Smother
2001
Klaus Heydrich landed atop an empty cliff on the Scandinavian coast and began the slow walk back to his village. It was a quaint little seaside town, charming in its elegant unobtrusiveness – modern, well‑built houses fashioned in tasteful and appealing colours, well-tended gardens, roads and sidewalks clean and neat. It was not primitive and filthy, like some Asian peasant village, nor gawdy and crowded, like the Americans built whenever they neared the sea. The locals needed no outrageous displays of wealth, nor any attempt to supplant the majestic beauty of their natural surroundings. It was unpretentious, uncluttered, sophisticated comfort, just one of many hamlets against the seaside and it was the perfect example, in Heydrich’s view, of why Scandinavia was the peak of civilisation. A perfect encapsulation of the Aryan way of life.
He strolled at a contented pace into the village, spinning around him an illusion of the old man who he had killed. A retiree, some wealthy and well-liked loner who spent his days (to the townsfolk’s knowledge) hiking through the fjords and fishing off the rocks. It was the perfect balance between personally distant and socially accepted, and an identity Heydrich had spent a long time procuring during his tenure at Morningstar– a soft bed and an anonymous house to sleep in, meals ready at the order, and no one ever arriving unannounced. He could have snuck invisible into his residence of course, but there was less risk if the image of the old man remained occasionally visible so his absence wouldn’t cast any doubts.
Heydrich whistled as he walked, a persistent tuneless tune, enjoying the cold breeze rushing against his hair, the smell of salt and spray. He wondered what the local bistro had on their menu this evening, what hearty local cuisine he could telephone to have sent up to his home. It was a trait of great men, to delight in simple pleasures; food in the belly, the sea upon the air, a fire in the hearth. Throughout the village, there loomed the same fearful pall that nowadays fell over most human places – but that was temporary, the Black Death knew, until this current struggle was resolved. Until then, he’d enjoy his anonymity and continue to bide his time.
He crested the hill to the main turn-off, spying people out in the village below. So productive and active, even at this hour – still moving with purpose and drive. This was what the future looked like. This is how the world would be, once he’d cut away the dead weight. Under the illusion and on top of it, Heydrich’s face split into a mellow smile, and he waved a hand at a distant neighbour making their way towards him up the hill.
Zzz. Something buzzed near Heydrich’s ear and flicked against the back of his neck. The Black Death frowned, feeling the thing catch just below his hairline, struggling against the telepathic forcefield he kept around him at all times. A large, determined insect. It burrowed towards him furiously, even as his gloved fingers reached behind his head and crushed it. Hmm. That was… odd. Whatever it was had squashed easily enough, but the feeling had been not squelching, but a sharp and brittle crunch. What kind of creature-
Zzz. Another. This time the pest almost made contact, driving so furiously at Heydrich that its proboscis could’ve almost touched the skin, had the collar of his silken, synthetic armour not extended high up around his neck to protect his spinal column. One never knew what the Mindtaker might-
Wait.
No.
Instantly, Heydrich pulsed out a wave of electricity, and from the evening air around him dropped six metallic flies. Flies? No, not flies, drones, miniscule machines of black metal, tiny beads of circuitry and sensors like coins, perfectly round-
How?! The Black Death’s senses flew out, taking in everything, ready to teleport on a hair‑trigger, ready to fight at any moment. How had Mentok found him?! He’d had no connection to this person, made no use of them, done nothing but eat and sleep and rest in their home! He’d caused no damage; he’d taken no lives! Yet even as he spun around, as Heydrich glared up at the sky listening for the rush of that infernal gravity hammer, it suddenly dawned on him. Six drones? Only six? Surely the Mindtaker would’ve sent a swarm. And surely a swarm capable of absorbing electromagnetism like the previous ones he’d encountered, which the Russian would’ve logically known would be his first retort. But he hadn’t. Which meant that this assault hadn’t been targeted. Which meant that he hadn’t found him. Which meant-
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And as Heydrich’s eyes widened in disbelief, as one the heads of the distant villagers snapped round, and in perfect unison they charged up the hill without a sound. The Black Death took a single step backwards, heart pounding in his chest, and in a flash of sulphur he vanished even as the neighbours of his hideaway descended upon him in soundless rage.
