“Come now,” said Yezhov. “That’s mere semantics. You must realize that when a battalion goes into battle that few of its soldiers shall survive contact with the Highborn. I sent a lone operative—”
“You altered her.”
Yezhov silently indicated Captain Mune.
Hawthorne shook his head, but he couldn’t muster further arguments. He could hardly think. It was true that Yezhov killed Highborn. But this was nasty work, low, foul and un-soldierly.
But economical of lives
, said his coldly logical half. The Highborn were winning, and it was extremely hard to inflict kills on the super soldiers. They were very good at using FEC soldiers as fodder. Could this vile method help turn the tide of the war? No. It wouldn’t bring victory, but it might help in an attritional way.
“World War One,” Hawthorne muttered.
“Is that a historical reference?” Yezhov asked.
“Captain Mune,” Hawthorne said.
“Sir?”
“Alert the team outside,” Hawthorne said. “Tell them to put these technicians into protective custody.” He felt soiled having witnessed this. Yet that wasn’t logical. Yezhov was right. It could be argued that he’d ordered much worse.
“These are my best people,” Yezhov was saying. “I’ll need them to keep my operations running smoothly.”
“You’ll need my good will to keep running smoothly,” Hawthorne said, his voice rising.
Yezhov looked away. His fingers twitched.
Hawthorne glanced at the technicians. They had stood, and at Mune’s orders, they filed for the door.
“Kill them,” Hawthorne said.
“What?” Yezhov said, turning around.
A gun barked in Mune’s hands. One by one and in quick succession, the technicians thumped against the walls. The woman who had spoken before slid down to the floor in a growing pool of blood.
Yezhov stared open-mouthed at Hawthorne.
The door burst open and three bionic soldiers fanned out with drawn weapons.
“Check the dead,” Mune said from his wheelchair.
One soldier pulled out a chemsniffer. Another had an electro-scanner. The last kept his gun trained on Yezhov. The soldiers waved their wands over the dead. The electro-scanner beeped. In moments, a soldier peeled a tiny device from a technician’s breast.
“What did your finger-twitch signal?” Hawthorne asked, with his voice under tight control. He had to grip his right hand. It was badly trembling. Was this his nerves, an old wound?
“You’re mad,” said Yezhov.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Mune. “He’ll never admit his guilt. I recommend you allow my men to drag him outside to be shot.”
“You’re already in control,” said Yezhov. “So this can’t be a coup. Is this a personal vendetta against me?”
“What did you signal, Chief?” Hawthorne shouted. “I saw your fingers twitch. My file on you says nothing about nervous mannerisms. It says you have the emotions of a lizard.”
Yezhov turned to the bionic soldiers, addressing them in a grave voice. “The episode two days ago has unhinged our Supreme Commander. You can see for yourselves that he is no longer fit for command.”
“Yezhov,” Hawthorne warned.
“I used to admire him,” Yezhov said, continuing in his grave manner. “Yes, he has fought hard, but the truth is that the Highborn are winning the war. It saddens me to say this. But for the good of Social Unity you must relieve him of duty as you once relieved Lord Director Enkov.”
“Good try,” Hawthorne said. He didn’t like the way the three bionic soldiers listened to Yezhov. Their faces were like masks. “But your chatter only shows your desperation. Your life is now being measured in seconds.”
“I’ve served the Supreme Commander, and look how he rewards me,” Yezhov said. “In his growing madness, how will he reward you?”
From his wheelchair, Mune made a sharp motion.
The bodyguard with the gun trained on Yezhov holstered it and took two heavy strides to the Chief. The bodyguard put a hand on one of Yezhov’s shoulders, and squeezed with bionic strength.
Yezhov cried out in pain, twisting as a small boy in the grip of an angry father.
“Killing your technicians just now was ugly and brutal,” Hawthorne said. “I despise myself for ordering it. I wonder if another person could fight this war better than I. I do not wonder, however, if having you in charge would be better for humanity. Someone on Earth still has contact with the cyborgs, the same cyborgs that turned on us at Mars.”
