“How long can the operative beam these images?” Hawthorne asked.
Yezhov cast him another nervous glance. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough. The…operative doesn’t know she’s beaming the information.”
“What form of transmitter does she use?” Hawthorne asked.
“It’s a retinal scan,” Yezhov said.
“Explain that.”
“One of her eyes was surgically removed. A bio-replacement was inserted along with a cerebral power-pack. You’re watching what she’s seeing.”
Hawthorne stared at Yezhov. It seemed the Chief of PHC carefully kept his gaze on the screen in order to keep from looking at him. Finally, Hawthorne turned back to the picture.
The grainy images showed war-torn streets: rubble, blasted buildings and overturned vehicles. People moved quickly, usually with their heads bent and shoulders hunched. A soldier stood on a street corner. He wore a Free Earth Corps uniform.
“Where is this again?” Hawthorne asked.
“New Orleans, in Louisiana Sector of North America,” Yezhov said.
“That’s far behind enemy lines.”
“Ah,” Yezhov said. “If you would watch this….”
Hawthorne became absorbed as a giant strode into view. The Highborn wore combat armor, but without the customary helmet. He strode closer, until he filled the screen. His mouth moved as he talked to the operative. The Highborn had pallid skin, and the intensity of his eyes was overwhelming.
“We’ve studied their preferences,” Yezhov said. “They prefer tall women, at least tall in our terms. They enjoy big firm breasts and wide hips. The last no doubt is to absorb their…ah…vigorous ways.”
“She’s a volunteer?” asked Hawthorne.
“…Not as you might conceive of it,” Yezhov finally said.
“Explain,” said Hawthorne, who found that he was frowning.
“She believes herself an infiltration operative. For morale reasons, her true mission is kept from her.”
Hawthorne felt nauseous. It was one thing to send soldiers into desperate situations. But this—it was monstrous. Yet he found that he couldn’t tear his gaze from the screen. In morbid fascination, he continued to watch.
“Skip to the end sequence,” Yezhov told a technician.
One of the women at the controls made adjustments. The grainy image vanished, replaced by another. It was a shot of a ceiling. Then a door panned into view. Through it walked a nude Highborn. The man’s musculature was amazing, as was his other endowments.
“This is obscene,” whispered Hawthorne.
“War is vicious,” Yezhov said, without any inflection.
The next few moments were like a bad porn video. The Highborn’s face took on an animalist cast. Then everything went red on the screen. Suddenly, there was a white flash. The grainy image vanished, and the screen remained white.
“End of sequence,” a technician said.
Hawthorne blinked as a growing foulness filled him. This was inhuman. He said in a choking voice, “She didn’t know what would happen?”
“Few would volunteer if they did,” Yezhov said.
“What method did you use?” Hawthorne whispered.
“A cortex bomb,” Yezhov said. “The Highborn implant them in certain personnel of their suicide squadrons. You shouldn’t be troubled. We’re merely paying them back in like coin.”
“They’re not murdering their own people to kill our soldiers,” Hawthorne said.
“With respect, Supreme Commander, this is no different than your ordering soldiers to stand and fight the Highborn. My method is in the end more merciful.”
“Do you actually believe that?”
For the first time, Yezhov faced Hawthorne. “What have you said before? We could lose a million civilians to kill one Highborn. I have lost a single human and killed one Highborn. I doubt even your elite units have a better kill ratio than that.”
“You sacrificed her without her consent.”
“Do you ask permission when you send your soldiers into places that will get them killed?”
“That isn’t the same thing!” Hawthorne shouted.
“…I agree,” Yezhov said after a moment. “The military slaughters far more of its operatives than PHC does theirs.”
Hawthorne found that his right hand was trembling. He gripped it so the others wouldn’t see. Now if he could only grip his growing anger…. “We don’t send soldiers to their certain death,” he said.
“Come now,” said Yezhov. “That’s mere semantics. You must realize that when a battalion goes into battle that few of its soldiers shall survive contact with the Highborn. I sent a lone operative—”
“You altered her.”
Yezhov silently indicated Captain Mune.
Hawthorne shook his head, but he couldn’t muster further arguments. He could hardly think. It was true that Yezhov killed Highborn. But this was nasty work, low, foul and un-soldierly. But economical of lives, said his coldly logical half. The Highborn were winning, and it was extremely hard to inflict kills on the super soldiers. They were very good at using FEC soldiers as fodder. Could this vile method help turn the tide of the war? No. It wouldn’t bring victory, but it might help in an attritional way.
“World War One,” Hawthorne muttered.
“Is that a historical reference?” Yezhov asked.
“Captain Mune,” Hawthorne said.
“Sir?”
“Alert the team outside,” Hawthorne said. “Tell them to put these technicians into protective custody.” He felt soiled having witnessed this. Yet that wasn’t logical. Yezhov was right. It could be argued that he’d ordered much worse.
“These are my best people,” Yezhov was saying. “I’ll need them to keep my operations running smoothly.”
“You’ll need my good will to keep running smoothly,” Hawthorne said, his voice rising.
Yezhov looked away. His fingers twitched.
Hawthorne glanced at the technicians. They had stood, and at Mune’s orders, they filed for the door.
“Kill them,” Hawthorne said.
“What?” Yezhov said, turning around.
A gun barked in Mune’s hands. One by one and in quick succession, the technicians thumped against the walls. The woman who had spoken before slid down to the floor in a growing pool of blood.
Yezhov stared open-mouthed at Hawthorne.
The door burst open and three bionic soldiers fanned out with drawn weapons.
“Check the dead,” Mune said from his wheelchair.
One soldier pulled out a chemsniffer. Another had an electro-scanner. The last kept his gun trained on Yezhov. The soldiers waved their wands over the dead. The electro-scanner beeped. In moments, a soldier peeled a tiny device from a technician’s breast.
“What did your finger-twitch signal?” Hawthorne asked, with his voice under tight control. He had to grip his right hand. It was badly trembling. Was this his nerves, an old wound?
“You’re mad,” said Yezhov.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Mune. “He’ll never admit his guilt. I recommend you allow my men to drag him outside to be shot.”
“You’re already in control,” said Yezhov. “So this can’t be a coup. Is this a personal vendetta against me?”
“What did you signal, Chief?” Hawthorne shouted. “I saw your fingers twitch. My file on you says nothing about nervous mannerisms. It says you have the emotions of a lizard.”
Yezhov turned to the bionic soldiers, addressing them in a grave voice. “The episode two days ago has unhinged our Supreme Commander. You can see for yourselves that he is no longer fit for command.”
“Yezhov,” Hawthorne warned.
“I used to admire him,” Yezhov said, continuing in his grave manner. “Yes, he has fought hard, but the truth is that the Highborn are winning the war. It saddens me to say this. But for the good of Social Unity you must relieve him of duty as you once relieved Lord Director Enkov.”