Chapter 319

SIX MONTHS AFTER CASE OMAHA (LOCAL)

NEW GENEVA - TERRASOL

Nobody was ever sure how many Lanaktallan warships attacked the Sol System, nor how many troops had died during the attack, the fighting was too fierce, the carnage too great, the fury of battle too all consuming to ever get an accurate picture. Historians gnashed their teeth when they discovered that all records of what was known as the "Core Worlds Attack Force" had been erased by the Council themselves.

Less than a percentage point survived, striking their engines and shutting down their guns. Less than a percentage of a percentage had wreckage enough to even search for survivors. Less than three percent of the ships had Lanaktallan on board who were able to get to the life pods and had the time to launch the pods.

Nearly two million ships surrendered. Less than a percentage point.

But it was still two million.

Each ship had a compliment of hundreds or thousands or, in the case of the massive capital ships, tens of thousands. Troop transports had tens of thousands.

Which left, when the accounting was done, 12.5 billion Lanaktallan EPOWs. More than the population of TerraSol itself.

Only one planet could hold them, only one planet had near enough gravity, atmosphere, weather, and eco-system to house that many EPOWs. Only one planet had the space to house them.

Terra.

The population of Terra went from 2.2 billion citizens and 0.25 billion tourists (for 2.45 billion) to 14.95 billion sentient beings on the surface.

It was the largest undertaking in human history.

For once, the universe had provided a stroke of luck.

A court martial had been underway when the Lanaktallan had attacked.

A high ranking officer was under General Court Martial for multiple offenses that had occurred on a battlefield on Telkan-2 nearly a year prior that had resulted in multiple deaths, the loss of an LZ, and shaking the confidence of a recent ally species.

That officer wasn't the lucky part.

The lucky part was one of the witnesses.

A slightly portly Confederate Army officer. Known for having never fired his sidearm, for having never been engaged in combat with the enemy, for having never been exposed to enemy fire. Centuries of service and he had never fired his weapon outside of practice and qualification ranges.

A man who had served for centuries but still had no Combat Action Award.

A man who personally believed he was a coward.

He also was considered the man who won wars.

The man who provided the best, most talented, and energetic joy boys and coin girls, the thickest narco-beers, the best food. Who's black and gray markets had the best goods from everywhere.

The man who ensured that there was 50% again the ammunition needed to win the fight, who ensured that every soldier under his logistics command operated at peak performance to allow the combat arms troops to operate at maximum efficiency.

A man who's personal motto he held close and dear and taught to all of his officers.

"We ensure that those who fight can kill the enemy as fast as possible, as many as possible, as far away from us as possible."

This officer was in charge of logistics for entire theaters. Not just a single battle field, a single attack, or even a handful of units, but on a planetary scale or even larger.

There was not a single combat arms soldier in any of the branches of the Confederate military who would have a bad thing to say about the man after being supported by one of the officer's units. Any who did speak badly of the officer usually received a quick and pointed rebuttal.

Usually a fist or a chair to their face.

As soon as the EPOW's were started to be collected, as soon as the rebuilding started, the officer was immediately taken from Temporary Duty Status and placed on Active Duty Status. Allowed to pick his own officers and units, and told "This is your mission."

An unassuming man, slightly portly, with a weak double chin and watery brown eyes, who's uniform was often rumpled while he worked without his top on and his pistol laying somewhere forgotten.

He had been born on a simple planet that barely had anything more than a survey number. It had been under terraforming for nearly three hundred years, the atmosphere breathable and the eco-system welcoming to the colonists who had finally left their domed cities to build across the formerly dead planet.

It had been terraformed by a full Elven High Court. A tried and true method for nearly 8,000 years.

Except, the High Queen Baen'r and her daughters, the Queens, went mad. Driven to insanity by the Dark Elves of the Mithril Nebula. Dark Elves from the Dark Elf War landed on the planet as part of the greater Mithril Nebula Conflict.

By the time Space Force and the Confederate military got there, 1.2 billion people were dead.

Space Force was able to pull only three thousand people off of the planet after nearly nine days of heavy fighting.

Less than a dozen of them were children.

Among them had been an orphaned four year old boy.

He had been adopted by Treana'ad, raised on a planet with a red giant sun providing the dim light, and had joined the Confederate Military at eighteen.

Luck had been with the Terrans, as that orphaned child had grown up to be a man who could seemingly make three bullets out of a single expended brass and a handful of wishes.

