With his ascension to the highest office of the Russian Commission, Marshal Georgy Kuznetsov was free to run his end of the war as he wished. No longer was Russia coerced into providing the manpower for other nations’ actions; President Herald could deal with his own voters if he wanted to send someone to die in the policing zones of Earth. Of course, that came at the cost of accusations that he was a dictator, but he knew that; it was no bother to be called something he already identified with. The true cost of ruling a nation was the time it took from him, and watching family wither away without him.
“Marshal,” the doctor bowed his head, “Lieutenant-Colonel Kuznetsova is still unconscious. We... we still don’t know if she will–”
“I know,” Georgy shut him up, gesturing to the door into her room, “let me in. She needs me.”
The doctor, for the briefest of moments, considered countermanding Georgy, but apparently valued his own safety more, and thus stepped aside. Georgy took a deep breath as he approached the door, and then pushed it open with the tiniest of creaks. Inside, lying in a hospital bed, IV tubes and oxygen hoses hooked into her, was Svetlana. His daughter in all but name. Her skin was ashen pale, her eyes had sunken into her sockets, she had lost so much weight. Her left arm ended suddenly and a metal limb sprouted from it, skeletal and uncanny. Laying limp in her cot, eyes shut, she looked so fragile, like she had already passed.
Georgy made sure to shut the door quietly, then sat down beside her. Behind him, a clock on a nightstand ticked contently away. Georgy picked it up and switched it off; if Svetlana was in there, the noise must’ve been driving her crazy. Then, he leaned over her. “Hey, Svetka.” his voice, as it left his lips, felt too weak. It was unbecoming of the Marshal of Russia, and yet he couldn’t move himself to care about that. If those below him would judge him in his hour of weakness, then let the Devil and the FSB take them.
“I... I brought you a book.” Georgy retrieved a small paperback novel from his pocket, the covers worn and almost falling off from the years. “A few months before, well... before the Contact War, before your mother, ahm... she told me this one was your favorite. Since you were little. I don’t have the time to read it all to you, but is the first chapter okay?”
Svetlana didn’t respond.
“Of course,” Georgy said, flipping open the book. It was an older text, a sword-and-sorcery high fantasy number from the mid-21st century; Georgy didn’t see the appeal, but Svetlana had read the whole series cover to cover by the time she was ten. Thus, Georgy cleared his throat and began to read aloud. Svetlana remained silent, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in rhythm. As Georgy continued, her breathing caught for a moment and his heart jumped into his throat, but then she coughed loudly and sank back under the sheets.
He read and read and even felt a level of interest in the book itself. Magical worlds weren’t grounded in reality enough for him–he rarely even read fiction for that reason–but, if Svetlana liked it, the least he could do was humor her.
“...and so Vittoro sheathed his blade, adjusted the straps on his armor, and set forth on the path to the Auric Territories.” said Georgy, setting down the book. What he saw then he almost couldn’t comprehend. The muscles around Svetlana’s eyes had contracted into a squint, and under her furrowed brow he could see her eyes fixed on his, open and alert.
Georgy made a strangled gasp and surged forward, grabbing his niece’s head and holding it towards his own. “Svetka!” he cried, resisting the urge to shake her awake. “Svetka, speak to me!”
“Hold it! Give her a moment; she’s remembering how.” the doctor said, bursting into the room at the sudden noise. Svetlana’s lips twitched and a low, breathy groan left her throat. “Svetka, blink if you can hear me.” Georgy commanded and, sure enough, Svetlana blinked twice. Georgy almost screamed in joy, tears running down his cheeks. “Svetlana, thank God!”
“Wh... wwwwhhhh...” Svetlana croaked.
“What is it? Water?”
“Uh-huh...”
Scrambling, Georgy looked around the room for any, to no avail. “Go get some.” he ordered the doctor out of the room. “Yoh...” Svetlana said, her voice sounding more urgent. “Johann?” Georgy cocked his head to the side and, almost imperceptibly, Svetlana nodded. “Johann’s okay. He’s still off fighting, but, well, the war’s all but over. God, I’ve missed you, Svetka.”
“Wanna sseee ‘im.”
“You will soon, Svetka. I promise.” Georgy nodded. Right now, if Svetlana wanted the moon, Georgy would find a way to knock it from the skies and bring it to her. Arranging for a single man’s return to Earth was a signature away.
After a few minutes of moving her lips and flexing her tongue in silence, Svetlana appeared to get the hang of talking again. “When Johann gets here, I wanna steak dinner for him and me, and some new clothes for him, and I wanna meet him in our house in St. Petersburg and cuddle.”
Georgy laughed. “You haven’t forgotten your tastes, Svetka! Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
“Thanks, Uncle.” Svetlana outstretched her arms for a hug and Georgy gladly obliged. Two months of complete inactivity had softened her skin; she felt nice to the touch. “Watch the IV,” the doctor said, opening the door with a bottle of water in hand. “I know, I know,” Georgy replied, handing the bottle to Svetlana, who managed to fumble around with it, try in vain to unscrew the cap, and briefly consider trying to open it with her teeth before realizing the mess that would make and contenting herself to being helped by Georgy.
Svetlana pushed the bottle back after a few gulps and breathed in heavily. “It’s really almost over?”
