“I think we should adjourn for the night and come back tomorrow morning. We’ve hit a wall and we’re getting nowhere. We should all get some sleep and come back fresh.”
Micah’s calm voice was a balm to Tal’s ears after the shouting she’d been listening to. It had been nearly two hanticks since Captain Serrado had given them so much hope with her realization about the Voloth fighters. Two hanticks of discussing how to deal with the ground pounders that would be landing all over Alsea’s two continents, far from the range of the Caphenon’s weapons. Blacksun would be protected, but try as they might, they were not coming up with acceptable plans for the rest. No matter how they divided their forces, planned, strategized, theorized, or fantasized, they were looking at catastrophic loss and destruction. Tal wanted to put her head on the table and weep. The price for fighting off this invasion was going to be immeasurable, and Alsea would never be the same. Besides the horrific losses to their infrastructure and architecture, they were probably going to lose an entire generation.
“We don’t have time to sleep,” Shantu said.
“We don’t have time not to sleep,” Micah corrected. “Our world is depending on us and we’re sitting here going in circles.”
“And making a lot of noise doing it.” Eroles sighed. “He’s right, we’re getting nowhere. Maybe there are better ideas, but none of us are seeing them tonight.”
“Then we reconvene right after mornmeal?” Debrett asked from his screen.
All eyes went to Tal, who nodded. “Yes, I think that’s best. Hantick seven.”
The room buzzed with good nights and farewells, and the screens blinked off one by one as the other base commanders retired for the night. Tal pushed her chair back and stood, grateful to be moving at last.
The captain remained in her chair, staring straight ahead. She’d been quiet for the past thirty ticks, having tired of the increasingly useless discussion, and Tal couldn’t blame her.
“I’ll walk you to your quarters, Captain.”
“Hm?” Serrado looked up at her, then around the room. “Yes, fine, that’s…” She trailed off, her eyes focused on nothing at all, and frowned.
Tal glanced at Micah, who shrugged and turned to clasp Northcliff’s arm in farewell. Shantu stepped up and held out his arm, and Tal had just grasped it when Serrado spoke.
“You have to mind-shek them.”
She dropped Shantu’s arm and swung around in shock. “What?”
The captain’s distant expression was gone, replaced by a look of determination. “You have to mind-shek them. I’ve been sitting here for two hanticks listening to you try to find a way to beat superior weaponry and shielding with inferior technology, and it’s not going to happen. It’s never going to happen. Starting over tomorrow morning isn’t going to change the reality of that. But you’re ignoring the one weapon you have that they don’t: your empathy. Destroy their minds. Make it impossible for them to fight. Tell them to kill themselves. Or each other.”
The room went silent.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Shantu said at last. “Though I admire your cold blood.”
Tal nodded. “Empathy isn’t telepathy. We can’t tell them to do anything. And it’s impossible to compel a person to commit suicide, unless that was already part of their mindset and you’re just encouraging it. Self-preservation is the most basic instinct of all. Not even the strongest empath could overcome that.”
“Then make them kill each other. I know you can; your Betrayer did it.”
“Great Mother.” Colonel Razine came over and took Tal’s chair. “I don’t think you realize what you’re suggesting. Even if it were possible, it wouldn’t be worth it.”
“Why isn’t it possible?” Serrado met Tal’s eyes and added, “You would have forced Lhyn to act against her own character and do what you wanted her to. How would you have accomplished that?”
For a moment Tal could hardly breathe, and she couldn’t look away. Colonel Razine saved her.
“It would have taken a Sharing. To bind a person’s future choices against their will requires a deep reset of their emotions.”
“And I doubt the Voloth would stop, open the hatch, and invite us in for a Sharing,” Shantu said.
“No, wait.” Tal was able to think again, now that Serrado’s attention was on the others. “We don’t have to affect future choices. We have to affect present ones. She’s talking about covert projection.”
“I am?”
“No, she’s talking about fatal covert projection,” Yaserka said.
