ANCIENT-ENEMY
Eric James Stone
Under the blue-green light of the glowworms installed on the ceiling, Scholar Buhresh studied the sixty-one Ancient-Enemy captives eating their food in the pit below. Despite his having studied pictures and videos of them for years, the differences between them and the True-Men stood out: the smallness of their eyes; their weak, elongated limbs; and their high foreheads lacking proper brow ridges. How could their ancestors have defeated the True-Men in ancient times?
They labeled themselves Homo sapiens—wise man.
That they had built a highly technological society argued in favor of their wisdom.
That they had destroyed what they built argued against it.
It was a puzzle.
After watching the patterns of interactions between the captives, Buhresh decided on his target: a full-grown male treated deferentially by the others.
Buhresh approached the guard by the ladder, a seventeen-year-old male from the Shalakh Clan, according to his forehead tattoo. “Far-Nephew,” he said in Interclan, “I wish to speak to the captives.”
“Yes, Scholar Buhresh.” The young man pressed a button to activate the mechanism, and the ladder smoothly descended to the floor of the pit. “Do you wish to borrow my electrospear? Or should I come down with you?”
“I will be fine. Keep watch from here.” Buhresh climbed down the ladder and strode to where his target sat cross-legged on the ground. The captive looked at him warily.
“?” Buhresh asked.
The captive did not reply, merely staring at Buhresh with those too-small eyes.
“Do you speak English? Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Parlez-vous français? ¿Habla español?”
“,” the captive said.
“Very good,” Buhresh replied in Russian. He squatted on his heels so he was closer to the male’s level, while still being ready to move quickly if need be. “I am Scholar Buhresh. What are you named?”
“Mykhaylo.”
“Are you the leader of this clan?”
Mykhaylo shrugged, a gesture Buhresh had learned from videos of the Ancient-Enemy.
“The others defer to you,” Buhresh said. “You must be of high status.”
A female sitting nearby said, “He is a co—”
“Shut up!” Mykhaylo ordered.
The female fell silent.
“Perhaps you are a co . . . mmander? Commandant?”
“Perhaps,” Mykhaylo said reluctantly.
“Very good. Explain to your subordinates that they must cooperate with the guards and not try to escape.”
“Or what? They’ll be beaten? Killed?”
They do not think like us, Buhresh reminded himself. “When the child does not follow the rules, the parent is at fault, not the child. If your subordinates do not follow the rules, they will be forced to comply, but it is their commander who must be punished.”
“Understood.”
“Very good!”
Buhresh stood up so quickly one of the guards raised his electrospear to his shoulder. Buhresh waved his hand in dismissal. “Eat and get some rest. We leave in two-tenths of a day—about five of your hours.”
“Where are you taking us?” Mykhaylo asked.
“To labor in the Under-Land, where you will support the war effort.”
“Why have your people declared war on us?” Mykhaylo said. “We didn’t attack you—we didn’t even know people lived down here!”
“The Over-Land is our birthright,” Buhresh said. “Your kind stole the Over-Land from us, forced us underground, and proceeded to forget all about us. But we have not forgotten you, Ancient-Enemy. Your year is numbered 1992 since one of your religious leaders was born. Our year is numbered 42,887 since we founded our society in the Under-Land.”
Mykhaylo’s small eyes widened. “Your history goes back 42,887 years?”
Buhresh wiggled his hands in uncertainty. “The number may not be exact, as we did not develop writing until about 3,500 years after the True-Men moved to the Under-Land. But that’s the best we can estimate from the ancestor-songs transcribed by—” Buhresh shook his head, a gesture his people had in common with the Ancient-Enemy. The teacher in him loved to explain things. “It does not matter.”
“But how did you keep track of years without being able to see the sun?” Mykhaylo asked.
“I find it interesting that you ask that question, and not how it is that I speak your language. The latter implies the answer to the former.” Buhresh turned to leave and was surprised to find one of the females standing two arm lengths away on the direct line between him and the ladder. He had not heard her approach.
“You speak English?” she asked. She was at least a handsbreadth taller than him.
“I do,” Buhresh replied.
She straightened her shoulders. “My name is Pamela Brown. I’m a representative of the United States government. I demand that you release me and the rest of these people immediately.”
Buhresh attempted to smile at her. How had these people ever decided that baring one’s teeth was a friendly expression? “An American! It is a pleasure to meet you, Congresswoman Brown.”
