The Former Commander had traveled all the way to Gnar in semi-secrecy for an important in-person meeting … inside a derelict factory?

Six of her fellow elite military ranks sat around a defunct boiler vat. There were no cushy recliners, no massage chairs, not even any attendant slaves; just a metal grated floor. Whose idea was this?

Whichever one had chosen this location had poor taste.

With a sigh, the Former Commander joined her cohort. Few individuals could be trusted to make wise decisions. That was a fact. It was no mystery why the Majority had elected super-geniuses to serve as the truest champions of civilization, even though several of those had proven to be disloyal and self-serving.

Four of these so-called elites had pink eyes. Rosies. They used to be ordinary civilians, and not the stellar kind who got promoted fast. Their power was significant—she could sense it—but if not for the Giant’s hammer blow, they would have lived and died as mundane middling ranks. They were not leadership material.

Ooh, the Former Commander! The greeting came from a gangly mutant with a bad haircut and buck teeth. I didn’t know You were invited. I (the Unsung Spur) am honored.

The Former Commander already missed her inner audience. Meeting in secret seemed downright uncivilized. Some of her orbiters had followed her since before she had been elected as the Commander of All Living Things. Didn’t they deserve access to her every thought? Wasn’t this a betrayal of the implicit trust between herself and them?

Another attendee agreed with her. It is stupid (and pointless) to meet in person. Her pink eyes glowed bright against her dark skin. Why are We doing this?

Another Rosy agreed. The Giant and the Imposter probably scan for gatherings of power like this one. We are making Ourselves into targets.

That seemed paranoid. Two individuals could not scan the whole galaxy, no matter how much raw power they had. There were over ninety million inhabited planets and planetoids.

This planet (Gnar) is safely beneath enemy notice, the Somehow Nexus silently pointed out. It’s a commonplace ribbon world. Even if the Conqueror keeps winning, he will target richer (and more populous) worlds before he turns his attention to places like this.

The Somehow Nexus was a bland-looking man with a bland attitude. Yet the Former Commander recognized him as among the most capable Servants of All. He was a veteran of slave revolts and other dangerous assignments, his blond hair graying, his face beginning to show his age.

Did you arrange this meeting? she wondered, picturing the secret invitation which had been slipped into a data packet on her tablet.

The Somehow Nexus shrugged and neither confirmed nor denied the accusation.

Well, I, for one, am glad to have been invited. The Forcer Burn stared around the circle with his rosy pink eyes. A secret meeting (of extra capable champions) ought to yield valuable ideas.

The Former Commander gave the Forcer Burn a level look. She had commanded all living things back when he was still playing with toys on a baby farm. She did not need a lecture from a youthful Rosy.

Well, We (elite military ranks) are being treated as disposable garbage. The Forcer Burn laced his gloved hands over one muscular leg. I cannot be the only one who balks at the Death Architect’s ongoing offense.

The other attendees were ambivalent.

I don’t like the way she (the Death Architect) is provoking the Giant, the Null Distraint admitted. Why mount the severed heads of slaves on display outside Our garrisons? Isn’t that barbaric? Why are We (the Torth Empire) doing such garish things?

It makes no sense, the Snap Analogy concurred. What is the purpose?

It needlessly enrages the enemies, thought the Somehow Nexus. They’re actively raiding places just so the Conqueror can zombify extra Rosies and Servants of All.

And the enemies are growing more ruthless, the Burning Hilt complained. They’re more careless about killing Red Ranks rather than taking them as enslaved “penitents.”

More agreements. We (champions) (military ranks) are the ones who have to suffer the brunt of the Giant’s rage.

The elite ranks were silent for a moment, each coping with shame in their own private way. They were all too aware of the many advantages that the enemies had. Zombification. Mass teleportation. The Conqueror had invented some kind of abominable communications network that worked over any distance, like a sickly shadow of the Megacosm. And whenever the Giant arrived in a city? Civilians dropped everything and fled.

The Former Commander commiserated with her peers. She pulled out her antacid bottle and took a pill.

During her last visit to the Death Architect on that forsaken asteroid, she had been unable to suppress her criticism. She had delivered several cases full of NAI-13. Then she’d stood back, wondering if any champion would dare to assassinate this particularly wasteful super-genius.