“Johann will come home any day now, Svetka.” Georgy smiled.
Svetlana managed a weak smile back. “I hope so, Uncle. I hope so.”
—
The human craft made no sound as they appeared in flashes of radiation on radar screens all around Poslush, but the death knell that filled the heads of any Poslushi setting eyes on them may as well have been audible. Already, soldiers were fleeing their posts in broad daylight, their officers lacking the ammunition to shoot all of them. It was said that the humans would incinerate all traces of Poslushi civilization on the planet in atomic fire as an example to the galaxy. It was said that they had reverse-engineered Poslushi neuroforming masks, and would be shipping the planet’s people back to Earth by the billion for use as street-sweepers and domestic servants. Only the most fanatical were staying put in the myriad fortresses dotting the surface; the rest had deserted or were deserting, in hopes of spending their final few hours with their families, honor be damned. The roads out of the cities were becoming clogged with scared, desperate people doing desperate things. The Combine was in its death throes, and no one could deny it.
“Think of our legacy, Overjudge!” Overjudge Kirpan slammed her palms on the table, standing out of her chair. “What will our children, and our children’s children, say of us? That we rolled over and kissed the feet of humanity when they threatened us? Or that we fought like true daughters of the Ancestor?”
“Think of those children!” the Magister of Plenty shouted back. “There are already more orphans of this war than we can count. If we continue to fight, there won’t be anyone left in the empire to raise them!”
“Then so be it!” Kirpan screamed at the top of her lungs, shocking all present into silence. “A race that lives under another’s heel is a race that never lived to begin with.”
“You’re mad,” the Magister of Plenty said, “all in favor of prolonging this pointless war?”
Around the table, only Kirpan raised her hand. Indignantly, she looked around. “Has my generation gone soft? A century ago, we would’ve fought to the death, all of us! We would’ve died like true Poslushi!”
“Might I remind you,” the Magister of Logistics said, “that it is no longer a century ago? The times have changed; we cannot, in good conscience, throw more of our people to their deaths by refusing a peace.”
Kirpan seemed almost incredulous. She stammered, trying to think of something to say, but words failed her. Finally, she let out a primal yell of frustration, turned on her heel, and stormed out of the room. As she walked, she tried to think of a way that she could convince them not to throw away the one thing more important than their lives, but words failed her before, and they would only fail her now. She didn’t like the other alternative; it was completely unprecedented, but perhaps those who remained loyal to the cause would understand. Thus, when she returned to her own quarters within the palace, she radioed every loyal unit she could think of, gave them their orders, and waited.
But nobody came.
Soldiers, seeing the plans for a coup taking place, simply sat in their barracks, removed their armor, and ignored their orders. No amount of cajoling or threatening by the officers could get them to move, and, one time, when an officer threatened to start shooting people, one of his own men brained him with the butt of his rifle. A few, disorganized men actually made the trip to the palace at the center of Sunsword’s Triumph and attempted to sway the palace guard onto their side, but the guard would never agree to something that could harm the catatonic High Judge within, and thus drove them off with a single volley of gunfire. The veteran units were all tied up putting down rebellions anyway.
Kirpan counted the time. Half an hour. An hour. Two. Nothing changed; it was almost like the world had forgotten she even existed. Furthermore, she had just killed herself; she would certainly be reported for this, and then it would be the headsman for her. Thus, with shaking hands, Kirpan walked to her desk, retrieved her service pistol, chambered an energy cell, and primed the gun. Every animal instinct in her body screamed at her to stop, to prolong the end just one more day, but it was no use.
With a final, almost crying sigh, Overjudge Kirpan, Magister of War, wrapped her mandibles around the barrel of her gun and pulled the trigger.
—
The worn, prematurely-aged face of the Magister of Plenty of the Poslush Combine appeared on the holographic display before a similarly-projected council of eight aboard Alpha Constellation. “Took you long enough,” Marshal Kuznetsov smirked.
“Professionality, Mr. Kuznetsov,” President Herald looked at him, eyebrows raised, “now, Overjudge, I trust that you have something to say?”
A hint of what might have been sadism was present in Herald’s eyes. The Magister took a shaky breath, trying to ignore it, and then began to speak.
“Esteemed leaders of the Coalition of Aligned Solar Territories, the war situation has not developed in the favor of the Poslush Combine. While we are a proud people, we cannot continue to send our children to fight you anymore, and thus, on the behalf of the Council of Magisters and Her Dominance’s Government of All Poslushi, I hereby announce the total and unconditional surrender of all Poslushi armed forces. All forces will allow themselves to be disarmed and, if need be, interned until further notice. It is our hope that you shall find it within yourselves to treat our race, and those below ours, with dignity and respect.”
“Alright, then,” Herald said after a brief pause, “all in favor of accepting this surrender?”
All eight raised their hands simultaneously.
“Very well, then; we will begin drafting plans for the occupation. Your people are in good hands, my friend. Anything else?”
“N-no, sir.” the Magister looked down in shame.
“Very well. Farewell, and keep to your word.”
With that, the holograms all blinked out at once, leaving the Magister alone to her thoughts. Sighing, she sat down on the floor beside the transceiver, preparing her resignation in her head. Just because she had finally done the Combine in didn’t mean she had to stay on the sinking ship.