Democracy World Arc, Part I

Langston Morris marched down the pockmarked asphalt road, taking care to not to trip while keeping eye contact with the line of Persian prisoners of war on the sidewalk. A rainstorm had just passed by the city only a few hours before, so the road was slick and full of small puddles. Slipping would not do Morris’ image any good. Six feet and five inches tall, the Directorate of State Security captain was an intimidating man even in peacetime. Each crash of his jackboots on the pavement made the kneeling prisoners wince. Every now and then, he would pause in front of a prisoner, take a drag from the cigarette and blow the smoke in the helpless man’s face. He would then put the cigarette out in the prisoner’s eye before lighting another one. Morris loved the smell of tobacco smoke, as it masked the smell of rotting and burning flesh prevalent on the battlefield.

As he glimpsed the crumbling minarets, bombed-out skyscrapers and smoldering mosques around him, the world Morris administered intrigued him even more. It had interested him ever since it was declared a quarantine zone after the disaster on New Formosa. Unlike most worlds Morris was used to dealing with, the centers of political gravity rested in China and the Middle East. Being a purebreed, Morris could have blended in perfectly amongst the locals, were it not for his clean-shaven face and dark grey State Security uniform.

Morris made a mental note to keep a contemptuous look on his face; an easy task, for he felt nothing but contempt for the prisoners before him. The prisoners looked back at him with a combination of fear and wonder. One man kept his eyes shut and continually muttered something under his breath.

“Okhropir, I need your help,” Morris told his translator in the best native Georgian he could muster. The portly Georgian Army corporal rushed to his side and saluted.

“What do you need help with, sir?”

“What is this man saying? Is he trying to tell us anything?”

“He’s just praying, sir. Praying that his soul gets accepted into Heaven.”

Morris chuckled. He spat out his cigarette and crouched in front of the man. The prisoner recited his prayers faster and faster, knowing his time was running low.

“I know you can’t understand a thing I’m telling you,” Morris whispered in American. “And that’s a damn shame because it’s the last thing you’ll ever hear. You seem eager to meet your god. I’ll be more than happy to oblige you.”

Morris drew his sidearm, a M15, and pressed the barrel against the bridge of the prisoner’s nose. He pulled the trigger, sending an electronic signal into the pistol’s computers, which in turn activated the miniature fusion reactor the weapon used as a power cell. The vast amounts of energy generated by the cell is then diverted to the pistol’s plasma reactors, which created a ball of ionized atmospheric gas held together by magnetic fields generated near the gun’s barrel to prevent blooming. The glowing white-hot ball of plasma was then thrust from the generator chamber and into the prisoner’s skull, boiling away skin, muscle, bone and brain almost instantaneously. The rapid boiling of the bodily fluids inside the skull caused it to explode, spreading searing chunks of still-cooking flesh in all directions. One prisoner, kneeling next to the unlucky soul, had his eye sliced open by a superheated bone shard. He screamed as fluid rushed out of the ruptured eyeball, clutching it desperately. Morris ordered a Georgian private to put the man out of his misery.

Looking back at the steaming neck stump which had once cradled the head of a warrior, Morris sighed. He had seen the same scene so many times that it had become monotonous. The childlike glee he used to get from executing prisoners was gone, replaced by a dull sense of having to do it for a paycheck. War had lost its appeal. Morris shook his head as he ordered all of the prisoners executed. He had to find a way to enjoy his job again. Mopping up the SSA’s mess isn’t helping matters any.

“Langston, get your ass over here!” Now that voice was familiar. Morris turned to face his old friend. Captain Dominic Alvenzi smiled back at him, waving a microtabulator. The pale, skeletal Navy captain was a descendant of one of the Cerafi War’s many heroes, a member of the Coalition’s unofficial aristocracy. He was assigned to the SSA after having an affair with the Director of Defense’s niece, his bloodline the only thing preventing his execution. He and Morris coordinated the invasion and takeover of this particular world's Middle East, becoming friends in the process.

“This better be good, Dom. I haven’t filled my morning quota yet.”

“This is as good as it gets!” Alvenzi answered confidently, his shouts garnering the attention of the prisoners of war. “We’re getting off this shithole! Today!”

Morris could hardly believe it. He and Alvenzi had spent the past twenty five years managing a total war with only ten million men and a single cruiser that was old enough to have fought in the Endless War. In those twenty five years, he had led his men to victory after victory, demolishing the great powers of this primitive world and easily slaughtering a hundred men for every man he had. Every year, he had petitioned to leave and fight in the conflicts at home. Every year, his request was denied.

“This better not be one of your dumbass pranks. I’m not in the mood for shit like that, not this morning.”

Alvenzi shook his head. He pressed a button on his minitabulator, streaming the news to Morris’ contact lens display. The Navy captain wasn’t lying. A series of pixelated green letters streamed across Morris’ eyes: “All Coalition forces are ordered to evacuate Pocket 32076A as soon as possible. Morris chuckled, his laughter slowly growing louder as the message repeated itself. His laughter made the Persians nervous, enough for one to make a run for it. He was gunned down by the Georgian auxiliaries. Morris paid no attention to the increasingly agitated prisoners. All he could think of was relaxing at his Columbia IV home.

“Let me guess: they just wanted us to finish off the Persians. Damn Bureau doesn’t understand the meaning of “societal collapse.””

“Afraid not,” Alvenzi replied, his grin disappearing. He walked toward Morris and showed him the microtabulator screen. A short holo of Supreme Director Applegate was playing. Morris noticed that the Director acted angrier than usual, pounding the podium with his fists and outright shouting into the many microphones around him. Alvenzi rewinded the clip and turned up the microtabulator’s volume.

“This act, no, this crime against the freedom-loving people of the galaxy will not go unpunished! The communist beasts have never respected justice, but now they throw even prudence to the dogs! This is an unprovoked attack against a defenseless nation and we shall rally to defend our allies! Today we go to war against our eternal enemy, the Conseil Systems! Today we liberate the galaxy from the crime of socialism! Today we shall fight, and tomorrow freedom will ring through the stars!”

“Some damn fool thing in Neu Stuttgart three months ago,” Alvenzi explained. “Everyone expected Sol, but the fighting will spread there soon enough. Looks like we’ll be fighting Camarade Rouge in short order. It had to happen someday.”

Morris didn’t know what to think of facing the Conseil. In all probability, he wouldn’t have to. DSS units are normally assigned counterterrorist duty, not frontline combat. But the thought of facing the Red Army made him shudder. He had seen reports on how the Red Army acted during their minor campaigns within Conseil space. Morris knew that reports of corpses and enemy prisoners being ground up into protein biscuits weren’t just the handiwork of DirInfo.

Morris sighed. “Well, I got my wish. What’s the Bureau’s plan for this rock?”

“Their grunts will recover any important items. Weapons, historical artifacts, biosamples, exotic slaves, anything we can’t get at home. Then Navy will torch this shithole.”

“Amen to that. Let’s get out of here and make Mother Columbia proud.”