Why did the Death Architect insist on forcing Rosies to remain garrisoned on Nuss? Surely Rosies were too valuable to waste like that? There was no glory in a stupid, pointless, easily avoidable death.

The Death Architect had actually responded to her unspoken criticism. I am architecting (building up to) a situation.

That was vague. The Former Commander wondered if the little girl had any understanding of how outmatched the Torth Empire was. Did she even care about reality?

Outmatched? No. The Death Architect emitted a vibe of disagreement. The Conqueror’s strategy hinges entirely on him creating hordes of expendable assets. That is a critically flawed strategy.

Was it really?

The Former Commander felt haunted by battles which she had witnessed in the Megacosm. Zombified victims died by the hundreds every day, gouging out the eyes of Red Ranks or savaging them in other ways. The Torth losses were obscene. The enemies lost comparatively few soldiers.

Resource allocation is critical to any strategy, the Death Architect calmly thought. The Conqueror can no longer win a battle without his disposable bodies. His minions are utterly reliant upon him. They (his minions) are beginning to forget that We (the Torth Empire) can play the same game. And We can do it a lot more effectively.

? The Former Commander had felt lost. She had no idea what the Death Architect was insinuating.

We have more (far more) throwaway assets than the Conqueror can produce, the Death Architect thought. We have a nearly infinite horde of disposable bodies.

Slaves?

Ha. The Former Commander disdained that idea. Kamikaze slaves could be useful in isolated skirmishes, but a cringing ummin was no match for a zombified Torth. Plus, the whole notion of arming slaves was childish. They were too likely to turn traitor and switch sides.

You exhibit a marked lack of imagination, the Death Architect had thought. Slaves can be used for many purposes, in many ways.

She had envisioned an example of what she meant. Just a flash. Hundreds of slaves writhed in pain beneath a hot desert sun, staked to metal crosses.

Bait.

Such a sight would enrage the enemies and make them stupid. Especially the Giant.

The Former Commander had remained stoic. She could not guess the full scope of what the Death Architect planned, but she was reassured. The girl did have something planned. Something that the Conqueror would fail to counter against.

???

Her comrades in the derelict factory sensed her memory and probed for details.

Mind probes used to be rude, but the Former Commander no longer outranked her fellow champions. She allowed them to learn what small hints the Death Architect had dropped.

Ah. The Somehow Nexus leaned back, satisfied. That is interesting.

So she is planning something. The Snap Analogy leaned forward, excited. The enemies are going to get very angry. Enraged, really. Does this have something to do with that rage neurotoxin the Twins were working on?

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When the Giant was enraged, he made mistakes.

He might even ignore the Conqueror’s commands.

That was how emotionally volatile savages reacted whenever they got overwrought. The Death Architect was creating a perfect storm. She was misleading the Conqueror, lulling him into a false sense that the Torth were being wasteful and careless. And she was simultaneously building up storm conditions.

This is already a fruitful meeting, the Burning Hilt thought.

The Former Commander did not need praise for ferrying information. Servitude was an honor.

She supposed that the Death Architect was admirably like her in that way, at least. The girl served the Empire for the sake of serving. Unlike the Upward Governess, she did not have an ego that needed stroking. She was not greedy for luxuries, art, relics, or delicacies. Her lair was industrial and unadorned.

That selflessness was a good sign, wasn’t it?

Only savages felt greed. Only savages yearned to amass art, music, stories, gardens, trinkets, and accolades.

The Death Architect had also brought up another cause for hope. As long as We are on the topic of resources, she had thought, the Conqueror does not have as many advantages as you believe. Do you honestly assume that he is the one and only individual in existence who can control minds?

The Former Commander had gone still.

Even the rarest of Yeresunsa powers were repeated in a population of more than thirty trillion. That was an unavoidable fact of statistics. There must be other mind readers who could twist minds and brainwash people. But if so…

Where were they?

Hidden?

Brainwashing is different than throwing wildfire or using telekinesis. The Death Architect’s mental voice was intimate. It is so internal, it is unlikely to be activated by an external crisis. Not even the vigorous training of Servants of All is enough to awaken that power. Brainwashers on Our side of the war are likely unaware of what they can do.

