everything went red on the screen. Suddenly, there was a white flash. The grainy image vanished, and the screen remained white.
“End of sequence,” a technician said.
Hawthorne blinked as a growing foulness filled him. This was inhuman. He said in a choking voice, “She didn’t know what would happen?”
“Few would volunteer if they did,” Yezhov said.
“What method did you use?” Hawthorne whispered.
“A cortex bomb,” Yezhov said. “The Highborn implant them in certain personnel of their suicide squadrons. You shouldn’t be troubled. We’re merely paying them back in like coin.”
“They’re not murdering their own people to kill our soldiers,” Hawthorne said.
“With respect, Supreme Commander, this is no different than your ordering soldiers to stand and fight the Highborn. My method is in the end more merciful.”
“Do you actually believe that?”
For the first time, Yezhov faced Hawthorne. “What have you said before? We could lose a million civilians to kill one Highborn. I have lost a single human and killed one Highborn. I doubt even your elite units have a better kill ratio than that.”
“You sacrificed her without her consent.”
“Do you ask permission when you send your soldiers into places that will get them killed?”
“That isn’t the same thing!” Hawthorne shouted.
“…I agree,” Yezhov said after a moment. “The military slaughters far more of its operatives than PHC does theirs.”
Hawthorne found that his right hand was trembling. He gripped it so the others wouldn’t see. Now if he could only grip his growing anger…. “We don’t send soldiers to their certain death,” he said.
“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.
“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“Is that a historical reference?”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.