One General Imak Takilikakik.

Affectionately known to others as "Tik-Tak."

In a rare case of the military putting a round peg in a round hole, Tiktak had been immediately tasked with handling the massive influx of EPOW's, refugees, and damage.

Which is why he stood, facing the window, slowly rubbing his forearms together in a nervous habit he had developed in childhood before he had even begun to speak again. On either side of him were Terran Confederate Marine Corps warborgs carrying rifles and their armor colored in dress uniform markings.

This is the largest humanitarian disaster in human history, he thought to himself. Every day it gets worse. Every day the medical reports are more and more dire, and it's all out of my hands. There is nothing I can do about it.

His implant pinged and he turned away from the window, moving over to the chair behind his desk and sitting down. He let his secretary know he was ready to receive his guest.

The door slid opened and a Lanaktallan moved in.

Nearly six foot six, a bovine head with catfish tendrils around the mouth, six eyes that gave it full vision around itself, four arms. The hair covered torso was connected to the front of a four legged abdomen. The creature had crests that were inflated by blood when the creature was agitated.

This one's crests were deflated, making it look rumpled.

It wore a Unified Executor Forces uniform, with the markings of a Grand Most High.

It was also noticeably larger than other Lanaktallan.

General Tiktak stood up, extending his hand across the desk.

"Grand Most High Executor Mru'udaDa'ay," Tiktak said. His voice was a surprisingly mellow baritone.

"General Takilikakik," the Lanaktallan said, reaching forward and shaking the Terrans hand. The Lanaktallan moved over and sat on the specially constructed bench. Once his weight had settled the back swung out from underneath and moved into place behind his back, allowing him to lean back slightly. Arm rests rose up to allow him to set all four arms one them with ease.

"How is War Stallion Camp 90210 doing?" Tiktak asked.

The Lanaktallan nodded, a habit he had picked up over the last month and a half. "It is surprisingly comfortable, and to be honest, more lavish than it has any right to be."

"The oversight groups make sure of that. We humans have had some ugly incidents in our history," Tiktak said.

The Lanaktallan gave a wheezing chuckle, like a slowly deflating bagpipe. "My people would not even bother, much less make it so luxurious. I have met the Prisoner of War Association workers. Part of me wants to sneer at their weakness in treating me, an enemy, so carefully, another part of me is grateful."

"Which part is the War Stallion?" General Tiktak asked.

Mru'udaDa'ay gave another chuckle. "The War Stallion template part that my people inflicted upon my brain."

Tiktak nodded. "I'm glad we are on that subject," he said. "That is why I asked for you to be subjected to such a long flight and to meet with me."

"Oh?" Mru'udaDa'ay asked. His tendrils curled with nervousness. The Terrans were masters at forbidden technologies his people only half understood.

He was afraid that the Terrans would do something to his brain.

"Less than one point six percent of those who surrendered were able to endure the War Stallion neural templating performed on them," Tiktak said.

Mru'udaDa'ay thought about his former Executive Officer. A highly talented Lanaktallan, who would have rated his own Great Executor Herd after this mission.

Who could barely be trusted to close his mouth when he chewed cud now.

"I am surprised to learn that that many had adapted to the neural templating," Mru'udaDa'ay admitted.

"There were twelve point five billion Lanaktallan taken prisoner," Tiktak said. He sighed, feeling heavy weight on his shoulders. "Only roughly one hundred fifty million have adapted to the templates."

"I learned this number before. Nearly six of your days ago," Mru'udaDa'ay said, closing his side and rear eyes to focus on Tiktak. "Why are you repeating this numbers?"

Tiktak gave a sigh and put his hands on the desk. "You are in a camp of War Stallions only."

"Yes."

"There are problems at the other camps," Tiktak said.

"I have seen other camps. The Lost Ones merely march around in circles all day chanting slogans and insulting the guards. They obey the orders of the War Stallion in charge slavishly," Mru'udaDa'ay said.

Tiktak nodded. "There are approximately one hundred of the 'Lost Ones' per War Stallion. Your camp is all War Stallions so that you can perform your duties as the highest ranking EPOW," he said gravely. "Every War Stallion at the Lost One Camps has seen what I am about to show you."

Tiktak tapped a virtual button on his desk only he could see and a hologram sprang to life.

Mru'udaDa'ay turned and looked it, wondering what was so important.

The were nearly three hundred Lost Ones marching in a circle, all shouting slogans.

