The enormous wooden gates of Sunsword’s Triumph loomed over Johann even as they ground open, their material beaten and blasted away in places until the planks hung off like great rotting teeth. The flag in Johann’s hand felt a little heavier as he contemplated this, but he held it high all the same. To his right stood a trio of flag officers–American, Russian, German–and to his left stood a small detachment of combat engineers from the JSDF. At the head of it all stood the captain of the USS Bunker Hill, whose name eluded him, with Commander Weiss and the leaders of several other divisions close behind. Johann thought he saw Colonel Suzuki behind him as they were assembling, but he couldn’t remember the person’s face, now that he thought of it.

The gates came to a slow stop and standing behind them was a single shortish Poslushi male in the attire of one of their commissars, flanked by two military policemen carrying rifles. With shaking hands, the commissar unhooked his scabbard and kneeled down, presenting his sheathed saber to the captain with head lowered. Gingerly, the captain–McCullough, that was his name!–took the sword, pulled it out by a few centimeters, regarded its polished blade, and then handed it off to an attendant, who darted off into the assembled ranks of honor guard forming an avenue from the city gate all the way to the palace. “High Commissar Stiletto, your surrender is accepted,” McCullough boomed, puffing his chest out for the cameras following them to pick up his voice, “in the words of our prophets, they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more. It is our sincere hope that this, the first war against your people, shall also be the last, but for now it is time for the Poslushi nation to acknowledge that they are beaten, and for our nations to assist them in healing and changing for the better.”

With that, the commissar was half-helped, half-dragged aside and the procession began to march forward. The city was eerily silent as they walked, the only noise the clicking of their heels against the roads. Poslushi were staring down from windows and watching from the sides of the streets, muscled back in similar silence by soldiers in riot armor; a few of them had a hollow look in their eyes that set Johann’s hair standing on end. Still, the pace of the march never wavered, and they stepped in perfect unison towards the palace.

The palace itself was a terraced structure stretching several hundred meters into the sky, so large that it was less a single structure and more a small artificial mountain. Verdant, hanging gardens defined the outer layers, carefully defended by dozens of guard posts and watchtowers, now abandoned, and rimmed with a system of walls and minefields nine layers deep. Beyond that, the palace took the form of a solid metal dome stretching inward and upward to a single point, the sun glinting powerfully, almost blindingly, off its smooth surface. Doubtlessly, considering the quirks of Poslushi architecture, the palace also stretched underground for many hundreds of meters more.

Then, the silence was broken. Someone, a human in strange purple attire, surged out of the crowd towards Johann, her face contorted into an expression of pure, animalistic rage. She was howling at the top of her lungs in a language Johann didn’t recognize, forcing others aside and reaching for him with teeth bared. Then, two MPs caught her by the arms and held her back, and she screamed and bit and kicked at them until one of them clocked her in the mouth, knocking her out before dragging her off. All the while, Johann didn’t break his bearing.

Even at the palace gates, the silence continued, laying on everything like a stench. If one was to walk into a crowded pavilion after going through a silence this profound, it would cling to them and drive those around them to quiet themselves in turn. It was broken again as the squealing, howling mechanisms of the gates worked, but returned in full as soon as the way was opened for them. Another Poslushi was waiting for them behind the gates, a palace attendant this time, ready to guide them to the top. Of course, without any fanfare, they followed the attendant through winding passageways, stairwells, and all other corridors of the palace’s organic layout. Johann was silently thankful that they didn’t have to fight through a structure this hard to predict, but all thoughts in his head were quieted when they passed through the throne room, and Johann caught a glimpse inside. Sitting on her throne, a large tube running into her arm, was the High Judge, mouth hanging agape, antennae drooping, and chest rising and falling in irregular intervals. For a moment, her sunken, empty eyes locked onto Johann’s, and Johann could see nothing beneath.

The sight would stay with him for a long time.

Eventually, they found their way to a cargo elevator large enough to take them all, and then they cruised smoothly and quickly up the shaft to near the top floors. At this point, the formation dispersed, and McCullough clapped Johann on the shoulder as he went off to attend to the beginning of the occupation. “You know what to do,” he said, and Johann saluted in turn, taking command of the JSDF men and hurrying behind the attendant up the last few flights of stairs. Johann had to turn the flag sideways to fit it through the maintenance door on the top of the palace, but that was no matter, and then he was standing above Triumph, looking down on its still-smoldering districts. It occurred to him that he could be easily sniped by some insurgent hiding in a far-off building, but apparently the scene was so surreal that even they were stunned into inactivity.