“That has never been used in warfare—”
“Nobody could do that—”
“The fifth level of the Pit is full of prisoners who could—”
“Shekking Mother, you would release the worst filth of Alsea on us? What happens when—”
“How ironic that an alien would have a better understanding of the stakes than—
“This is madness. Perhaps warriors could sink that low, but the scholars—”
Tal’s ears were ringing as the voices rose louder and louder, six highly agitated Alseans shouting over each other while Serrado looked on in confusion.
“Shut up!” Tal roared.
The arguments stopped abruptly.
“Much better. Now let’s try this again, one at a time. Captain Serrado is right. We have to use every weapon at hand, no matter how distasteful.”
“I agree,” Shantu said. “This is our survival we’re talking about. Leave the philosophical debates to the religious scholars. Fahla’s covenant isn’t meant to bind us to utter destruction.”
Colonel Northcliff nodded. “Does Fahla’s covenant even apply to alien invaders? I don’t think it does.”
“I may be in the minority here,” said Colonel Razine, “but I do not believe we should sell our souls to save our bodies.”
“I can’t believe you’re even considering this.” Yaserka was so horrified that his front slipped, exposing his emotions. “The Voloth won’t have to destroy us; we’ll do it to ourselves!”
“Speaking for the builders, and possibly all of the mid and low empaths,” Eroles said, “the idea of the entire high empath segment of the warrior caste engaging in mass covert projection is terrifying. If you break Fahla’s covenant now—and in a way that is unprecedented in our history—then how do you wind that back down? How do you go back to what you were before and give up that power?”
“I understand your concern, but—”
“No, you do not, Lancer Tal! You’re one of them! You have no idea how the rest of us feel.”
“Eroles…” Shantu spoke in an unusually quiet voice.
“Oh, don’t try to soothe me. You’re one of them too. It’s easy to sit on your side of the fence and say this is a temporary necessity. Try being one of the vast majority of Alseans who depend on the high empaths to hold themselves in check. You’re talking about shattering the one thing that holds you back, and you think we shouldn’t be worried?”
“Excuse me,” Micah said. “You do not speak for all of the mid and low empaths. This low empath understands exactly what the stakes are. And I clearly have a better opinion of high empaths than you, because I don’t view them as wild animals pulling at the chain, just waiting for it to break.”
“That is not what I meant—”
“It certainly sounded like it—”
The voices rose once more, and Tal pinched the bridge of her nose. A touch on her shoulder brought her head up to find Captain Serrado standing in front of her. Tal leaned in to hear her over the noise.
“I’m sorry, Lancer Tal. I had no idea I’d be stirring up a wasp’s nest. But you have to do this. It’s the only way.”
“I know it is. But as you can see, it’s not going to be easy.”
Serrado watched them argue for a few more pipticks and shook her head. “Easier than slavery and death. Hey!” she shouted suddenly, startling Tal. “Eyes front, now!”
The room went silent as everyone stared at her in surprise.
“Thank you. Now, I’m not Alsean, so I have no say in your philosophical debate, but perhaps I can put it into a different context for you.” She reached around her back, pulled out the hand phaser Micah had returned to her earlier, and held it up. “This is a deadly weapon. I’ve been carrying it among you since the morning after we crashed. In the past I have used it to injure, and I have used it to kill. But I’ve never felt the urge to use it on innocent people, nor would I be allowed to get away with it if I did.”
She let her hand fall, but kept the phaser in view. “Your high empaths have deadly weapons built right into their heads. They’ve been among you every day for thousands of cycles. From what I understand, they also don’t feel the urge to use those weapons on innocent people. And the tiny minority who do are not allowed to get away with it. Am I correct?”
“You’re correct,” Shantu said. He was actually smiling.
“Then I don’t see how using empathy in battle will be any different. It’s a weapon. Use it when you need to; put it away when you don’t.”
She holstered her phaser. “Lancer Tal tells me that empathy is one of Fahla’s greatest gifts to your people. I believe her. She Shared with me this morning, and it didn’t feel like a weapon then. It felt like the most beautiful thing I have ever experienced. She didn’t force it on me, though she certainly could have. I really can’t imagine her suddenly turning into a different person after using her empathy in a battle. Quite the opposite, in fact. Your problem isn’t going to be holding back high empaths who have suddenly discovered the joy of hurting people. It’s going to be helping high empaths who have had to use their gift in a way they never thought they would.”