"This is camp 09021, roughly six hundred miles south-west of us," Tiktak said.

"That appears typical," Mru'udaDa'ay stated, giving the equivalent of a shrug.

It jumped to the Lost Ones sitting at tables, eating. They ate mechanically, all in perfect synchronization.

"Here," Tiktak said, pausing it. He focused on one table of Lost Ones. "Watch."

Mru'udaDa'ay frowned, but watched.

The Lost Ones at the table put the food in their mouths, but rather than chew it up and swallow it, they just lifted up another bite, opening their mouths and letting the food fall out as they put in more.

"And here," Tiktak said.

Another table and they were simply moving the cutlery.

"And here."

Another table the Lost Ones just sat, staring.

"This is repeating across all of the camps," Tiktak said.

"What is causing it?" Mru'udaDa'ay asked.

"Wait. There's more," Tiktak said.

The hologram switched to a smaller group of Lanaktallan. Their marching was jerky, out of step, their slogans were slurred, sometimes the wrong words, sometimes just noises.

"And this."

It showed the open bay where nearly twenty Lanaktallan were all sleeping.

"THE GREAT HERD CANNOT BE DENIED!" one shouted in its sleep.

Immediately the others jumped to their feet, shouting slogans, and began milling around, yelling, waving their arms, one by one drifting off back to sleep.

"FOR THE GREAT HERD WE GALLOP TO VICTORY!" one shouted, starting it all over.

"And this," Tiktak said.

The Lanaktallan was laying on its side, breathing heavy, all three visible eyes bloodshot. A Terran Red Cross medic was kneeling down with a virtual vitals monitor open. Mru'udaDa'ay looked over the vitals with a practiced eye.

"He is dying," Mru'udaDa'ay said.

"Yes. Microstrokes. Not brought on by diet, gravity, weather, stress, or combat. At first we thought maybe it was exposure to the Immortals. Doctors eliminated that yesterday. It's caused by their brains having been scorched by the templates," Tiktak said. "It's progressive."

Mru'udaDa'ay closed all six eyes for a moment then opened the two forward facing ones.

"How many?" he asked.

Tiktak turned off the hologram, which showed doctors trying to make a ward full of Lanaktallan comfortable.

"All of them. All of them that did not adapt to War Stallion," Tiktak said. "So far, out of just over eleven million cases, three have survived in a quasi-vegetable state being kept alive on life support."

Mru'udaDa'ay sighed. "What will you do?"

Tiktak shook his head. "There's more."

Mru'udaDa'ay swallowed thickly, wishing he had a wad of narcocud.

"Tell me."

"As you know, some Mantid doctors, usually russet colored, specialize in therapy treatment due to high psychic empathy," Tiktak said.

Mru'udaDa'ay nodded. "Yes. I have memories that are not my own of such."

"They say that there is a small, tiny part of them screaming in terror, that goes silent once they become incapable of verbal communication," Tiktak said.

Mru'udaDa'ay shuddered, inflating his crests in horror.

"Once that happens, they quickly fall into a coma. Brain function virtually ceases within twenty-four hours," Tiktak said. "Without life support, they would die soon after. Even if brain function were to return, we are unsure just how impaired their neural functions would be."

Mru'udaDa'ay thought it over slowly. He had seen, while making inspections at the other camps where the Lost Ones were, that they had seemed slow and sluggish over the last month or so.

"Very well. Thank you for your information," Mru'udaDa'ay said.

General Tiktak raised an eyebrow. "No suggestions on possibly how to treat them? We do not know enough about your people's biology and neurology at this time."

Mru'udaDa'ay shook his head. "No. They will die."

Tiktak sighed. "Neural scans show that once they lose verbal function, they start suffering neuropathic pain, increasing even after brain function ceases. Right now, we're using medical nanites to shut down their pain centers, but beyond that brute force treatment, there's nothing we can do."

"I understand," Mru'udaDa'ay said. "The majority of my people will die. You have no reason to lie about any of it, so I am more than willing to accept it as a statement of fact."

Tiktak stared for a long moment. "I, I mean, my people, are hoping you can provide some guidance."

"To what?" Mru'udaDa'ay asked.

"How should we treat them? Our laws state that the merciful, the just, thing to do is to painlessly and gently euthanize them once they fall into a coma, or even once they lost verbal function and start to show excessive pain distress," Tiktak said.

Mru'udaDa'ay nodded. "An excellent approach. Merciful from the people that we have attacked, that we are at war with."