*****
2002
“Three more meteors above Western Europe. Moving fast, but not aimed at city centres. He’s getting desperate.”
Yes. That he was. Atop his steel and shining throne, a rising mass of wires and cabling that fed directly into his suit, Viktor Mentok, the Mindtaker, moved his pieces to their place. Eating, labouring, watching, resting – an ocean of never-ending duties. Three billion bodies, three billion powers. Well, two‑point-four billion, roughly, once you excluded unmanifested children – those he kept in basic holding patterns, safe and far from harm. They could take on active duties once they had use beyond a pair of eyes.
For what was another amongst billions?
From atop his mental empire Mentok marvelled at the unity he had wrought. How right this was, now that he had done it. How weak he had been to contemplate delay. The world spread out beneath his intellect, and for the first time in human history it moved in flawless unison; three billion gears of perfect clockwork, turning united to a single goal. No conflict. No famine. A worldwide web of bodies and senses which in combination with his satellites, with his Siegfrieds numbering now in their thousands, formed a network impenetrable to Heydrich’s assaults. Orbital strikes? A million teleporters stepped to a million telekinetics, who looked in unity to the sky and tore the incoming bombardment to dust. Tsunamis, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions? Legions of aquamancers, terramancers and a thousand powers more, ready and able to respond. Nuclear missiles, technopathic attack, electromagnetic pulse? He had three billion solutions at his disposal, and his factories were still pumping out mobile implants so each population center could maintain a reserve. Even if some of his nodes were destroyed or disabled, more flew ready to reinfect as soon as any connection was lost.
And his Scarlett’s. Oh his Scarlett’s. If a hundred vessels had been a panacea – if a thousand processes had been a balm – then three billion was the cure. Finally, his mind had sufficient space within sufficient bodies. Finally, his thoughts had room.
“Missiles destroyed.”
Amongst his sprawling consciousness, Mentok flicked Rakowski a brief acknowledgement. The young protégé had come onboard, after brief consideration and resentment, as had many others, other geniuses around the world. It was not hard to see his vision – he made no secret of it. Together, the ranks of supernatural minds swelled beneath his own and leant the Mindtaker more processing power with which to manage his three billion wards.
There was resistance, of course. Pockets who had attempted to hold out, various people with various powers which had tried to resist the drones’ incursion. They had been identified, surrounded, and peacefully overwhelmed. Still, now, some greater or technopathic minds continued to struggle, but these were easily subsumed and disregarded. Compliance to his control wasn’t necessary. Consent was no longer required.
This is how it should be, he marvelled; this is how it always should have been. For now, he assumed direct control of them – but later? Once this crisis had passed? Then, of course, they could be released, obviously. But why couldn’t the network stay connected? Why couldn’t Viktor simply step back into a sort of watchful omniscient oversight, a guiding benevolent god? People would have their freedom; they could make their own choices. Just so long as those choices were beneficial. So long as their actions caused no harm.
No pain, no injustice, no suffering. All would flourish in his watchful Eden, where no belly would go empty, where no potential would be denied. His divinity would be active, immaculate and magnanimous; his garden would span the stars.
“How long until he’s out of options?” Rakowski’s thoughts came quick and flighting. Internally, Mentok smiled. He couldn’t help himself.
“Increasing tricks; desperation. Once the sensor network’s better established he’ll find it hard to take refuge even where it’s deserted. He needs to sleep sometime. He’s not Captain Dawn. When your quarry goes to ground, leave no ground to go to.”
“And then surrender?”
Mentok chuckled. “Unlikely. The windows shrink, and the rat panics. He’ll try something ill‑considered, something foolish. Then we strike.” He closed his eyes, spreading across his endless souls. His hands moved, his feet trod, his mouths ate, he made love. Procreation mustn’t stop, after all, simply due to times of crisis.
“It’s hard to know what will come next.” Not a criticism so much, more just curiosity and comment. Already there’d been two occasions where Heydrich had teleported in and began charging his cells with unstable nuclear potency. The atomic signature of that particular energy was distinctive though, and quite easy to detect by satellite. By the time the palka had finished infusing his clone with burning magenta destruction, it was located and removed before any damage could be done. Simply teleported away. One life, and no continent-wide devastation.
There would be no Devastation ever again.