In all the worlds of the Combine (save for a few deviants), there existed no loftier position for a Poslushi male than that of a Commissar in the Dynastic Commissariat. They were surrounded by a retinue of Judicial Guard, they were beholden only to the directives given by Her Dominance, and, if the resident Broodmatrons got uppity, one could take a little sadistic pleasure in putting them in their place. It was decreed that no one could lay a finger on a Commissar with intent to harm under pain of death, and that was why, as Commissar Greatsword waded through the crowds surrounding the scaffold which had been hastily set up to the side of the ship’s fore-starboard hangar, the assembled crewmen did not dare touch him.
A dozen soldiers sat on their knees on the scaffold, and Greatsword regarded them silently as he climbed the steps up to it. A few were sobbing quietly; their punishment would lay onto their shame. Most, however, stayed silent, staring ahead blankly into a crowd that jeered and booed them. It wasn’t often that such things were seen, especially not aboard a spacecraft with a crew as vaunted as that of the High Judge Sabre. Greatsword pulled his saber free of its scabbard with an almost musical hiss, then waved it back and forth above his head a few times, striking all silent. Then, he began to speak.
“Devoted servants of the Poslush Combine and of the Pos Dynasty, I bring before you the men who allowed a terrible individual to commit an equally terrible act. It is rare indeed that such sedition is bred within the ranks of our own, but it has, indeed, been bred, and our beloved commander languishes battered and broken because of it.”
He began pacing back and forth on the scaffold as he talked. “Though we are the superior race, our war with humanity has taught us of their philosophy. They have fallen to foolish ideas, but they have seen our ways in the past. In their own terms, the State must be as a leviathan, all-encompassing, all-powerful. For us, the State must be a monolith, unchanging, eternal, and invincible, and by partaking in its benefits, one agrees to be shaped as it decrees without question or complaint. To assume otherwise, that the eternal State can or should be shaped by the common folk, is the very peak of subversiveness, and even if it were possible, the methods which these people,” he pressed the blade of his sword to the bound officer’s throat, “allowed to be perpetrated would still be treason.
“The State possesses the right and duty to obliterate all that stands between it and the full powers of its governance. The State and its sovereign must be terrible and iron-fisted, for time and time again it is proven that only through fear can certain elements of our society be impelled to fulfill their end of the social contract. Thus, the penalty for treason, no matter how small, is and always shall be death.”
Pulling back his blade and raising it above his head, Greatsword looked down upon the officer. “Have you any last words?”
The officer took a deep, shaky breath; all that Greatsword could smell was fear, and yet he spoke. “If this is what the State should come to, that it will execute the neighbor for want of a condemned head, then I thank you.”
Shocked, Greatsword leaned in. “What?”
“Thank you, Commissar, for removing me from such evil. Let my mother know that I wish glory to the Poslushi, glory to the Dynasty, and glory to the Ancestor. Now, if you would please...” the officer bowed his head, exposing the back of his neck, and, with an angry yell, Greatsword obliged him. The head of the officer rolled almost to the edge of the scaffolding, and his body toppled over shortly afterward. Greatsword turned to face the audience.
“To those who believe that the State can be challenged, let this be your rebuke!” he cried, holding up his still-dripping sword to cheers from the gathered crowd. However, Greatsword couldn’t help but notice that the sound was somewhat subdued, and he could even see a few who seemed to be merely pretending to cheer, and not very passionately at that. It was a shameful display, but not one he could immediately rectify. Thus, he simply wiped his blade off with a cloth and took a few steps forward, raising his saber once more to claim another head.
“Commissar!” a guard cried, running up the steps to the scaffold. Enraged, Greatsword whipped around. “What is it?!” he cried.
“It’s the Overbattlematron, sir. She’s...” the guard paused for a moment, his antennae folding back flat against his neck, “she’s dead, sir.”
In an instant, the room fell silent, and stank of abject horror. Then, the assembled crewmen burst into a cacophony of clashing voices.
“She can’t be dead; I saw her with my own eyes! She was just burned a little...”
“It was Macuahuitl, I know it! If I get my hands on her...”
“The heiresses of the Oxilini Brood are still on Poslush; who’s going to command us?”
“Now, now, hold on; we can still be reasonable,” Greatsword shushed the crowd, “I will verify this, and, should it be true, we will proceed as normal until a new commander is appointed.”
Then, spinning on his heel to face the steps, he looked at the guard to his left. “These unlerm do not deserve death at my hand. Dispose of them.”
“Last words, sir?” the guard replied, saluting, his other hand priming his rifle. The Commissar looked back ahead, marching down the steps.
“Don’t bother.”
—
Macuahuitl was on her own flagship, in the midst of packing her things to return home when the word came to her. Suddenly, like an angel of good news, her attendant was standing in the doorway of her quarters, and when she asked what was the matter, he informed her of the unfortunate end that had befallen Dao. He didn’t seem too upset about it.
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If Poslushi could smile, Macuahuitl would be beaming right about now. “And here I was thinking I’d have to perform speeches at home!”
“Ma’am, if it’s no intrusion upon you,” the attendant shrank back slightly, trying to obscure his face behind his veil, “did you...?”
Macuahuitl laughed a hissing, chittering laugh. “My own plans would’ve taken weeks, my friend! I’d apologize to our fellow traveler for his demise, but he’s surely happier than I am with the Ancestor.”
“Then what do you intend upon, Battlematron?”
Macuahuitl had a jovial look in her eye as she addressed him. “A gift from Sunsword shall be taken with gratitude. Prepare my shuttle; I must pay the Overbattlematron’s followers a visit.”
