Chapter Seventeen: Tight Bindings — Part 4

On Earth, a shattered planet already comatose from its tens of thousands of years as host to humanity, yet another civil war was ripping the political system asunder, and making the Earth both cry out and bleed. Men and women fought with sticks and stones against troops with rifles and mortars. Nobody was safe from death; all sexes and ages became the target of every imaginable crime of war. Not all the masses had lived too long as sheep to be inexperienced in killing. Among the masses were forces far more prepared and well trained for the upcoming rebellion than The Authority had prepared for. Enforcers and Mercenaries, turning on their masters with the savage efficiency of experienced predators, and well paid troops under control of Barons and Satraps were all part of various civil revolt. The rich and the powerful had called the hungry and greedy from all over the Cynosure to try to take the failing dominion under their control. Among them, one rich group had a devious plan, and players in that plan were some of the most brilliant military and reconnaissance strategists the world had to offer.

A man who was but one of thousands of specially trained and prepared troops, Staven stared through his binoculars down a currently barren street, disregarding the sounds of war in the distance. Dressed in advanced camouflage and carrying superior weaponry, Staven “the Spike” Winters led a small group of ambitious revolutionaries on a secret mission. They moved stealthily through the remains of a city that had once been called New York, but currently was nothing more than a riot-wrecked clusters of bombed out buildings. Those that got in their way died. Everybody he crossed he killed. Those that fled were shot in the back of the head. His last target had been a five year old boy, and he smiled at his accuracy, because the head had looked so small in his sites. As an Infiltrator, Staven was an expert. As a killing force, he was a psychopath.

“Sir.” A woman next to him carried a pistol in her left hand, she guarded him close up while he looked off to the distance. Small and stocky, the young troop was as loyal as a dog, and as willing to submit. “Target Alpha is straight ahead.”

“That compound is our target?” Staven had little knowledge of Earth, but even so, the compound was easy to identify as a nuclear missile facility. Staven looked around, cautious eyes scanning his surroundings.

“Hit hard, leave no witnesses. We’re taking this building and holding it indefinitely.” Staven paused, his next words a whisper. “Kill every living person in that building.”

Staven’s strike went off flawlessly. The building was over four hundred years old, and housed a small percentage of Earth’s nuclear arsenal. The facility stood on alert, it’s arsenal ready to launch at a moment’s notice. There had been thirty troops in the entire facility, and maybe three hundred service techs. Their bodies were now piled outside the main entrance through razor wire fence enclosure. The facility housed enough nuclear arsenal to crush the Cynosure. They took the last building by sunset, fortified the central compound with highly endurant chemical warfare agents, contact and trigger mines, and robotic auto-cannons capable of aiming at and killing any target that moved into the compound. Staven and his crew then sat tight in the security chambers, watching cameras, living off of stockpiled rations, and waiting for orders. With The Spike on guard, the Cynosure couldn’t hope to reclaim their undermanned nuclear offensive base, even if they had the people to spare.

* * *

Twilight wasn’t a world most Satraps wanted to serve a tour on, and yet the Grison family had lived and worked there for centuries. Twilight was a planet that didn’t have a day or night, in the traditional sense. Its day lasted close to two thousand years, and its ecosystem had evolved in respect of that factor. On one half that would be daylight for thousands of years, a forest as primordial and alien as could be imagined, flourished. On the dayside, it rained constantly, pulling heat into the atmosphere where it would shift around to the nightside. On the nightside, that same forest slept under slabs of ice and mountains of snow. Creatures that could move migrated toward the light in slow and constant pace. Those that couldn’t move were able to sleep for thousands of years, froze solid, until they thawed completely. In this way many species either migrated or stayed dormant for the two millennia before they would reach the light again. Some animals, and some fewer plant-like organisms, lived as the humans did, on the dark side, in pockets of heat. Globe encircling crevices containing geothermal fissures made certain small portions of the nightside livable for those desperate creatures that could not survive in the light of day, or the harsh winter night. Among those who could not survive were the humans. The sun side killed humans off with quiet cancers, and moisture thriving diseases and infections. Even when hiding in the shade of its deepest forests, human beings had to wear special clothes to live and work there. No suit meant certain death, as even a slight cut could prove fatal in a matter of hours. Twilight, after all, showed little love for human life.

It shared this trait, oddly enough, with Emperor Grison. In all the time General Riley had served Emperor Grison, the man had never traveled to the dayside of Twilight. It was not out of fear of death, but out of a bitter dislike for those who lived and inevitably died, in the light. The Resistance factions who lived deep in the forests and the farming corps Grison kept interned on the dayside had one thing in common, the light, now matter how wonderful to look at and see with, spawned creatures that would allow none of them a long life, or a natural death. Not that Emperor Grison worried about death. Emperor Grison, who was older than General Riley, but looked several decades younger, had always craved power, and now that the Cynosure lay crumbling under its own weight, he finally found an opportunity to strike out and take Earth in his name. In a relatively short time, Satrap Grison made it possible to promote himself beyond such a lowly title. Strategic assassinations weakened the local resistance in space, and the advent of tachyonic drive technology, the ability to travel safely across incredibly long distances in drastically short periods of time, gave him a keen advantage over the other Satraps. He had sent Satrap Winters to Earth, to complete the mission that – in a few years time – would put an end to The Authority forever.

“I’m happy to inform you that we have successfully gained control over nuclear arms on Earth. In local space, our young and ambitious assassin forces have weakened the monarchies of our nearest neighbors. Your orders have been carried out. Might I suggest that we step up our operations, Emperor?” Riley asked, her weathered face one of calm consideration.

“I do like that title, General, but I’m technically not an Emperor yet.” Grison said. A page, his face taught and unemotional, stepped next to Grison, waiting instruction. When Riley’s eyes landed on the boy, he shivered involuntarily. Riley smiled coldly, looking back to her Emperor. “Soon. We’ll string up the worlds of humanity like pearls on a necklace, and wear them with our finest clothes. But not as quickly as you might wish, I’m sure. I know you feel old, General, but we must be patient. We’ve three years before our forces on Earth grow strong enough to ensure that no new Cynosure will rise out of the ashes of the old one. Until then, we must keep our wits keen and our forces ready.”

General Riley hid her disappointment poorly. She leaned slightly onto one leg for a moment, thinking. “Some of us have more at stake in this than power, Emperor.”

“I know General. You’ll have your revenge on The Authority. But savor it slowly. In three years time Earth will no longer be the cradle of human life, or any life, for that matter. Then humanity will have no Central Patriotism, no source of pride or pain. Such is the plan that will grant you your vengeance.”

The General saluted before leaving. Satrap Grison saluted his General in respect, but with significantly less enthusiasm.

“Oh, how things progress.” He said to himself, chuckling.

Without The Authority to limit him, he’d be Emperor of the Cynosure, of a new order, and he’d have the power he craved — he would be an immortal in control of the vast resources of the Cynosure. No longer would the humans flounder under the weight of lacking ambition — but under the chains of a Cynosure bent on expansion. And he would be the keeper of those chains. As Emperor, the galaxy would be his final ambition. Thinking himself immortal, the Emperor knew time was on his side.