Spectre put on his best sneer and flicked an invisible piece of dust off his black uniform piped with yellow accents. Devoid of insignia, still it called to mind rank and power with an elegance impressive for its simplicity, in the manner of dictators throughout history.
Stepping into the Shepparton, Australia mansion’s large, luxuriously furnished ballroom, he glided around its outer edge, taking stock of the gathering of fifty-three others clothed in various forms of yellow and gold. A few were grossly fat or hugely muscular, but most conformed to the accepted human ideals of beauty: tall, fit, graceful, sculpted of face and body. All wore expressions ranging from confident to haughty, though nervousness showed through as well.
They had been called here – some escorted and forced, to be frank – by declaration of EarthFleet, ratified by broadcasts from the Meme ceding all authority on the planet. The change of power had caught them all by surprise. So had the populace’s quickly melting support for these oligarchs, their former masters, though some of the more benevolent among them retained loyal followings. The habits of a lifetime were not always easy to break.
Once he’d gotten a sense of them, Spectre mounted the stage at one end, nodding to the captain of the unit of Skulls that secured the estate. The insurgent group had slowly become a disciplined cadre serving under the legendary Spooky Nguyen, second only to their namesake as an icon of anti-Meme resistance. There’d been some wavering when they realized he was now a Blend called Spectre, but the ecstatic shock of throwing off the Empire had brought them around. Now they formed the core of his new Direct Action enforcers.
The Skulls blocked all the doors, their weapons at the ready, and every eye turned toward Spectre. “Good evening to all who wear the yellow,” he spoke in rich tones. “I am Spectre. I had you all brought here to personally inform you of the changes in your situations, and to make sure you understand them. You will note that there are fifty-three of you here, whereas sixty-four original Meme Blends composed the senior oligarchy just two days ago. The other eleven resisted capture so strongly that they had to be killed.”
A roar of protest broke out among many of the Blends there, calmed only when the Skulls raised their weapons at a signal from Spectre. “If you are wise and flexible,” he said loudly, “you might survive the return to humanity’s self-government.” He waved a hand until the muttering died.
“Let me tell you a story.” Spectre stepped down from the stage to walk slowly among the Blends, most standing, others lounging or sitting on divans and chairs. He plucked a flute of champagne from a tray and took a sip.
“Sun Tzu, an ancient general and exceptional military strategist, was summoned by the King of Wu, who challenged him to apply his methods of command to turn women into warriors. The King of Wu was setting Sun Tzu up to fail, and so he offered 180 of the most beautiful concubines of the palace to be test subjects.”
“What does this have to do with anything?” sneered one woman near him, waving a cigarette in a long holder.
“That will soon become clear,” Spectre replied. “Sun Tzu immediately took the challenge, with the stipulation that he have, in writing, complete freedom of method.”
“Get to the point,” said a hulking brute of a man, pacing and flexing his hands as if he wished he could grab the speaker and tear him limb from limb.
Ignoring the interruption, Spectre continued. “The next morning Sun Tzu met the women on the parade ground and divided them into two divisions, appointing a commander for each, and told them to have their groups follow his simple commands to turn left or right. Then he issued the command. Do you know what they did?”
“They laughed at him, the way some here are laughing at you now,” a grossly obese man sprawled on a sofa said, his beady eyes wary.
Spectre fixed the speaker with a penetrating gaze. “I see you know the story, but you are not laughing.”
“This situation does not amuse me.” The man took a chocolate truffle from a bag and popped it into his mouth. “I know how it ends.”
“Gilgamesh, isn’t it?”
“At your service, Lord Spectre.”
Spectre smiled, an expression that reached nowhere near his eyes. “You seem a bit wiser than your comrades. I may have a place for you.”
“I’m counting on it, my Lord.” Gilgamesh reached into the bag again.
Spectre continued his oratory. “The women laughed, and did not obey. Knowing his instructions had been clear, simple, and well within their capabilities, Sun Tzu knew the fault lay with them, not him. Therefore, he had the two women beheaded. He then appointed two new commanders. When next he issued his instructions, the women followed them to the letter, and soon he had the formations marching and wheeling about the parade ground in perfect order.”
As Spectre paced slowly among the crowd, he had made a circuit until he stood in front of the woman who had sneered. “What are you called?”
“Cleopatra,” the woman answered.
“And you?” Spectre said, turning toward the muscular monster who had also mocked him.
“Nero,” said the man.
Moving to the stage again, Spectre mounted it and said, “You two, come stand here, now.” He pointed clearly to the floor at his feet.
Perhaps something in Spectre’s eyes convinced her, for the woman sashayed over to stand where he indicated. However, the man said, “Go to hell,” and stuck out his huge jaw.
With a motion invisible for its swiftness, Spectre reached inside his uniform sleeve and brought out a laser pistol, firing as soon as it lined up. A neat, smoking hole appeared in the big man’s head and he dropped like a sack of grain.
“You know,” Spectre said conversationally into the stunned silence, “These men and women around you, these Skulls, they want to execute all of you. The rest of the resistance movement wants to try you as war criminals, and then execute you. Your former masters the Meme have abandoned you. To them, you are not of the Pure Race, you are underlings and they have explicitly relinquished all claim to humanity. The Empire holds no sway here anymore and you live at my sufferance.”
Cleopatra held her ground. “So your story was just an illustration of rule by fear and naked power.”
Spectre shook his head. “No. You fail to understand the lesson, which is about something larger than fear.” He looked over at Gilgamesh.
“I believe I understand, my lord,” the fat, oily man said. “It’s about motivation. Provide the proper incentive – or disincentive – and one can accomplish great things quickly.”
“Precisely. I play no games, my fellow Yellows. If you fail me, you die. If you test me, you die. I can accomplish my goals with half your number, perhaps fewer. If you serve me well, you may regain status, privilege, power and wealth. The only reason you are not now dead is because I have places for you.”
“And what places are those, my Lord?” said Gilgamesh.
Spectre nodded to the man. He was a toady, but could be made useful. “As skilled workers no different from any other enhanced human. You and your children, all you Blends, will give up all your privileges to take charge of living ships and bases, assisting preparation of our defense against the Scourge. You will still wear the yellow not as a mark of superiority, but of suspicion. Everyone will be watching you. You will make your way on your merits, not by virtue of your genetic heritage, and you will earn your place in my new society. Does anyone wish to opt out of my scheme?”
Silence reigned, broken only by the small sounds of movement as the fifty-two remaining Blends glanced at each other or took convulsive drinks from their glasses. Fear rolled off of them in waves of biochemicals, fear Spectre could smell. “Excellent. I take your lack of response as assent.” He put away his weapon and stepped off the stage. “Now, let’s get to know one another.”