“No, no, I’m not a congresswoman. I just work for the government. But the American government does not look kindly on people who kidnap government employees.”
“But we are not in the USA, Pamela Brown. We are not even in the USSR. We are in the Under-Land. But I am curious—what was an American government employee doing in the USSR, land of your enemies?”
“We call it the Marshall Plan II, helping them rebuild after World War III.”
“And what is your occupation, Pamela?”
“I’m a sanitation engineer. I’m helping them clean up what’s left of their cities.”
“First you use your nuclear bombs to destroy their cities, then you help them clean up and rebuild. It seems contradictory.”
“They launched first,” Pamela said. “Only reason most of our cities survived was our missile defense worked.”
“Which only makes it even more remarkably illogical. When one of our clans starts a war against another clan, the clan leaders know that if they lose, their clan will be utterly destroyed. And thus, it has been generations since we had an inter-clan war. We must talk more on this, but I’m afraid I must cut this discussion short, as I have duties to attend to before we travel.”
As Buhresh started to walk around her, she said, “I know you’re a Neanderthal.”
Buhresh stopped. “That is your name for us, yes. Our name for ourselves means ‘True Men’ in your language.”
“And what does your name for us mean in my language?”
Buhresh hesitated, but decided it would do no harm. “You are the ‘Ancient Enemy.’”
“Ah,” she said. “You’re still holding a grudge after forty thousand years.”
“We remember you every day we live underground, because you are the reason.”
He strode past her and climbed the ladder.
After the guard raised the ladder, Buhresh looked down into the pit. The Ukrainian man was conversing with a few others in low tones. But the American woman was just standing in the pit looking up at him.
“That female will be trouble,” he said to the young guard. “She is not of the same clan as the others, so do not retaliate against them if she does anything. Treat her as a rogue.”
“Yes, Scholar Buhresh,” the guard replied.
Buhresh bowed his head before the portable viewscreen. “Grand-Uncle Roggeth, you summoned me?”
“Yes,” said Three-Times-Great-Grand-Uncle Roggeth. “I hear you have captured some of the Ancient-Enemies instead of exterminating them.”
“This is truth, Grand-Uncle.”
“For what purpose?”
Buhresh knew that study and learning would not be sufficient reason for the grand-uncle, which was why he had devised his plan with a secondary purpose. “We must have plentiful nuclear weapons in order to hold off the Americans once we reconquer our birthright. Is that not truth?”
“It is truth. It would have been better if we had sufficient nuclear weapons before we attacked, but we could not ignore the opportunity that presented itself in the aftermath of their war.”
Buhresh nodded. He had expressed his doubts about the wisdom of that course of action at the time, but once the rock was chiseled, it could not be unchiseled. “Too many from the mining and working clans are sickened by the radiation from mining and processing uranium. It occurred to me that we could preserve our own people by using the Ancient-Enemy as miners and workers in Uranium-Town. I captured some that I might test the possibility.”
Roggeth smacked his lips as he considered Buhresh’s words. Finally, he said, “This is wisdom in you, Buhresh. Keep me apprised of how the experiment goes.”
Buhresh was squatting at the writing-table in his Uranium-Town quarters when the guard brought Pamela Brown to him.
He waved dismissal to the guard and looked her over. The pale-blue mining uniform was too big around her arms and torso, but the bare shins of her too-long legs stuck down from the bottom. In the long term, one of the tailoring clans would need to create uniforms with the proper proportions for the Ancient-Enemies. But that would only be necessary if the captives performed well enough at their work. Based on the past ten-day, that remained an open question.
“You wished to speak with me,” Buhresh said.
“We need more light,” said Pamela Brown.
“More light?”
“Unless you’re satisfied with our productivity, we need more light. You’ve had millennia to evolve for living in the Under-Land, while we’ve barely had a week. Modern humans are used to living and working in bright electric light. These things”—she pointed at the glowworms attached to the ceiling—“barely give us enough light, even after our eyes adjust.”
It did make sense. True-Men needed to wear eye-shields to go above-ground during daylight.
“I am curious,” Buhresh said, “as to why Mykhaylo did not make this request on behalf of his people. Why is it you?”
She squeezed her lips tight, as if she did not want words to escape. Finally, she said, “Mykhaylo thinks that since we are the only humans—of our kind, at least—to be brought here for labor, that we are an experiment. He does not want us to be productive, so you will abandon the experiment and maybe let us go.”
“And you disagree with his analysis?”