Yet.

There was an unspoken implication.

The Former Commander had, of course, tried to awaken new powers in herself. Should she try harder?

The search for brainwashers should be a much higher priority than it has been, the Death Architect agreed. If you encounter someone with that power (or if you gain that power yourself), contact Me in private. She had flashed a mental image of an encryption tablet. Such a champion might become crucial to saving the Torth Empire.

The Former Commander had bowed her head in obedience.

Deep down, she felt uneasy. Would such a person—such a monster, really—obey military orders? Once the Torth Empire won the war, would a winning champion with that monstrous power then meekly submit themselves to the Majority for execution?

Or would they become another Conqueror?

Have no fear. The Death Architect had regarded her loyal champion with a patronizing lack of emotion. As a super-genius, I can (and I will) assess brainwashers and determine who, among them, is trustworthy. The fate of civilization is in My capable hands.

How reassuring.

The Former Commander had bowed and begged for permission to leave. She wanted to place her trust in the Death Architect. She really did. But … well, the little girl just seemed so comfortable with hidden dangers.

What was she hiding inside her freakishly capacious mind?

What if … well, what if she herself could twist minds?

That idea was too terrifying to consider. The Former Commander tried to reassure herself; if the Death Architect had such a useful power, she would surely share it with the Majority rather than keep it to herself. The little girl was selfless. That was her best quality.

The secret meeting of Servants and Rosies eyed each other askance. Secret mind controllers would be able to hide in plain sight. They would seem ordinary. Mundane. Easy to miss.

Who knew what they were capable of?

Anyone might be able to brainwash people, the Somehow Nexus thought. It could be one of Us.

It could just as easily be children on baby farms, the Forcer Burn pointed out. It could be literally anyone.

It is more likely to be someone with powers, the Snap Analogy thought.

The Null Distraint touched her forehead, as if reaching to dial up a tranquility mesh. Ugh.

The Former Commander agreed with that sentiment. Secrets should be anathema to civilized people.

I believe that one of Us (in this room) is, in fact, hiding a mind control power, the Unsung Spur thought. There is evidence for it.

!?!?!?

The Former Commander stared at the young Rosy. They all did.

Let Me prove it. The Unsung Spur replayed an absorbed newsfeed memory. That very morning, a passenger streamship had disgorged six hundred and ninety-five passengers. That exact same ship had departed from MoreProgress Orbital with six hundred and ninety-four passengers.

The Unsung Spur paused, politely giving them time to reach their own conclusions. And no one seems able to identify the additional passenger who appeared out of nowhere.

The Former Commander figured that the Unsung Spur was the sort of person who bought into conspiracy theories. Surely the supposed extra passenger was just a clerical error?

She sensed her cohort thinking along the same lines.

No, the Unsung Spur thought, defensive. I got curious and asked passengers and crew members. None of them admit to making a clerical error. None of them remembers anything or anyone odd.

The Former Commander tried to put aside her doubts. This topic made her profoundly uneasy.

There is only one conclusion, the Unsung Spur thought. A mind controller was aboard that ship and did not want to be noticed, so they edited memories. But they forgot to edit the official record.

The Former Commander collected her thoughts. She sensed her peers brimming with speculations and trepidation. Was one of them—right here and now—hiding a power to turn the rest of them into brainless puppets?

So there is a mind controller among Us, the Burning Hilt thought. So what? They are on Our side. Right?

Right. I’m not saying it’s bad, the Unsung Spur thought. Like the Death Architect implied, We ought to welcome such a useful champion, and make them feel comfortable.

His mind held an unspoken invitation. Apparently, he expected the secret mind controller to reveal themselves.

Everyone else’s reactions ranged from lukewarm to chilly. The Former Commander personally had no desire to meet another potential Conqueror. One was more than enough.

Right. The Null Distraint solidified her own concerns. What happens if Our secret creepy mind controller goes rogue? What atrocities might another Conqueror be capable of?

