Spatha’s training had prepared her for running an army, but nothing compared to experience, as she was quickly discovering. The Free Poslush Army was currently small in number and inconsequential to the war effort, but a huge amount of labor went into finding more efficient ways to use their limited managerial capacity so that they could actually make a difference when they found themselves a steady supply of recruits.

Spatha knew what humanity had planned for the Poslushi, and she also could infer what the Poslushi had laid out in response. Already, the high brass were speaking of dismembering the Combine, leaving a rump Poslushi state surrounded by their former subjects. The Poslushi would surely be making plans to crush human resistance entirely, their cities demolished and rebuilt in their image. That was if they weren’t planning a reprisal on the scale of that which befell the Irrilings…

Spatha was torn from her thoughts by someone knocking on her door. “Come in.” she called. The door opened and a relatively-small marine entered. “We’ve got a Battlematron we’ve recovered following a recent action by the Rangers. She asked to speak with you specifically. Well, she didn’t ask, ma’am. To be frank, I didn’t know your language had swears, ma’am.”

“Did you get a name?” Spatha asked, confused; as far as she knew, foul language was a concept wholly foreign to Founderspeak.

“Stiletto, ma’am.”

The name rang a bell, to use a human phrase, but Spatha didn’t recall much about it. “I’ll be over. Dismissed.” Spatha said. The marine saluted, then made his egress, leaving Spatha with a sick feeling. Spatha didn’t remember anything useful about this face, but what little existed was fraught with worry; Spatha had probably been quite young. She stood from her almost comically-large desk and exited into the corridors of the Bunker Hill.

They hated her; she could tell that much. With few exceptions, she was met with distrusting glances as she passed through. Conversations fell dead in her vicinity and people skirted past while avoiding interaction as much as possible. Her custom-made human-style uniform was a particular item of contempt. A few who passed seemed like they would tear her ranks from her collar and tell her she didn’t deserve them if they could get away with it.

Spatha was more than happy to reach the ship’s brig and get out of this awkward situation. Without a word, she swiped her ID card on the door and entered the small block of prison cells that harbored important POWs awaiting transport to Earth for processing. There were three filled at the moment. The bulletproof glass walls of one had been darkened completely, and two soldiers wearing reflective silver faceplates stood guard beside it. They had no insignia or names on their uniforms, save a barcode on each shoulder. The second held a trembling Poslushi male, rocking back and forth in a whimpering ball. The third… oh, no.

Spatha remembered who Stiletto was now. She was Spatha’s earliest mentor, who, while her Broodmatron left her begging for approval, took the abuse into the realm of the physical. Spatha remembered back when she was so small that she could fit into every nook and cranny of the Oxilini’s brood-home on Poslush, but it gave no avail from the deft hands that would effortlessly pluck her from her hiding spots and continue an interrupted beating with renewed ferocity. Of course, it was normal, but it was also normal for larvae to develop an intense aversion to their teachers.

Now, Stiletto stared at Spatha without emotion, her carapace still pale as polished iron. Her color made her exceptionally beautiful in contrast to Spatha’s dull copper, a fact which she didn’t hesitate to hold over her. Of all the aesthetic colors, Spatha was the ugliest, while Stiletto was second only to the golden coloration of the Pos Dynasty. Looking at her coloration was the only time Spatha wished to be a male; at least they were equally worthless.

Spatha pushed a button next to the door, activating a speaker inside the room. Then, she switched off her translator; nobody else needed to hear this.

“So,” Spatha began.

“So.” Stiletto finished.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Indeed. I see you haven’t taken my lessons to heart.”

“Yes, this whole loyalty thing, I know…”

“No. Your uniform. Take it off. It’s ugly.” Stiletto cut her off.

“It was specially made for me, and I have to wear it; it’s part of my dress code.” Spatha retorted.

“They degrade you. Next, they’ll have you speaking their brain-damaged tongue and renting yourself out on the street.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Spatha was taken aback by this last comment; it simply didn’t make any sense. “What did you say?”

“Do you not know of their custom? Their females are kept in common, like animals, given to the highest bidder.”

Spatha knew what she spoke of now; some of the servicemen had made mention of it offhand and she had inadvertently traumatized herself looking into it.

“I’ll have you know that that’s frowned upon.”

“It matters not. That it exists at all proves their moral rot is complete.”

Spatha chose not to point out that suicidal Poslushi males did the same quite frequently. “They’re not all evil, Stiletto. You act like this war is so one-sided.”

“It is. Civilization and barbarism. Placing mankind under our benevolent dominion and allowing them to destroy themselves. Bringing them to heel with our culture and allowing their degeneracy to spread unchecked.”

Spatha was starting to become quite angry. “Once again, I’ll have you know that these ‘barbarians’ have given me far more than you ever have.”

“Poisoned fruits. All done in pursuit of enslaving our kind to iniquity. Folly, and you are sick with it.”

“Alright then, how about you do something for me? Lure me back into the fold, why don’t you.”

“We do not need to. You have shown your hand, defective as you are.”

If Spatha was of a less level head, she would’ve opened the cell door and beaten Stiletto’s head in. To call her defective was not only to insult her, but to insinuate that her Broodmatron had done a poor job creating her. It was a slight to her honor that would have sparked a duel back in the Combine. Spatha was more than prepared to provide a similar retort.