“I agree we are an experiment. But if the experiment fails, you will not let your ‘Ancient Enemies’ go free. You’ve been slaughtering people on the surface, so you will have no compunctions about simply killing us. I would rather live. So I’m doing what I can to make us more productive.”
“A very rational approach, which I would not have expected from an American. Did one of your heroes not say, ‘Give me liberty or give me death’?”
She shrugged. “Different strokes for different folks.”
Buhresh took a moment to parse the unfamiliar phrase. “An idiom? Meaning different people prefer different things? And it rhymes.” He picked up a pen and wrote the phrase and its definition on a piece of paper. When he was done, he looked up at her. “I will have some electric lights provided for your workspaces.”
“Thank you.”
Buhresh whistled for the guard to return and ordered him to escort her back to the captives’ quarters.
Interesting. She had originally tried to claim the rest of the captives as her clan, but Mykhaylo must have disabused her of that notion. Her only recourse as a social creature was to ingratiate herself with the True-Men by betraying her own kind.
Perhaps she would not be as much trouble as he originally thought.
Nine ten-days later, along with other Uranium-Town officials, Buhresh was at the station to greet Three-Times-Great-Grand-Uncle Roggeth when he stepped off the monorail from Military-City. They all followed the grand-uncle to the administration sector. The grand-uncle took over the mayor’s office and began taking reports from town officials.
When Buhresh’s turn came, he entered the office and slid the door shut behind him. Roggeth squatted behind a writing-table and motioned for Buhresh to squat before him.
“Your test of using Ancient-Enemy captives to refine uranium is a success,” said the grand-uncle. “They are not as efficient as True-Men when it comes to the amount of raw materials used, but their speed more than makes up for that. We are now ahead of our production schedule for weapons-grade uranium. Well done.”
Buhresh nodded to acknowledge the compliment. “We may be wasting valuable assets by exterminating the Ancient-Enemy. The improvement in production is due to suggestions from one of them. Discarding batches from the first refining with lower concentrations of uranium 235 allows the second refining to work significantly faster.”
Roggeth frowned. “Why did one of our own not come up with this?”
“Our policy of open knowledge works against us in this case. Our people, fearful of radiation, do not like working with higher concentrations.”
“And Ancient-Enemies do not fear radiation?”
“As far as they know, they are merely refining metal. Since they are Ancient-Enemies, they are not entitled to open knowledge.”
“That is wisdom in you.” Roggeth rose to his feet. “I wish to see these Ancient-Enemies with my own eyes. Take me to them.”
As Buhresh and Roggeth approached the entrance to the refining-room, Buhresh grabbed two eye-shields from hooks on the wall and handed one to Roggeth.
“These protect our eyes from radiation?” Roggeth asked.
Buhresh decided not to give the technically correct answer that visible light is a form of radiation, and instead said, “The Ancient-Enemies require bright light to work. With only brief exposure to the uranium, we will be in no danger from radiation. We switch out the guards every tenth of a day to limit their exposure.”
Even with the eye-shields, Buhresh squinted as they entered the refining-room. Roggeth strode in a couple of paces and then stopped to look around the room.
Ten captives, including Mykhaylo, sat on benches by a table, eating a meal. Another ten were seated at their work stations. The American woman was not there; she was on a different shift.
The four guards set around the room rose from their squatted position and rapped the butts of their electrospears on the floor.
The murmur of conversation among the eating captives stopped abruptly as they all turned to stare at the grand-uncle.
“They do not eat standard rations?” Roggeth asked.
“They work better eating food to which they are accustomed. We have it brought down from the Over-Land for them.”
“And these things they sit on?”
“Also brought down from the Over-Land to make them comfortable while working.” Buhresh began to feel uneasy about the direction this conversation was headed. “These seemed reasonable accommodations to increase their productivity.”
“I see.” Roggeth paused, then said, “You will translate my words for them.”
“Yes, Grand-Uncle.”
“Ancient-Enemies,” Roggeth said, his deep voice echoing in the refining-room. “You are fortunate indeed to have found favor in our eyes. I am Three-Times-Great-Grand-Uncle Roggeth, who leads the war against your people.”
As he translated into Russian and English, Buhresh used the words /general instead of the literal meaning of three-times-great-grand-uncle.
“When we are victorious, you will be rewarded by adoption into our clans. You will no longer be Ancient-Enemies, you will be family. Carry on with your work.”