Tiktak swallowed thickly this time. "Our people are... loathe... to do such a thing."

"Why? It is the obvious solution," Mru'udaDa'ay said. He sighed and rubbed his hands together. "A part of me states that they are only consuming resources best shepherded for future need and that keeping a defective individual or group alive consumes enough resources that others may suffer deprivation."

It was silent for a moment.

"And the other part of you?" Tiktak asked.

"The War Stallion part of me," Mru'udaDa'ay said, "Is horrified and deeply saddened that even though I convinced them to surrender the vast majority, virtually 99%, of the male and female Lanaktallan who I am responsible for are doomed to die."

"Which part is the greatest?" Tiktak asked.

"Both. The War Stallion part of me recognizes that these males and females were all killed before we even left dock and is saddened by it. The War Stallion part of me is... grateful I think the word is... that your people are worried about mercy and the comfort of my troops even as they expire, something that my people would not concern themselves with if the situations were reversed," Mru'udaDa'ay said, his tendrils tight and crests inflated with anxiety. "The sheer numbers are horrific."

Tiktak nodded. "They are."

"What do you leaders say?" the Lanaktallan asked.

Tiktak sighed. "We're still under martial law. It is purely a military decision."

"What do your leaders say?" Mru'udaDa'ay asked again.

"To abide by whatever you are on record as requesting, now that you are fully informed, and will consent to as your troops are incapable of consenting for themselves," Tiktak said. "Once that takes place, the lawyers will ensure that your consent is legal, ethical, and moral."

"And then?" Mru'udaDa'ay asked.

"We will abide by your decision within our own ethics, as best as we can, with all care given to your people," Tiktak said.

He was surprised by how bland it all sounded.

"Then you should record my next words," Mru'udaDa'ay said.

Tiktak activated the recording system and looked at the Lanaktallan. "Also, virtually present, are several lawyers as well as your legal representative and your advocate."

Blank, bipedal holograms appeared.

"What, Grand Most High Mru'udaDa'ay, should we do for those of your people suffering from neural scorching from improperly applied templates forced upon them by the Lanaktallan Unified Executor Council?" General Takilikakik said, sitting up. "As their highest ranking military commander as well as their species advocate, what is your decision, now that you have been fully informed."

"Release them from their suffering, General Imak Takilikakik, of the Confederate Military," Mru'udaDa'ay stated gravely. "Euthenization once they cease verbal communication and use non-verbal means to indicate great pain. I do not wish my people to suffer in the vain hope that some miracle will save them."

"Thank you, Grand Most High Mru'udaDa'ay. We will take this under advisement and notify you of our decision in time for you to appeal it," one of the holograms said.

"How many suffer brain death and at what pace?" Mru'udaDa'ay asked.

"Roughly ten thousand an hour, up from six thousand an hour forty-eight ago. It is expected to reach critical mass in the next thirty days," another hologram said.

"It must be done, then," Mru'udaDa'ay said. "Thank you for considering my opinion."

One by one the holograms winked out.

Tiktak sighed, feeling the crushing weight of his responsibilities on his shoulders.

"Is that all, General?" Mru'udaDa'ay asked.

"Yes," Tiktak said. He tapped the holographic button and Mru'udaDa'ay's two guards came in. "He may return to his camp."

Mru'udaDa'ay waited for the chair to return to a simple bench then moved off of it before turning around. He trotted up to the door, the variable hardness tile only thudding under his hooves. As he left he twisted around to face behind him, to look at General Tiktak.

"I am glad I do not have to make the decisions that you must now make," he said.

The door closed and the Lanaktallan was gone.

Tiktak sat for a long time at his desk, staring at the real time numbers regarding the disposition of the Lanaktallan prisoners of war.

He got up and turned away from the desk, rubbing his forearms together.

I am no stranger to death, he thought to himself. I have never directly taken a life. No matter what my decision, I still will not have directly taken a life.

He sighed, still slowly rubbing his arms together.

But I keenly feel this... this... mass slaughter, the thought burned like acid. This will be industrialized death on a scale almost unheard of.

He lifted his arms at the elbows, cocking his wrists, and putting his fingers together in a point.

Any other being has needed a planet cracker to do what I must order to be done, he thought.

For a moment his temper slipped as his mind reacted to the horror with anger.

He brought down his forearms, slamming the tips of his fingers against the glass.

