Artifice (Special Forces: FJ One Book 2) (9 page)

“She has you there, Alex,” Chen said. “We’re at a dead end if we…”

“If you were dependent on the existing network, of course. Not long ago I took the liberty of building a back channel into the Rhal’s comm systems. Regrettably, only the most recently fabbed Earth comms can access that channel. Your Captain Orlov on Tiamat is the sole owner of a set. And since there is currently a Rhal ship hovering over Tiamat, you’ll be able to bounce through that undetected.”

Chen sighed. Was this true, or was Alex still playing, literally,
deus ex machina
, giving him and his team only one option – Tiamat?

Archambault’s hands flew over the panel, tapping in Orlov’s last known comm ID. “Captain Orlov, are you there?”

There was the expected pause as the signal bounced across flashspace, through the Rhal network.

“Holy shit,” they heard Orlov whisper. “Is that you, Sergeant Archambault? Have I got news for you…”

As he squatted in his hiding place, watching the Rhal army stomp around the (now deposed) Hierarch’s palace on Tiamat, despoiling the sacred fountain and overturning the furnishings looking for anything of value, Captain Matunde Orlov had never felt so excited and alive.

He had been with the
Fallschirmjäger
for ten years now as a Civil Affairs officer. He was the one who came in after any major military action was past, or once it had been proven that there would be no need for one. When the FJ team left the planet, having established a positive relationship with the natives and moved on to a new colony world, he was the one left behind, basically an ambassador without the trappings of that title back home.

And that wasn’t really right, either. He didn’t live in a compound that comprised “foreign soil,” as his job was to settle into the local population and “go native.” The model had proved tried and true on Earth, over and over. The French trappers and traders who lived among the North American Indians, the first British adventurers in Afghanistan and India.

Orlov’s idol was the great Frenchman, Louis Hubert Gonzalve Lyautey, creator of population-centric counterinsurgency. He armed the natives of Indochina against Chinese bandits, he “went native” wherever he was stationed, learned the local language, adopted the local dress, and expended French funds on roads, schools, and providing opportunities for the natives to learn new skills. When it came to keeping local populations peaceful, he said that “A workshop is worth a battalion.”

It was such a simple idea – to conquer a nation by becoming a member of it. To rule through submission to the ruled, in some ways. To take the political power in a nation without disturbing its culture. It was amazing how compliant people could be about a regime change, especially when the old regime was autocratic, oligarchic, corrupt, as long as you left them to live their lives the way they always had.

Of course, Lyautey was the representative of an expansionist, imperialist, colonial empire, but all the same, the lessons he taught had been adopted with fervent enthusiasm by Department 6C. It was important to come into a strange land, as humanity so desperately needed to do, and not “do it wrong,” as the old Earth empires had done far too often.

Orlov had wanted desperately to be in an FJ unit, but he hadn’t made the cut. He was a little too small, a little too weak, and worst of all, a little too hesitant and cerebral for combat. But he was happy in Civil Affairs. Tiamat was only his second posting, as a Civil Affairs officer was expected to remain in place for up to a decade in a new culture.

The news from Earth had been shocking, the report that renegade FJ units had attacked a Rhal ship without provocation. And he hadn’t believed it for a second. Especially after the first thing that was flashed to him from home was a “loyalty oath,” asserting his promise to rat out any FJ units with whom he came into contact.

He signed it, because signing the lie would buy him time. This was no time for quixotic gestures, and he knew it was exactly what HM herself would do in the same situation. If there was any doubt about the rightness of this course, the additional news that HM was on her way to Rhal as a “guest” of their ruler sealed the deal.

And now, by default, he
was
the
Fallschirmjäger
unit in place on Tiamat. And if the Rhal had vaporized all the active FJ units, then, well shit, he was fucking Obi-Wan, the last man standing.