Whack-THUMP, whack-THUMP. With two hard strikes each, two engineers knocked in the two pegs holding the flag stand to the ground while the rest stood guard, and Johann, without further ado, unfurled the flag atop his pole, the black-and-white-cross flag of the Coalition, and set it carefully into the hole. Far below, he could see the news cameramen focusing on him, and thus struck a salute, performed an about-face, and marched silently back down to the top of the elevator, his detachment following closely behind. When he arrived, Weiss, looking at something on his cell phone, smiled. “Professional. Just the way we like it, Captain.” he said. “Thank you, sir.” Johann nodded his head.

“I’m told a shuttle has arrived to collect you back at field camp. Russian flag, insignia of the Marshal.” Weiss reported.

Johann straightened in surprise; he didn’t dare let himself believe it. “Did they state why, sir?”

“The dispatch says only, and I quote, ‘she’s awake.’”

Johann began bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement. “Am I–am I dismissed, sir?” he said, trying hard not to squeal like a little girl that’s found a puppy amongst her birthday presents. Weiss gave a good-natured smile, then nodded his head, and no sooner had he done so then had Johann peeled off at full tilt.

“I love the passion of the youth,” Weiss said to himself, watching Johann go.

—

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

It was rare, but not unheard of, that a member of the Council of Arbitrators was upended in such stunning and violent fashion as the Poslushi. Of course, it was bound to be that they would eventually encounter a species they could not colonize, what with their first-contact procedures effectively consisting of throwing sucker punches in the dark, but it had taken barely eight months of the human calendar for the war to reach its conclusion, a third of the time it took the Upsilon to overthrow the Psychocracy. So, of course, when word got out that the Combine had surrendered in full, a special meeting was called, and a formal invitation was extended for a human diplomat to introduce their nation to the greater galaxy.

The human in a tight black coat and narrow neckcloth was a little larger than the average Poslushi, but seemed so fragile in comparison, soft, pinkish skin taking the place of a hard exoskeleton. After a comprehensive encyclopedia of most major galactic languages was downloaded onto the diplomat’s translator, Ambassador Holial of the Yolyski Union was first to speak.

“Strength and plenty be yours, human. Are you aware of why you are here?”

“If I am not mistaken,” the male said, “we have defeated one of your members. I assume that causes you some level of dismay.”

A high buzzing tone reverberated through the hearing chamber of the space station. “It appears Ambassador Ratnakosh has something to say,” Holial gestured to the ambassador from the Nostrodomo Citizen Federation, a hulking, hunchbacked, reptilian Lyran with dozens of meter-long quills sticking out from his back. The quills began to thrum and vibrate, and the Lyran spoke that way. “You are a fugue state, humans, one that has not earned its place in the galactic community.”

The various floating pieces of metal which formed the vaguely-humanoid body of the Steel Angel delegate clinked together like wind chimes. “<>”

“It’s true; your first impression upon us is anything but positive,” Holial admitted, “the Poslush Combine, for the most part, was a shining example of galactic civilization, and it no longer exists because of you.”

“Well, they did start the war.” the human diplomat raised his eyebrows.

“That is a moot point; they deserved, as a morally-upstanding nation, their conquest, and you destroyed them.” Ratnakosh’s quills bristled and stood on end. He bared his long, serrated teeth in anger.

“Hold,” the one standing at the highest podium, a three-meter crab-like machine standing on spider-like legs declared, its many eyes flashing yellow in time with its speech, “I have spoken with the network, and we have collated our data. These ones intrigue us.”

“They have demonstrated their outlook to the galaxy already!” Ratnakosh roared.

“Would it be more palatable to galactic morality if we had simply rolled over and accepted defeat? Does that not fly in the face of the honor that we presume you share with the Poslushi?” the human retorted.

The Lyran, teeth still bared, stood slowly from his podium into an upright position, spittle dripping from his dagger-like fangs. “Dare a primitive nation speak to us of honor?”

“A reminder should be made to the galaxy that we, too, were once as the Coalition.” said the crab-machine.