And thus, as the officer’s mess of the High Judge Sabre was hastily refitted for a memorial, Macuahuitl found herself in line to speak. Several thousand men sat in neatly-ordered rows, wearing the heat-resistant bodygloves of maintenance officers, the armor of marine commanders, and the attire of every kind of leader of men on the ship. Anyone aboard with a non-essential job was watching events unfold via live feed while they waited at their stations, and, one by one, various officers appeared at the speaking-stand.
First was Commissar Greatsword, who spoke of Dao’s unshakeable loyalty and her devoted service to the High Judge over the course of some forty-five years. Dao, he said, was the utmost example of what a Poslushi should aspire to be. Macuahuitl shuddered at the lie.
“Is something wrong, ma’am?” the master physician asked.
Macuahuitl waved him away. “It’s nothing.”
Then came the communications officer, the weapons officer, the provost marshal, and a host of other bridge staff, each one with a different tidbit to say about how Dao’s honor inspired them from day to day. That was more understandable; demons appeared beautiful to all but the most devoted of the Ancestor’s children.
Finally, it was Macuahuitl’s turn to take a stand. Looking out over the myriad masses, she saw thousands of pairs of eyes fixed intently on her, some impassively, others with gleams of purest love or darkest hatred. With a guttural cough, she cleared her throat, then spoke. “Children of Sunsword, it is rare indeed that one as particular as Dao of the Oxilini Brood enters our lives. By word and by sword, she has brought victory to many battlefields and honor to her family and many others. To say otherwise is slander, and one knows how the Venerable Ancestor looked down upon lies.
“However...”
“Uh oh.” one of the attendant marines behind the provost marshal whispered to another.
“...it is essential to remember that Dao was not a simple being of pure honor. It’s regrettable, of course, but in terms of, well, decency,” Macuahuitl clenched her fist briefly, the air smelling of anger for a flash, “there were places in which she fell short. The Poslushi culture, already under assault from without and within, found no respite here, and it is only, I say, by the appreciation of and adherence to our greatest values that we shall prevail in this unfortunate war.
“Therefore, I hereby proclaim that I shall be taking command of the High Judge Sabre and all fleets attached to it.”
A nervous murmur went about the room. No one was quite sure of anything, but the general consensus was that this was unprecedented and, some would say, quite illegal.
“I have been much maligned in these past days by those who would see our people turned to wickedness, but we shall prevail against them. Under my guidance, you shall return to the older, more upstanding class of Poslushi from which you are descended. You will be cleansed of evil, and when we stand on Earth, with the leaders of mankind serving us at the victory banquet, I am quite confident that you will–”
What happened next happened almost too fast to track. Without warning, a marine captain surged up from his seat, charging towards the stand. Macuahuitl barely had time to register the gleaming of his bayonet before it sank into her throat, sending a white font cascading down her chest, staining her uniform. Then, the soldier turned to the crowd and screamed, “Long live the Oxilini–”
But he had celebrated too early, as Macuahuitl, with her last ounces of strength, grabbed him by the legs and swung him as hard as she could into the wall. In an instant, it was colored with a white starburst around his head, and he fell limp to the ground. Slowly, Macuahuitl turned back to the stunned crowd, one hand to her neck, and then collapsed onto the lectern, eyes blank, blood burbling from her mandibles.
It had all happened too fast; the guards hadn’t even had the chance to move. For a heartbeat, it seemed that time itself stood completely still. Then, as it always does in times like these, all hell broke loose.
“In the name of the High Judge, I order that there be calm!” Greatsword said, jumping to his feet, only to be grabbed from behind by the provost marshal, a neuroforming mask roughly shoved onto his face. He staggered forward, scrabbling helplessly at the mask for a few seconds before the stunner pulses kicked in and he crumpled forward, his chest rising and falling in even intervals. The marshal opened his mouth to make an address, to tell those present to purge the idolaters, but then he saw that that was already happening.
Men tackled one another over tables, chairs, even the fallen, brandishing knives and sabers and mechanical tools. An unlucky few held pistols; they weren’t much good in such a confused brawl. Seeing what was to become of him if he stayed, the marshal turned around and ran for the exit, bursting through the door and locking it behind him only to find, when he turned around, that he was face-to-face with a trio of Soldier Caste, their rifles raised.
“As the leader of all marine forces aboard this craft, I order–”
He didn’t have time to finish before three fingers pulled three triggers. The rest of the bridge staff, still trapped in the mess, fared no better. And, watching all across the ship, the crew of the High Judge Sabre looked up from their monitors in shock, and then looked upon one another with suspicion. In one of the smaller cargo bays, an accusation was thrown out, words escalated to blows, somebody reached for a gun...
The spark was lit, and in a few short minutes the halls of the ship ran white with blood.
—
Far away, at the very edge of the horizon, Captain Stauber stood slack-jawed at the bridge of the USS Thule, watching the chaos unfold on the holographic radar display. For reasons God only knew, wings of Aerial Knights were scrambling from the Poslushi flagship, flying out for a few hundred kilometers before turning tail and coming right back, circling the ship and making what appeared to be attack runs. The passive radar was going crazy, picking up returns from the high-resolution, short-range sensors of point-defense guns, alongside the more distant-firing systems of ship-to-ship weaponry. The entire bridge crew watched in stunned silence as the surrounding craft maneuvered themselves to join in the fighting.
“Uh, sir,” the weapons officer reported quietly, “I don’t think they’re in a position to intercept our weaponry. Should I give the order to fire?”
“No, no,” Stauber held up his hand, “let’s not give them a common enemy. Comms, tell Verne and Nobel to return to Kormoran orbit. Navi, set course.”
The captain couldn’t help but faintly smile. “It’s time.”