The next flash was the one that really worried him.
Prep col ct rcv Rhal del.
Prepare the human colony and the Hierarch’s Court to receive a Rhal delegation…

Orlov didn’t waste much time with the colonials. Not long ago, FJ One had put down a colonial attempt to overwhelm the carefully calibrated 6C system on this planet. The colonists had wanted to metastasize across the planet, with no restrictions on growth, hunting, mining. They wanted a “boom town,” a go-go economy that would require reckless disregard for the natives, the environment, their own future on a planet on which they were a minority. The day they’d tried a military action to accomplish that, well…FJ One had killed a lot of people that day, and deported still more to Eden One, an even worse fate.

Captain Orlov had dutifully communicated the latest message from home to the colony’s new leader, Rufus Pratt. The man had narrowed his eyes at him, piggy little slits squinted tight, but not so tight his smug triumph didn’t radiate from them.

“So we’ve got a new sheriff in town back home, Orlov. Maybe now we’ll get a little breathing room around here. Stretch our legs a bit without one hand tied behind our back.”

A diplomat to the core, Orlov didn’t roll his eyes at the mixed metaphors, or call out how much “breathing room” sounded like something a certain expansionist dictator had used 200 years ago.

“I’m sure we’re all very excited to see what the Rhal intend to do…
for
Tiamat,” he said diplomatically, giving Pratt pause. The Devil he knew, Department 6C, was being replaced by the Devil he didn’t. “And I’m sure that in your leadership role in the colony, you’ll extend them every courtesy.”

And with that, he left the human colony to ponder what might come next.

He had a very different message for Gabari, the High Tiamatan Hierarch.

“Your Majesty, the new government on Earth, and their Rhal…allies have labeled all FJ units as ‘traitors.’ They are blaming Captain Chen for the unprovoked destruction of one of their ships.”

The Hierarch licked his fur casually, giving himself time to think. “The Rhal are a superior race to the human race, aren’t they?”

“If by superior, you mean technologically, then yes, Majesty.”

Hierarch Gabari was a subtle person, and he caught Orlov’s meaning. “So you are saying that these are all lies? That the Captain did not attack an enemy ship?”

“There was no cause to think of that ship as an enemy ship, Majesty, until it attacked the FJ units.”

“You have no proof of who fired first.”

“No, your Majesty. What I have, what I offer you, is your own experience with Captain Chen. Your own observations of the man, his character. Is this the man who would shoot first?”

“Hmm. So. This ‘delegation.’ What do you think they want?”

“My personal opinion, Majesty, is that they are coming to conquer you.”

The court members hissed, fur ruffling. The Tiamatans were a feline species, and as such were extremely territorial. Which was exactly what Orlov was counting on.

“And what do you want, then, Captain?”

“Hide me, Majesty. Convince them I’m dead, that you tore me to pieces when you heard about the attack on the Rhal.”

“Torn to pieces because your loyalties don’t lie with your masters?”

This was tricky. To turn his coat was an unthinkable betrayal – in the High Tiamatans’ rigid society, this was an instant death sentence, no trial required.

“That is the story you could tell the Rhal. As I see it, my master is Captain Chen, and our master is Director McAllister. They have been driven from their righteous and proper station by lesser elements.”

He hated to play on the High Tiamatans’ prejudice against the Low Tiamatans (genetically no different from them, but of an artificially created “low caste”), but nothing got the court’s dander up like the mention of those who didn’t know their place.

The Hierarch nodded. “We hide you. We fake your death. And then what?”

“And then we wait and see, Your Majesty. If they come to conquer, I advise you to…” He almost said “lay down,” but that would have provoked hisses and snarls all around. His Tiamatan was good, but like any language, it was a minefield of little phrases that meant so much more than the words themselves.

“I advise you to hide in the tall grass, and stalk them. To watch and wait.”

Purrs rolled across the room, assent, approval. They were predators, and they understood patience when it came to hunting.

If the Rhal came to conquer,
Orlov thought
, they would have their hands full here.

He should have been terrified, hiding in the slave quarters below the palace. He should have felt encircled, abandoned, lost… He felt anger and indignation at the treatment the Tiamatans were receiving from the Rhal, but more than anything he felt…fascination, at the case study unfolding before him.