“Alright, you mongrel heel-fodder. I tried to remain cordial, since you requested my presence and all that, but I guess that all goes out the window. You Battlematrons are all a bunch of reactionary jingoes who are running our country into the ground with our latest war because you’re afraid of any change upsetting the hierarchy and putting you out of power. The Judges are megalomaniacs who think that their power makes them gods. And Katana herself is being so plainly unethical that it’ll be a damn miracle if she doesn’t get the entire Pos Dynasty sent to the headsman after the war!”

Spatha expected Stiletto to be pounding on the walls in anger, but she was oddly calm. “We will not change because we do not need to. Humanity is a race of short-sighted, frail, inbred mutants who only score temporary victories out of an abundance of luck, and you throwing in your lot with them only proves how worthless of an imbecile you are. When I get out of here–”

“Wrong,” Spatha cut her off, “you won’t be getting out of here. Soon, you’ll be on a ship back to Earth, where you can tell the courts how racially impure my bloodline is. Hopefully they’ll have you stewing in a cell for a good while; I’ll be free for a bit after the war, and I’d like to stand witness when they put you down. Goodbye.” Spatha pushed another button beside the door and the windows blackened, the speaker cutting out.

She hadn’t even told her of the reasons why she knew humanity would win. It was the fact that the bankers of Earth had not taken any significant chunk from their unthinkable funds, while she could infer that some of the Underjudges were already floundering in debt from raising their levies for any significant period of time. The second reason was plainly demonstrated by Stiletto: for all her eloquence and wordplay, she was just as divorced from reality as the rest of her kin.

But the third reason, while in all probability the least impactful, was the one that left her quaking when she researched it. She had to prepare to read treatises on it, preemptively wrapping herself in blankets for comfort. Still, she could not shake the inborn mortal fear that gripped her when she witnessed the great cloud rising over the deserts of New Mexico.

—

Obedience was key. No questions were asked, save those regarding whether or not Rapier had misheard a command. If Wakizashi, in her infinite wisdom, wished something done, it was done without delay. Her control over him was absolute, and it was best this way.

Every minute of every hour, Rapier thanked her in his mind for taking upon herself the burdens of free will for him. She had left only the necessary decision-making capabilities for him to take care of himself, and dictated every other action he took. He wondered idly if this was what being mindslaved felt like, and concluded that it wouldn’t have been so bad if that had been the fate assigned to him by Khopesh following his failure.

“Captain-General, I have need to speak with you in private.” Ulo said from the bridge’s doorway.

“About?” Wakizashi asked.

“I have a report on the most recent actions of Waffen, which should not be overheard by unscrupulous antennae.”

Rapier looked over at Wakizashi, doe-eyed. “You know what to say, subject. Go.” she uttered. Rapier stood and followed Ulo out of the bridge. However, immediately afterward, Ulo grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him into an adjacent, darkened room. Rapier was barely cognizant of this, however. He was just thinking about how he would tell Ulo that Wakizashi mandated–

Suddenly, Rapier registered a stabbing pain in the chink between his head and abdomen. The world regained its color and sharpness, and a wave of horror crashed through him as he realized what had just occurred. The autoinjector clinked harmlessly on the ground beside him, empty.

“Antivenom…” Rapier said breathlessly, his mind shrugging off the chains binding it.

“I secured a vial or two before we departed Pollanide. I had a feeling that one of us would need it.” Ulo said nonchalantly.

“But, Ulo… they’ll have your head if they know you have this!”

“Which is why you aren’t going to tell them.”

“But…”

Ulo shushed him, eyes half-closed and consoling. “I’ll be okay, Reyena. This is just a little rebellion to prevent a bigger one later on. You must continue the charade, but do what you can to preserve your men. If she has to sting you again, she’ll know something’s up.”

Rapier had nothing to say to encompass the immeasurable gratitude filling him in the moment. “I… I’ll do what I must.”

“We all will, Reyena. We all will.”

—

Darren’s first day of training with the Russians was uneventful, a mere retelling of the cardinal rules of unarmed combat (first of which being that one was not to engage in it unarmed), along with some sparring with each other and him to ascertain their experience. However, he was fond of advisory roles, but for one reason only: it gave him an excuse to wrestle, which he eagerly took advantage of.

As he returned to his quarters, Pavlov joined him in his walk. “Did you see Poster Alley yet?” he asked.

“The hell’s that?” Darren replied.

“Come on; I’ll show you.” Pavlov said, jogging off. Darren hastened to follow him, tracing his way to the south of the camp, where there was a gap between the men’s and women’s barracks. The two brick walls were both plastered with posters and graffiti all the way from the ground to just out of Darren’s reach. Darren scanned over them with his PDA, the device automatically translating the Cyrillic text. Advertisements for a luxury goods store, someone inviting one Vadim to call them, and apparently a cadre of Ovinis females had opened a call-girl service. Darren wasn’t surprised; humans had probably already stuffed it in every sophont they could lay their hands on.

However, as he continued, the messages became more cryptic and ominous.

“Vadim, this is a terrible joke. Call me!”

“Are you searching for a missing brother or other comrade? Visit…”

Then, there was an array. About one dozen photographs of different servicemen, all completely unaware.

“Have You Seen Me?”