“Not guilty!” Yezhov shouted.
Hawthorne shook his head. “Speak honestly, Chief, and you will live. Continue with your present tactics and you will lie on the floor of this room, dead.”
Yezhov opened his mouth.
“Think carefully before you utter another word,” said Hawthorne. “And know that I’ve decided on ruthlessness. I believe it’s the only counter I possess against your secret-police guile. The incident on Level Fifty-Three—” Hawthorne shook his head. “The decision to practice ruthlessness is difficult. But be assured of this. Killing you will not prove difficult.”
Bent over in pain, with the bionic bodyguard gripping his shoulder, Yezhov looked about wildly. His eyes finally showed fear and approaching terror. He tried to squirm free. It only made the guard squeeze harder. Yezhov’s hands flew to the iron fingers as he desperately tried to pry them free—to no avail.
“Yes, yes,” Yezhov said. “I signaled the technicians. Tell him to let me go.”
“What did you signal?”
Yezhov panted. “It hurts! He’s so horribly strong! Tell him to stop!”
Hawthorne was disgusted with himself. This wasn’t his way. The fact that he’d doubted his bodyguards showed how shaken he was. Yet now was the moment. He could choose to be like the Shah of Iran, who ran away and allowed the wolves to devour his country. Or he could be like Napoleon Bonaparte and roll out the cannons, with the will to use them on anyone who stood against Social Unity. Hawthorne hardened his resolve.
“Be glad that you’re still able to feel pain,” he told Yezhov.
“No,” Yezhov groaned.
“No more evasion,” Hawthorne said. “Begin talking, or my men will beat you to death with their fists.”
Bent over, with the bionic man squeezing his flesh, Yezhov craned his neck and looked up at Hawthorne.
James Hawthorne forced himself to look down steely-eyed at the PHC Chief.
Yezhov shut his eyes, and he whispered, “I signaled them to begin Operation Inversion.”
Hawthorne motioned the bodyguard as he told Yezhov, “Explain.”
Yezhov cried out in relief, stumbling away from the bodyguard. He rubbed his shoulder, and bumped against one of the technicians’ chairs. With a groan, Yezhov sagged onto it. He looked up at Hawthorne. Rat-like, survivor’s cunning was visible on his face.
“Why should I speak?” Yezhov asked in a cracked voice. “You’ll have me shot anyway.”
In that moment, Hawthorne decided to maintain one facet of his old life. He would do what was necessary to hold power so he could save humanity. But he would keep one part of himself pure.
“You have my word of honor, Chief, that I will not shoot you.”
“How can I trust your word?”
Hawthorne forced himself to stare at Yezhov, to stare at the monster who planted bombs in pretty women’s brains. Then he sent those women into enemy territory, to seduce Highborn and blow both her and her lover to death. What other horrors had this monster committed? He must never become like Yezhov. He must never sink into depravity. Maybe the only dike against that would be to keep his word.
“My solemn word is all I have left,” Hawthorne said.
While crouched in his chair, Yezhov sneered.
Hawthorne almost drew his gun and fired. To have this worm doubt him….
“Your days of power are over,” Hawthorne said, and he was surprised at his calmness. “But I want your expertise. You shall become one of my advisors. You will receive a double ration of food and full privileges. But you will be in confinement in my headquarters. I want to know everything you’ve been doing, Chief. You must hold nothing back.”
Yezhov gingerly massaged his shoulder. “The Directors won’t stand for your highhandedness.”
“My reading of history indicates otherwise. If those with the guns are willing to use them ruthlessly, then a small group can with terror effectively control nations.”
“You’ll use PHC methods?” asked Yezhov.
“We’re on the brink of the abyss. Will humanity hold together through good will? I doubt it. We need fierce ruthlessness now.”
“Your way has failed us,” Yezhov said.
Speaking with this filth was wearying, but Hawthorne clamped down on his revulsion. He needed the Chief’s knowledge. If he would practice ruthlessness, he would also practice it against himself.