Buhresh was so astonished by this promise that he stumbled through his translations. He had not thought the grand-uncle capable of such generosity toward the Ancient-Enemy.
Roggeth strode toward the door and motioned for Buhresh to follow.
Once they were outside the room and walking back toward the administrative section, Roggeth said, “You will exterminate these Ancient-Enemies when we have no further use for them.”
“Of course, Grand-Uncle. I was surprised when you promised to adopt them into our clans, but now I see that you were lying to give them incentive to work harder.”
Roggeth stopped walking. Buhresh continued another pace, then stopped and turned to face the grand-uncle.
“It was wisdom in you, Scholar Buhresh, to test these captives as workers. That has paid off with increased production. However, it was foolishness in you to adapt their environment to suit them. Forty thousand years ago we were forced by them to adapt to life underground. Now, it is time for the Ancient-Enemy to be forced to adapt to us. Understood?”
Buhresh nodded. “I will take away their—”
“No, leave things as they are. But they must be exterminated when they are no longer of use, so they can never tell any of their kind of what happened here.”
“Yes, Grand-Uncle.”
The next day was tenth-day. In addition to the normal time off from labor, Three-Times-Great-Grand-Uncle Roggeth had decreed a day of feasting and competition. After Buhresh won the scholar’s tournament in the dark-stone/light-stone game, he was allowed to join Roggeth in the Victors’ Stand at the arena to watch the combat bouts of the warrior clans.
Buhresh was surprised to see a roped-off section of the stands held the Ancient-Enemy captives. All three shifts were there. “Grand-Uncle,” he said, “did you have the captives brought here? Who is processing the uranium?”
Roggeth laughed. “We are ahead of schedule. They can take some time away from their work. There’s something I want them to see.”
“What is that?”
“A surprise.”
Over the next tenth of a day, the audience hooted their appreciation for the victors of the bouts, who joined the grand-uncle in the Victors’ Stand, while the losers left the arena completely.
During the last announced bout, Roggeth said to Buhresh, “After this bout, I will speak. Go now to your captives and translate for them.”
Buhresh made his way over to the captives’ section. They seemed nervous, even frightened. A few of them looked like they had been crying.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
“Scholar Buhresh,” said Mykhaylo, “will we be forced into combat in this arena?”
For all Buhresh knew, that was the surprise Roggeth had planned. But he said, “No, the work you are doing is far too valuable.”
Unfortunately, that did not calm them.
Before he could inquire more, Pamela approached him and said, “The general said after the war we could be adopted by your clans.”
“It is wisdom in him,” Buhresh said. “You have proven your worth.”
“What does adoption into your clans entail? Would we be allowed to marry, have children?”
Buhresh felt it a kindness to lie to her. Even if she were allowed to live, by now the radiation exposure would have made her sterile. “Of course. You will be as family to us.”
“I hope—”
The voice of Roggeth blared through the arena’s loudspeakers. “My nephews, you have brought honor to your clan-mothers. With the bravery and skill you have shown today, our victory against the Ancient-Enemy is assured.”
The crowd hooted their appreciation.
Roggeth raised a hand to silence them. “There is one more bout today, and then we feast. I, myself, will fight in single combat . . . to the death.”
Buhresh and the crowd hissed in surprise. Combat to the death was rare—bouts usually ended with surrender when one was at a clear disadvantage. And who would dare to challenge the grand-uncle?
From the other end of the arena, eight guards marched a captive into the center: a thin, gray-haired, Ancient-Enemy male. From his uniform, he must have been an officer in what remained of the Red Army.
“This Ancient-Enemy is one of their grand-uncles,” said Roggeth. “He asked us to stop reclaiming our birthright lands, and to leave the Over-Land in peace. His request will be granted . . . if he can kill me in combat.”
Buhresh translated this for his captives, adding, “This is a rare opportunity the grand-uncle has offered your people.”
“I thank the grand-uncle for his generosity,” Mykhaylo said. “I will tell the others.”
The earlier bouts had been with blunted spears, but Roggeth took two electrospears from some soldiers and strode out to meet the captive in the arena. He tossed one of the electrospears at the captive’s feet. The captive picked it up gingerly, holding it incorrectly, and Buhresh knew there was no chance this captive would beat Roggeth.
The combat started slowly, the two opponents circling each other. Roggeth feinted with his electrospear, and the captive overreacted, stumbling backward.