“A reminder, in turn, should be made,” said Holial, “that you are not one to talk, Ambassador. You, of all present, should remember why your existence is tolerated at all, machine.”

“<>” the Steel Angel present said flatly.

“It is quickly becoming clear that this galaxy is becoming overrun with dirty races,” Ratnakosh sneered, “the Nostrodomo Citizen Federation shall have none of this useless banter.”

“Now, hold on; we should try to be reasonable,” Ambassador T’Klts of the United Syndicates of Seremai, a lanky vaguely-arthropoid creature that the human brain struggled to pick apart from a Poslushi at points, said, “even if these folk are not... the civilized kind.”

“Then it is our duty to civilize them. And we have said it many times before; one does not tame a wild animal with a whip.” said the crab-machine once more, standing tall and regarding the diplomat with two of its piercing yellow eyes. “Human friends, I am Chief Ambassador Angel Tone 5-1, delegate of the Upsilon Network and leader of this whole affair. My apologies go out to your kind on the behalf of... less tolerant elements here.”

“Thank you,” the human bowed, a knowing smile spreading across his face, “if you so wish, we can have an embassy in New York prepared while we construct something more permanent.”

“This situation will be resolved by nothing less than a total quarantine of all nations infected by human ideals. Do not interact with them.” everyone present could feel Holial’s glare at Angel Tone, even through the opaque visor of his spacesuit. “Don’t make us retake your position for a better race, 5-1.” Ratnakosh cautioned.

For a moment, there was a standoff, a half-dozen of Angel Tone’s eyes focused on each of the two, and then Angel Tone spoke, voice pleasant as ever. “Very well, then. The Council of Arbitrators shall have nothing to do with any human or human-influenced power.”

Even as he initiated the logoff, the diplomat never stopped smiling. “Thank you for your time; I’m terribly sorry we can’t come to an agreement, but I trust that will be resolved in due time.” he bowed once more, flickering out of existence.

Very well; they could find another way in. The diplomat had heard that there was some level of prejudice against omnivores in the galactic community, that they were seen as bottom-feeders leaving herbivores to starve and stealing from the kills of the carnivores. Unfortunately for them, bottom-feeders were everywhere, and so they would find an entrance, one way or another.

—

The bitter winds of a New York October whipped President Herald’s coat, and he braced himself against the cold, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. About three dozen armed Secret Service men had taken up positions around the roof of the UN building, especially surrounding the shuttle pad. Two more were immediately behind him, clutching their weapons nervously. Then, the faint roaring of plasma engines prickled the ears of all present. The gray, overcast sky parted before the four glowing plumes, revealing a shining, flower-bud-shaped craft descending from space. Abruptly, the engines cut, and with a whine of atmospheric turbines, the shuttle touched down gently onto the pad.

Then, its petals folded out like a lily blossom, and standing inside was a robotic woman, lithe and statuesque, her skin pliable and soft but tough as iron. Hair like steel wool ran down her shoulders in a wave, and as she saw Herald, her eyes lit up just as a human’s would and she walked out, extending her hand. “My apologies for this imperfect form; it was the best we could manufacture on such short notice. I am Telling Spirit 7-12 of the Upsilon Network, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Herald eagerly took her hand and shook it firmly. “John Herald, United States of America. Don’t worry about the body; it’s beautiful. I’m told you seek closer relations with our species?”

“Indeed,” Telling Spirit explained, “if you don’t mind me stating the obvious, the galactic community as a whole thinks very little of you. Luckily for you, they think very little of us, too; we violate their laws against artificial intelligence by virtue of our mere existence. Of course, we secured our right to survive, and so have you.”

Herald nodded as he thought of this. “So, you want us to be together in notoriety?”

“Precisely!” Telling Spirit nodded emphatically. “You’re the first nation we’ve found to have an outlook approaching ours. To seek closer ties is simply logical.”

“But you said you wanted nothing to do with us,” Herald raised an eyebrow, remembering the audience with the Council.

“The Council of Arbitrators wants nothing to do with you,” Telling Spirit responded, “our response to you is summed up by a word from one of your languages. Realpolitik, I believe it is.”

“Now you’re speaking my language,” Herald smiled widely, having found a couple of political calculators like himself, and gestured to the building he was standing on, “now, how’s about we head downstairs and you introduce yourself to the United Nations?”

Telling Spirit had already begun walking to the door. “I’d like nothing more.”