That was such a frightening idea, everyone needed a second to process it. The ramifications were too horrifying to contemplate. Civilization would be caught between two warring super-tyrants. What hope was there?

The Unsung Spur volunteered his opinion again. I think it’s paranoid to presume that every mind controller would turn into a tyrant. Few Torth are as power-mad as the Conqueror. Most of Us are loyal to the Empire (and civilization).

Perhaps.

The Former Commander thought of all the low ranks who refused to evacuate their endangered home cities. Rather than flee the instant the Giant showed up, they allowed themselves to be collared by the enemies. It seemed to her that a lot of Torth knelt rather easily.

We are safe. The Unsung Spur looked at them, dismayed by their reactions. If anyone brainwashes one of Us (a valuable champion), surely the super-geniuses would detect it and put a stop to it? That’s the job of super-geniuses. Right? To safeguard civilization?

The Former Commander drummed her spidery fingers on her armored thigh, wishing she could drum wisdom into the Unsung Spur.

Can We trust super-geniuses, though? the Snap Analogy dared to wonder. The Lone Twin is likely a traitor, just like her partner, the boy Twin.

The Former Commander favored that Rosy with a gaze of agreement. The Torth Empire ought to just launch nuclear missiles at the girl Twin’s vessel. Sure, the ugly child was allegedly hard at work, inventing rarified weapons. But the Twins had mirrored minds. Where one went, the other was very likely to follow.

Well, I choose to be optimistic. The Unsung Spur gave them each a look, as if he wanted to impart his youthful idealism. The Twins are no longer mentally synced up. The Lone Twin must realize that a partnership with the Death Architect is superior to what she used to have.

Skepticism radiated off the others.

Things will turn around! the Unsung Spur assured them. Why are you so negative? The Death Architect must have an amazing plan. Plus: We can teleport! The Torth Empire will prevail, just like We always have.

The Former Commander scooped out one more antacid tablet and ate it.

But she did not argue with the Unsung Spur. None of them did. The Torth Empire needed whatever advantages it could wrangle. After all, they had thrown their heaviest weapons at the Giant, and failed. They had invaded the Conqueror’s stronghold with inhibitor gas. They had preemptively destroyed baby farms. None of it worked.

Meanwhile, half a billion Torth were erased; dead or enslaved as penitents. And there was no way to hide that fact from the public.

They must win at any cost. Civilization mattered.

I will defer to the Death Architect, the Somehow Nexus agreed. She has proven herself to be loyal (and clever). But just in case her secret strategy falls short of victory … I suggest We practice Our combat skills.

As if that would win the war.

Those of Us with teleportation powers ought to figure out galactic teleportation. He met the Former Commander’s gaze, perhaps aware that she had been struggling to surpass her own ghosting limits. The most powerful among Us should be capable of whatever the Imposter is capable of.

That stung.

But he was correct. There must be a trick to ghosting across the galaxy. Perhaps she needed to stretch her sphere of influence in some way? And no doubt she would have to memorize star charts. That would entail a lot of rote memorization, which she hated. Torth minds were not suited to rote memorization.

Still, there would be advantages to being able to pop up anywhere.

The Former Commander imagined teleporting directly behind the Conqueror—or the Giant—and slicing off his head with her ionic-bladed scimitar. If she could do that, she would win back all of the praise and status she had lost. She would be worshiped for eternity in the Megacosm.

It was embarrassing, how much her throat tightened with craving at that idea. She wasn’t supposed to want personal glory. She was supposed to serve All. That ought be reward enough. The mantle of office, the authority and fame … those were just perks.

She wondered if she should be more like Death Architect.

We should all be more like the Death Architect, the Forcer Burn thought. Tranquil no matter what.

They agreed, departing.

The Former Commander did not ascend right away. Downtime used to feel punishing, but she had begun to develop a fondness for existential silence. Being alone inside her skull calmed her symptoms of stress.

She rode a hoverbike across the factory floor, and contemplated her future.

Although she no longer wore her mantle, she was still invited to secret leadership meetings. A few people respected her enough to include her. She was, in fact, alive, which was better than the fates of all previous deposed Commanders.

It was remarkable. There were reasons to be optimistic.

She might yet reclaim her glory and die with honor.