ONA SUDAK
I stood on the bridge of the knife ship and surveyed the images of conflict and annihilation pouring in from all across the Generality. Never in history had there been a naval engagement of such scope and scale. The white ships of the Fleet were dismantling humanity’s ability to wage war, and sweeping aside all resistance.
“Look upon my works, ye mighty,” I muttered, “and despair.”
I beg your pardon? The creature beside me looked like a shaggy, multi-eyed polar bear. It was the avatar of the Fleet of Knives, a manifestation of their collective consciousness. When it spoke, the words appeared in my head without troubling the air between us.
“It’s a quote,” I said. “From an old poem.”
One of yours?
“No, much older.”
Does it not pain you?
“The destruction?” I considered the screens. “It’s unfortunate, but as you explained, it’s for the best in the long run.”
I meant the poetry. To be a warrior-poet must be a lamentable thing—to have your soul torn by the contradictions of such an irreconcilable duality.
I raised an eyebrow at it. “Since when have you been concerned with such things?”
The beast looked down at me with its scattering of jewel-like eyes.
Are we wrong?
The bridge around us was an immaculately white sphere. We stood on a raised podium at its centre.
“No, you’re not wrong.”
Then how do you reconcile the necessity of violence with the empathy of art?
I glanced up at one of the conflicts playing out on the inner shell of the sphere. Two white dagger ships were rending apart an Outward battle cruiser. Internal explosions blossomed; metal warped and tore; and men and women died in a hundred excruciatingly unpleasant ways.
“I try not to think about it.”
Denial?
“Self-preservation.”
By refusing to appreciate the full consequences of your decisions?
“It’s a human trait.”
This would explain your warlike history. Not to mention the desecration of your environment.
I poked my tongue lightly against the inside of my cheek and inhaled a long breath. It seemed absurd to be standing here like two Olympian gods, calmly debating the nature of humanity while thousands died.
“The gardener cares not for a blade of grass,” I said, quoting from one of my more popular poems. “As long as the lawn survives.”
Utilitarianism?
“The greatest good for the greatest number. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”
Then we are in agreement.
“I never doubted it.”
Neither did we. We were simply curious how you could be party to the slaughter of so many of your race, while also having composed poetry lamenting the futility of war.
I wished it would shut up. “People are complex.”
You are capable of simultaneously occupying two contradictory standpoints?
“I guess so.”
That explains so much about your behaviour as a species.
* * *
Alexi Bochnak sat on a stone bench in an otherwise unfurnished, white-walled cabin. The Fleet’s archangel towered behind him, reared up on its hindmost set of paws.
“I should have you shot as a traitor,” I said.
Bochnak peered at me through his antique spectacles. His dandelion-white hair stuck out in all directions. He still wore his baggy hockey jersey and unlaced boots, and had his ever-present stylus tucked behind his left ear. During the final moments of our last confrontation with the Trouble Dog, he had sent that errant craft all his research on the Fleet of Knives, the Intrusion, and the threat we faced.
“I’m not the traitor here.”
“You think I am?
“You’ve seen the reports. You know how many people you’re killing.”
“I do.” As the Fleet spread outwards from Camrose, it continued to meet resistance from local and Generality-wide forces—resistance it crushed with neither malice nor mercy. “It’s… unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate?”
I shrugged. “The humans are putting up more of a fight than expected.”
“The humans?” Bochnak tried to get to his feet, but the bear placed a huge paw on his shoulder, pressing him back into a seated position. “Do you hear yourself, Sudak?”
“I’m doing this to protect humanity.”
“You’re killing it.”
I pursed my lips. When I spoke, my voice was calm. “You know about the dragons. If the humans are allowed to fight another war, the conflict will attract the swarm.”
Bochnak’s face reddened. “The humans are fighting another war. Against you!”
“Which is why we need to end it as quickly and efficiently as possible.”
“By killing everyone who stands against us?”
“To save the majority.”
The old man gave a snort of contempt. “And you think they’re going to thank you for it?”
I could have struck him, right there and then. Instead, I drew myself up with all the discipline and dignity befitting a former captain of the Conglomeration Navy. “Dr Bochnak.” My words were precise, my tone measured. “I know all about hard choices. And I know all about thankfulness. You’re talking to the woman who brought an end to the Archipelago War— the most destructive conflict in human history. I sacrificed a world to save hundreds more. And the only gratitude I ever received came in the form of a death sentence.”
Bochnak’s face reddened. “I want no further part in this.”
I looked down my nose at his pathetic, hunched form. He really was a sack of human garbage—an academic with no understanding of the real world and the cold, hard necessities that brought survival. I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry, Doctor,” I said. “I don’t see how you have much of a choice.”