A. I would hope for a division of the enemy in such an exchange.
Q. (pause) I find your sanity questionable, General.
A. Sacrifices are never easy, Director. Two million super-soldiers are, however, not an endless supply. Nor do we even need to exchange on the levels you’re suggesting for all two million warriors. Once their casualties rise to a certain level, their defeat becomes inevitable. The trick is to make them take staggering losses as quickly as possible. Hence, what seems at first glance to be irrational exchanges quickly transfers into a logical strategy.
Q. I’m uncertain my colleagues or I agree with you, General.
A. The Dutch of the Sixteenth and Twentieth Centuries likewise faced such decisions. Much of their land had been reclaimed from the sea. When first the Spaniards and later the Germans tramped across the land in conquest, the Dutch broke their dykes and allowed the sea to swamp their hard-won farms. In each incidence, the flooding proved invaluable in military terms.
Q. We’re speaking of people, General, not land.
A. In a war, people and land are similar in this regard: they are ciphers that lead to victory or defeat. Not enough land often spells defeat. Too few people likewise can be devastating. To defeat the Highborn we must decrease their numbers to manageable levels. Out of a population well over forty billion, we can easily afford to lose three quarters of our people and come out ahead. Many cities will be destroyed in the coming conflict. Why not make their losses constructive to our eventual victory?
Q. (different Director) You have a particular strategy in mind?
A. Indeed.
Q. Elaborate.
A. I’m thinking of cities that use thermal power, the deep-core mines in particular. Studies have shown how to breach the safety features.
Q. (long pause) No one would survive a lava flow, General.
A. Correct.
Q. But…
Q. (different Director) The entire populace of Earth might well rise up in rebellion if it found out we that engineered core bursts.
A. Agreed. Thus, the Highborn will be blamed for such ‘savage’ attacks. It will help whip up war frenzy.
Q. Quite ingenious, General. But I must point out that the safety features of each deep-core mine are embedded in the deepest levels.
A. True.
Q. In other words, General, only someone willing to die could bypass the safety features. For each deep-core has such codes and preventive devices built into it. I believe these security measures are to prevent terrorist core bursts by remote control.
A. Your information is quite accurate, Director.
Q. Then I am at a loss. Who would do such a deed? Only madmen would, and you couldn’t trust a madman.
A. A madman, maybe, but I was thinking of PHC officers.
Q. They are the last people one thinks of as suicidal.
A. Correct. Hypnotic commands would have to be embedded deep within the chosen officer’s psyche.
Q. PHC Command is willing to do this to its operatives?
A. Directors, PHC is your tool. Willing or not, the deed must be done if you command it.
Q. You recommend this action?
A. Yes.
Q. When and how?
A. My recommendation is the soonest opportunity possible. After such a deed, and with blame laid on the Highborn, Earth will fight every battle with back-to-the-wall ferocity.
End of transcript Interrogation of Secret Police General James Hawthorne #7
14.
The exhausted quartet halted behind a flipped-over, bullet-riddled police cruiser. Several SU infantrymen lay dead within it. Squat, gray cylinders hummed all around them—Sydney’s power generators. The lift they’d tried to take to Level Forty had pinged an emergency warning and they’d been forced to exit at Level Thirty-eight. They were looking for a stairwell down. Up the street they heard the crump of mortars, the rat-tat-tat of machine-guns, explosions and screaming.
“I don’t wanna be no hero,” whined Turbo.
“What’cha you gonna do then?” asked Stick.
“Pop topside and run.”
“How many times I gotta tell you that you’d never get to the surface. The Highborn would blast you.”
“Right,” Turbo said. “I’ve been thinking about that. We could tell them about the deep-core as our ticket out.”
Stick jeered. “Sure! They’re gonna believe a junkie.”
“Why not? I ain’t no liar.”
“Yes you are,” Stick said. “And look where we’re at: in the middle of a battle. Soldiers shoot first and ask later.”
Turbo blew snot out his long icicle of a nose as he grumbled. His drugs had worn off a half-hour ago and Marten had refused to hand him the medkit for more.
Their eyes were hollow, and like Marten sweat shone on their faces and their chests heaved. Marten’s legs quivered as he leaned against a twisted piece of car framing.
“Look,” Omi said, pointing into the crumpled police cruiser. “There are guns in there.”
“Where?” asked Stick.
“In there with the soldiers.”
Stick looked into the wrecked vehicle, but made no move for the guns.
With a grunt, Marten rolled onto his belly and crawled into the pile of dead men. They stank of blood and guts and he avoided looking into their staring eyes. With their dead fingers, some of them held on to their weapons tightly, forcing him to pry and jerk to free them. He rummaged through torn armor, body parts and slags of metal. Soon he handed back short assault carbines and extra ammo clips. He even found a few grenades for Turbo’s Electro-launcher. He crawled out and wiped gore from his hands and checks. A small part warned him that it wasn’t good he was becoming used to such carnage.
“Hey, you’re not saying we join them up there?” Turbo said as he slapped the grenade clip into his launcher.
Marten peered over the wreckage. Omi rose and peered with him. He saw explosive flashes among the smoking rubble and half walls of former generators. Most of the sunlamps over there were broken shards in the ceiling, so it was eerily dark amid the red glares. Marten jerked his head, and in a crouch, he sprinted for a gray building closer to the firefight, one that still seemed intact. Omi sprinted after him. They threw their backs to the wall and slid toward a corner, peering around it.
Tracer rounds, plasma and lasers crisscrossed the darkened street in either direction. Orange plasma gobs gouged sections of wall, causing them to slide molten to the ground. Bullets chipped concrete. The bright lasers hurt their eyes.
Marten and Omi ducked back around the corner.
“That route’s blocked,” said the tough Korean.
“Perceptive. But did you notice the dead?”
Omi shook his head.
Marten found that he was shaking. Watching war videos was one thing, being near the real thing was infinitely more straining.
“Several of the dead were PHC,” Marten said.