Buhresh looked at his captives to see how they were taking this. Pamela was no longer beside him—she and Mykhaylo were arguing near the back of the stand. After a few moments, she stormed off toward an exit, with a guard following her.
The hooting of the crowd brought Buhresh’s attention back to the combat. The captive officer was on his knees, clutching a bloody gut wound with his hands. His electrospear lay on the ground.
The wound was clearly mortal, but Roggeth moved in and jabbed his spear into the captive’s left eye. The man’s body shuddered as the electrodes in the point activated, giving the Ancient-Enemy the honor of not bleeding to death. Roggeth twisted his spear to free it from the corpse.
The crowd hooted wildly.
Roggeth strode back to the Victors’ Stand and stood before the microphone. The crowd quieted. “As this Ancient-Enemy has fallen before me,” he said, “so shall the Ancient-Enemy fall before our army. The Over-Land is our birthright.”
The celebratory hooting resumed.
Buhresh was startled when Mykhaylo stepped into the arena and headed toward the Victors’ Stand.
“Mykhaylo, stop!” he shouted, to no avail. Buhresh hurried after him.
They were only a few arm lengths from the Victors’ Stand when Buhresh caught up to him and grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?”
“Tell your general that he killed one of my men, and now I challenge him. If I kill him, you will end your war against my people.”
“I will tell him no such thing,” Buhresh said.
“Grand-Uncle,” Mykhaylo shouted in poorly accented Interclan. “Me fight peace!”
“Was that a challenge?” Roggeth asked, his voice echoing through the arena. “Buhresh, what is this?”
Buhresh lowered his head. “He says you killed one of his men, and now he challenges you. If he wins, we must end the war against his people.”
“By what right does he challenge me? He is not a great-grand-uncle among his people.”
Buhresh translated this to Mykhaylo, adding, “There are rules about who can challenge whom. Only one of your high officers would have position to force a challenge to the three-times-great-grand-uncle.”
Mykhaylo drew himself up. “I am a colonel in the Soviet Air Force, twice awarded Hero of the Soviet Union.”
“That is insufficient,” Buhresh said.
“Tell him I am a cosmonaut. I was aboard Mir space station when the nuclear war destroyed my country. I saw the missiles launch, I saw the cities burn. I want to see no more war for my people or for yours. Tell him that.”
Buhresh translated Mykhaylo’s rank and his message.
“He flew into the space beyond the air?” Roggeth asked.
“Yes.”
Roggeth looked Mykhaylo over from head to foot. Buhresh tried to assess their relative combat capabilities. The two probably massed about the same and were roughly the same age. Mykhaylo had longer legs and was taller, but Roggeth was more muscular. Roggeth was highly skilled with an electrospear. Did cosmonauts train with spears? Buhresh doubted it.
“He still does not rank highly enough,” said Roggeth. “However, he may challenge my grand-nephew Kohmet, who is of close-enough rank.”
That was cleverness in Roggeth. Mykhaylo knew Roggeth’s skill, having seen him fight. But no one knew Mykhaylo’s skill, and his challenge to Roggeth made no sense unless he thought he could win.
Buhresh explained to Mykhaylo that he could challenge Kohmet, who was merely a great-grand-uncle, not a three-times-great-grand-uncle.
“If I win, he’ll stop the war?”
“No, but you’ll gain Kohmet’s rank, which is sufficient to challenge Roggeth directly. Roggeth himself was of Kohmet’s rank when he challenged the previous Three-Times-Great-Grand-Uncle so he could start the reclamation of the Over-Land.”
“Very good, I’ll do it.”
Kohmet came out of the Victors’ Stand. Buhresh recognized him as having dominated his earlier opponent. He carried two electrospears and threw one down at Mykhaylo’s feet.
“Do I need to kill him to win?” Mykhaylo asked Buhresh. “Or will he surrender when I have clear advantage?”
“This is to the death,” Buhresh said.
Mykhaylo nodded and picked up the electrospear, and Buhresh returned to the rest of the captives, who seemed frightened and confused.
“Your leader is fighting to put an end to this war,” Buhresh said. “It is bravery in him.”
Kohmet and Mykhaylo circled each other, the tips of their electrospears only two handsbreadths apart. Kohmet lunged, and Mykhaylo parried. They traded blows several times, with Mykhaylo obviously on the defensive.
One of Kohmet’s strikes dealt Mykhaylo’s left leg a glancing blow, barely drawing blood, but the electric shock clearly jolted Mykhaylo, and that left him open for another strike, this time at his right leg. He fell to his knees.
