, there were ten, or a hundred, or a thousand that would live and never even know what we had done.
334-501
Aboard BB Inarik above
Zaru 0917 Deyis B874777-9 Ag Ri
The little officer scurried forward from the ranks; his tablet cradled in the crook of his arm. He was a Bwap, a Newt, the short, reptilian sophont that seemed to gravitate to obsessive-compulsive tasks like spreadsheets and databases.
His diminutive size made his voice a natural squeak. “Agent Lagash?”
I turned, ready to scowl at an appeal for some special treatment. “Yes? What?”
“I am Lieutenant Commander Epabaa.” He held up his hand to show its severed outermost finger. “My digit will regrow. Is that allowed?”
“I suppose that it is.”
“But then my shared sacrifice is somehow less than the others?”
“That is also true. Tell me your thoughts?”
“May I give an eye instead?” He proffered his stylus, held it out before him.
I accepted it, turned it in my hands, evaluating its form and texture. Abruptly, I straightened my arm to jab at the reptile’s eye. Epabaa recoiled in a reflex action, his hand now covering his face as vitreous oozed through his fingers.
“I apologize, Agent. I had not expected this level of pain.”
“I understand. The Emperor appreciates your sacrifice. Have that patched and return to your duties.”
“Yes, Agent.”
As the Bwap moved away, I extended a hand and supported myself on a console edge. That was harder than I expected.
336-501
Zaru 0917 Deyis B874777-9 Ag Ri
The Goldonan family was only dimly aware of the crisis. Their focus was the farm: the hectares of crop that required constant attention.
Trance was trying to catch that pesky pouncer that was raiding the fowlhouse. The fence didn’t do much good; it somehow made it over, or under, or through to find a plump bird, shake it to death in a cloud of feathers and then escape to a pleasant dinner. Here in the dead of night, Trance had his darkvisors on and waited quietly upwind.
Without warning, his visors blanked to safety mode and he pulled them off to middle-of-the-day light. There, just beyond the fence was the pouncer ready to leap. Trance was raising his sandgun when the blastwave hit.
Filis was worried there was something wrong with her account. She had ordered a replacement translimiter for the drive, had received confirmation, and had spent the last two days almost non-stop getting the foundation brackets ready. Now, on her first real break, she checked and had no messages on the console. None. No weasely marketing notes; no invitations to events; no reminders from the express service. Most of all, no dispatch confirm from the parts company.
She checked again and it looked like the network was down. That was impossible; how could anyone do anything if the network was down?
She took the long walk toward the open cargo hatch, wondering why it was so bright outside. She reached it just as the blastwave hit, tumbling the ship, and her, end over end across the tarmac. Although the ship did three full rotations, she was dead before the first completed.
There was a string of slabs targeted on the isolated Sea of Fools; they would vaporize its contents and boil particles of bottom mud into the upper atmosphere, all part of the overall plan to generate global winter for decades to come.
“Something’s wrong.” The sensop said under her breath as she touched a tab to alert her supervisor. The interaction was silent. The screen was highlighted to show the slabs targeting shore rather than sea. A supplemental screen showed the original target point and its undulating and eddying pattern of surface fish as they darted about, faster than it seemed they should. The supervisor retargeted a backup stream to impact several minutes later. They hit as directed and the exception incident was marked closed.