The Rhal ship had set down outside the city, and a battalion had formed up and marched through the gates. Orlov knew immediately that he’d been right – these were not the “little green men” they’d presented themselves as on Earth. These were…monsters. He tried to put aside cultural prejudices, to remember the diversity of life in the galaxy, but their crocodile heads and their croaking voices stimulated his most primal human fears.

Their blazing red uniforms soon filled the streets of the capital, as they swarmed up the steps of the palace, knocking aside the heralds who’d been prepared to receive them with formality and dignity. Their commander stomped into the palace with all the tact of a barbarian sacking Rome.

The residents of the city, who’d come out to greet them, not all of whom were as convinced as Orlov had been that they didn’t come in peace, were given a rude awakening. One of their officers stood at the top of the palace steps and flicked a translation device on at his throat.

“You are conquered in the name of His Supreme Highness the RhalVai of Rhalbazan! You will submit and obey!”

Orlov braced himself then for the riot. But it didn’t come. The Hierarch had prepared his elites well, and they immediately fell to the ground, submitting, purring like house cats, ready to rub against the legs of their new masters to get something out of them.

And now, he received a master class, a perfect example of absolutely everything a conqueror could do wrong. If he survived this, he would have one hell of a book to write.

There were three precepts of counterinsurgency and successful occupation of a foreign territory.

The more you protect your force, the less secure you are.
The Rhal had centralized their forces in and around the Palace, occupying the mansions of the elite and fortifying a defensive position. Tiamatans who had business with the Rhal had to go through secure checkpoints, after a sufficient amount of degradation and humiliation had been imposed.

“Green zones” were absolutely
verboten
under 6C principles. Isolating yourself from the occupied peoples made you an invasive species, a weed, a virus. To set yourself up in an adversarial environment was to ensure your adversarial status on an inescapable psychological level.

The Rhal had booted the Hierarch out of his own palace, and had thus degraded the status not only of the nation’s leader, but all those beneath him who fell in status accordingly. And nothing pisses off a kitty cat like someone else taking the highest perch in the house.

The more force you use, the less effective you are.
This was the classic problem when armies built to destroy were put in charge of the peace. Armies are designed to kill, to punish, to advance, not to maintain a balance. It was the classic Maslow’s Hammer theory – “when your only tool is a hammer, every problem starts to look like a nail.” This was why Civil Affairs departments had been created in the first place – the need for armies to have someone with a different toolset to come in to the picture after the war was won.

The Rhal were fond of the lash. And Tiamatan nature being what it was, they could only take so much submission before their sharp claws struck out at the occasional Rhal soldier who’d trashed their house, or their store, or threatened their children. The Rhal answer to a pushback on their violent occupation was…more violence. Which of course in turn only created the angry energy required for more pushback.

He could see the faces of the Rhal soldiers at the public whippings of insubordinate Tiamatans. It was what you’d see in the faces of religious terrorists of old – the pornographic excitement of men whose culture had repressed their sexual outlets and channeled that energy into violence. There was clearly no Civil Affairs department in the Rhal military.

Sometimes doing nothing is the best reaction.
That was out of the question for the Rhal. The lesson was simple – don’t be provoked into action by a demonstration or a declaration. Let the natives have their moment, and let the fire burn itself out. Interfere in that moment, however, and you turn a demonstration into a riot, or a riot into an insurgency.

The Rhal had as much of a dominance-expressing culture as the Tiamatans, but no sense of subtlety. Tiamatans were great on ceremony, especially funerals, and the Rhal were sure that these funerals, especially for those who’d been whipped to death, were demonstrations by “rebellious elements” and they were broken up with…yep. More of the lash.

Captain Orlov was glad that Captain Chen had promoted him before leaving. Everyone in 6C and the FJ forces knew the classic David Kilcullen motto – “Rank is nothing; talent is everything.” A detachment of sergeants who knew what they were doing, who knew the culture and the history and the language and the key players, were more effective than a general with a battalion.

Orlov thought of a funny story about the American occupation of Afghanistan. When the Pentagon generals saw pictures of the Special Forces members who’d successfully penetrated the country, sporting beards as they posed triumphantly with their native allies, their first reaction had been…to issue frantic orders that the soldiers shave their beards.