“We’re still holding territory,” Hawthorne said, “and that’s due to my way, my control of the military.”
“Your years at the helm have changed you,” Yezhov said. “Or don’t you recognize that in yourself? Each year, you’ve become increasingly dictatorial.”
It was probably true. Wars brutalized soldiers, people and the commanders. Long wars only intensified the process. Even so, Hawthorne doubted he could keep listening to Yezhov. The desire to kill the monster was nearly overwhelming now.
“Each year, I become increasingly desperate,” Hawthorne said. “You now have five seconds to answer me.”
Yezhov glanced right and left, and stared at the dead technicians. Three seconds passed as his gaze froze on them. Then sweat bathed his face. He jerked upward. Maybe he realized he’d been immobile. Maybe he didn’t know for how long he’d stared.
“I’ll talk!” he screamed. “I’ll tell you everything.”
Hawthorne found that his heart was beating with heavy thumps. In a thick voice, he said, “That’s too bad, Chief. I wanted to kill you.” He took a deep breath, tried to make it a calming one. His heart kept thumping, and he didn’t know why. “My word is my word. Now start talking.”
“Where should I begin?” Yezhov asked.
Hawthorne took a second deep breath, and finally his heart-rate began to return to normal. That was a good question. Then he knew the answer.
“What do you think will make me the angriest? Start there.”
Hawthorne paced before a one-way mirror. In the other room was an operating chamber. Former Chief Yezhov lay strapped down on a gurney, with a metal band around his shaved head.
Three doctors stood in green gowns around him, with surgical masks covering their faces. Medical equipment filled with room, with banks of computers, imagining holographs and mind-scanners.
Yezhov squirmed as a doctor inserted a tube into his left arm. Turning toward the one-way mirror, Yezhov shouted, “You’re breaking your word, Supreme Commander!”
Captain Mune stood to the side. He glanced at Hawthorne. “The man’s a liar, sir. He’s been lying for months.”
It had been five-and-half weeks since the raid on PHC Headquarters. Since then, Hawthorne’s most trusted soldiers had arrested the top echelon of Political Harmony Corps and sixty percent of the under-chiefs and ranking secretaries. Eleven of those secretive men and women had been shot. Twenty-three more faced Director-controlled Tribunals. Unfortunately, three Directors were discovered attempting to initiate a coup. They’d used a hidden fraternity of PHC personnel, together with altered people in various security services.
“You gave me your word!” Yezhov shouted.
Hawthorne bared his teeth in a grimace. The altered people—they had been proto-cyborgs, with the same brainwave patterns that Commodore Blackstone had transmitted from the Mars Battlefleet. The cyborgs had altered certain fleet personnel there during the Battle for Mars.
What do cyborgs have to do with Chief Yezhov?
Hawthorne dearly wanted to know.
“You’ve kept your word, sir,” Mune said.
Hawthorne shook his head. The captain had left his wheelchair nine days ago. He still moved gingerly, but he said he felt as fit as ever.
“Supreme Commander!” Yezhov howled. “Let me out of here!”
The three doctors looked up, turning toward the one-way mirror. It was made of ballistic glass.
“Tell them to proceed,” Hawthorne whispered.
Mune pressed a button and said just that.
“No!” Yezhov shouted, trying to squirm free.
The three doctors returned their attention to him. One pressed a hypo against his arm. Soon, Yezhov’s struggles slowed and then ceased altogether.
The hospital room was part of Political Harmony Corps, this one in the former headquarters. In this very chamber, the three doctors working on Yezhov had operated on the women sent into enemy territory.
“You never could have trusted him,” Mune said.
Hawthorne knew that to be true. These past weeks, Yezhov had proved himself a masterful liar. If the art of deception were one of the martial practices, Yezhov would be a ninth-degree black belt.
“You
must
mind-scan him,” Mune said.
“The scanning burns out the brain,” Hawthorne whispered.