When this is done, I will retire. I will go to a primitivism colony and I will avoid any cattle. I will learn to be a wood worker and I will make dressers, beds, tables, and chairs. I will bury my uniform in a chest behind my house, I will take a wife, I will have children, he thought to himself.

He slammed his fingertips into the glass again, sparks bouncing off his fingertips.

I will teach them to love one another.

He slammed his fingertips into the glass hard enough to bend his fingers, hard enough to cause pain. Sparks snarled around the tips of his fingers and a crack appeared in the smart glass.

I will order this done. I will let no other shoulder this burden, take this blame, he thought to himself.

He slammed his fingertips again, unaware that several monitors in the Mental Health Oversight section were going off as the sparks thickened.

I will order this, ensure it is done, and then... I will diminish and go west and no longer be General Tiktak, he misquoted.

He was unaware he was weeping as he slammed his fingertips forward again.

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>USER MANTID FREE WORLDS HAS JOINED THE CHAT

>USER RIGELLIAN SAURIAN COMPACT HAS JOINED THE CHAT

>USER TREANA'AD HIVE WORLDS HAS JOINED THE CHAT

>USER TERRASOL HAS JOINED THE CHAT

MANTID FREE WORLDS

It's been awhile since we've had to use this.

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TREANA'AD HIVE WORLDS

A little over a thousand years by my count.

---END OF LINE---

TERRASOL

This one is bad.

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RIGELLIAN SAURIAN COMPACT

Doesn't seem that bad. It didn't ruffle the tiniest feather on the most skittish pretty little duck.

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MANTID FREE WORLDS

Is that why none of the children, not even DASS or BASS or Clone Worlds is in here?

---END OF LINE---

TERRASOL

Yeah. We'll talk to them later.

We need to talk about what's happening to the Lanaktallan.

---END OF LINE---

MANTID FREE WORLDS

Are they dying for you too?

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TREANA'AD HIVE WORLDS

The whole cone is made of sour milk, sis. Tens of thousands are dying a day and we can't stop it.

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TERRASOL

What have you been able to figure out?

We're at an impasse. It's neural scorching. Worse, it's about a year old, so it's past the point of no return.

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RIGELLIAN SAURIAN COMPACT

Roughly one hour per year old plus thirty six hours is the normal limit. Are there any neural traces left of the original personality?

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MANTID FREE WORLDS

We've had the best doctors on Hive Home examine them.

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TREANA'AD HIVE WORLDS

What did they determine?

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MANTID FREE WORLDS

The templates put in place were for a genetically distinct sub-species of the Lanaktallan race. One we would probably have records for if we hadn't have gone through so many Filter of Too Many Queens.

Neurologically they have pattern recognition, a lot further than the average Lanaktallan. They have different neural arrangements, different clusters, denser dendrite formation, more folds and ridges in their cerebral matter.

They applied it on your average Lanaktallan genetic stock.

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TERRASOL

So it's worse than a normal neural scorching. It's like trying to apply a Treana'ad Warrior Caste neural template to a Mantid worker caste.

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MANTID FREE WORLDS

Bingo, to use your phrase.

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TREANA'AD HIVE WORLDS

That's fatal. Those guys aren't going to survive.

My god, guys, I've got a half billion prisoners, all but a few million are neural scorched.

You're talking a half billion dead.

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MANTID FREE WORLDS

We have just over a billion prisoners. Despite our best efforts, using Terran Descent Human guards since the sight of Mantid just agitate them

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TERRASOL

Meaning these templates are from the Lanaktallan/Mantid Precursor War.

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MANTID FREE WORLDS

Yes.

Despite our best efforts, we've already lost almost fifteen percent of them.

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RIGELLIAN SAURIAN COMPACT

I guess I'm lucky they didn't get any further than the Great Gravity Band.

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TERRASOL

It's bad here.

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MANTID FREE WORLDS

Define... bad.

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TERRASOL

Over ten billion prisoners.

It's the largest die-off Terra has ever seen since the dinosaurs.

Even more than the Great Glassing.

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MANTID FREE WORLDS

Oh Digital Omnimessiah. Oh... oh...

oh, my dear.

We'll be by your side no matter what.

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TREANA'AD HIVE WORLDS

This is an ugly war.

But we'll stick with you.

They did this, not us.

They just left us to clean up the mess.

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RIGELLIAN SAURIAN COMPACT

Do what must be done.

We, the Rigellian People, are with you.

Always.

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