Before Kohmet could take advantage, though, Mykhaylo swung his electrospear in a wide arc, and Kohmet had to back off to avoid getting shocked. Mykhaylo rose to his feet, bleeding from cuts on both legs. The wounds would weaken him over time if the bout stretched out, but Buhresh doubted that would be a factor: Mykhaylo was too inexperienced with the electrospear to last long against an expert like Kohmet.
The combatants began circling each other again. Suddenly, Mykhaylo turned and sprinted away from Kohmet.
For a moment, Buhresh marveled at the man’s cowardice. Then he realized Mykhaylo was not running away from Kohmet, but rather toward the Victors’ Stand, with his electrospear aimed directly at Grand-Uncle Roggeth.
But then Kohmet’s hurled electrospear pierced Mykhaylo’s lower back. He dropped his electrospear and crumpled to the ground.
Some of the captives around Buhresh gasped or started sobbing.
Kohmet ran up to Mykhaylo and pulled his electrospear out of Mykhaylo’s back. He was about to plunge it into Mykhaylo’s neck when Roggeth said, “No. Do not end him honorably. Cut him and let him bleed out.”
After making the ritual cuts, Kohmet joined Roggeth in the Victors’ Stand, and then the grand-uncle and the rest of the victors left for the feast.
Buhresh walked over and squatted down next to Mykhaylo, who was barely conscious. “I want to understand,” Buhresh said. “Why did you do this? You never had a chance of winning.”
Mykhaylo gasped for breath a few times. “I had to try . . .”
Buhresh found Pamela in the refining-room. She sat in a chair, hands clutched in her lap. Wetness glistened on her cheeks.
She looked up as he came in. “Don’t come any closer, Scholar Buhresh.”
He stopped. There were dark red stains on the floor, and the guard that should have been with her was nowhere in sight. If she had harmed the guard, her life was forfeit.
“Did Mykhaylo win?” she asked.
“You . . . You knew what he planned?”
“I tried to talk him out of it. Did he win?”
A sinking feeling in Buhresh’s gut told him there was a deep game here he was only beginning to glimpse. “Yes. He won. He sent me to tell you the war is over. There is no more need for killing. You will be returned to the Over-Land.”
“That’s all?”
What else could she be expecting? They had been arguing passionately about him risking his life. Could they have been lovers? “He sends you his love.”
She chuckled. “That is definitely not the password. Mykhaylo is dead.”
Buhresh hung his head. There was no point to bluffing anymore, but perhaps he could still figure out this game. “That is wisdom in you. His final words were, ‘I had to try.’”
Pamela nodded. “I guess what he saw up there made him try anything to avoid another nuke going off.”
“That is understandable. Nobody wants another nuclear war.”
“I lied to you when we first met,” Pamela said. “It’s true I was helping clean up their cities, but I’m not a sanitation engineer. I’m a nuclear engineer.”
In Buhresh’s mind, the stones fell to their positions on the board. “You knew you were refining uranium. But why, then, did you make the process more efficient?”
“Because that distracted you from thinking about what happened to the lower-quality batches. Eighty percent U-235 is considered ‘weapons-grade’ uranium, but it’s possible to build a bomb with only twenty percent. It takes hundreds of kilos instead of fifty to reach critical mass, and it’s not as efficient. But it will work.”
Buhresh closed his eyes. “You have built such a bomb.”
“We had a timer set to detonate it tonight during the feast. But then Mykhaylo had to try to make peace, so I had to come disarm it.”
“You disarmed it?”
Pamela raised one of her hands. Her thumb was pressed on a button at the end of a metal tube. Wires came out the bottom of the tube and stretched out behind her. “We call this a dead-man’s switch. Or dead woman. When I let go of the button, it closes the circuit, starting a chain reaction that will destroy this entire facility.” She chuckled sadly. “The good news for your people is that after you lose this war, someone like me will probably come down here to help the remnants of your people clean up the mess I made.”
“You have the strong hand now. What do you want in exchange for not exploding your bomb? Peace? Let me get the grand-uncle. I’m sure he will agree to withdraw from the surface.”
She shook her head. “I can’t trust your people’s promises. You were never going to adopt me and let me make little hybrid babies. So this is not a negotiation. You’re a teacher, so you’ll understand why I’m glad I could explain my little science project to you before we—”
Buhresh lunged, reaching for the tube in her hand.
The last thing he saw was her thumb lifting.