《Autonomy》 Observation There was always a price for power on Antares. Every Terran trillionaire knew this by heart, for every position of power, every mechanism for any sort of influence within the jurisdiction of the Antares Authority had some sort of string attached. Sometimes, it was a tax, the government appropriating your wealth if you had an amount deemed decadent. Oligarchs who made the mistake of moving here saw an immediate loss of most of their assets, as their solid gold toilets were repurposed to make sensitive electronic equipment. Other times, it was a responsibility or obligation, one that you were punished for failing to fulfill. A legislator who voted against their constituents¡¯ interests would be disempowered, ostracized, unemployable, and without friends. Any particularly infamous congressperson would have trouble finding someone willing to so much as sell them food, let alone a shuttle ticket out of the system. Others still, it was privacy, the privilege of doing things in secret. Law enforcement officers were monitored 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Their streams usually had at least ten viewers - more if what they were doing was interesting - waiting for the instant one of them stepped out of line to sound the alarm. After all, on Antares, power was a privilege, and the masses had to make sure that it was wielded correctly. And yet an entire third of the Antares Authority¡¯s tax revenue was directed to a ¡°black budget,¡± a gigantic bucket of odds and ends that the masses weren¡¯t allowed to know about. It was a glaring exception to the rule: Accountability when it comes to the black budget was completely impossible. There was no oversight, no tax on the usage of these funds, and no possible method of accountability for the masses. Whoever was in charge of it was one glaring exception to this rule: They had power without a price. The department in charge of this budget was called the Department of Autonomy. Supposedly, its role was to ensure that the Antares Authority¡¯s autonomy from the Terran Republic was maintained, at all costs. This was done via undisclosed ¡°defensive measures.¡± But¡­ a third of the entire budget, just to polish some nukes and develop some artillery systems? That didn¡¯t add up, and everyone who gave it any thought knew it. It wasn¡¯t a question of if there was some extra stuff being done, but what it was. Some had speculated that it might have been intelligence spending - infiltrating the Terran Republic to promote Antares Authority interests. Others thought that offensive weapons were being developed too. A few more thought that some of the black budget was being used to fund secret medical experiments in the Department of Health. The latter group might¡¯ve been onto something; the Department of Health was the most efficient department at spending money, and they seemed to work just fine despite being chronically underfunded. The genetic modification serums that half the population received were just too cheap for them to have been developed without outside help. Regardless of the nefarious things that might be going on, the population of Antares still trusted the Department of Autonomy. Calls for reducing their budget had largely fallen on deaf ears. They weren¡¯t doing anything obviously negative; it¡¯s not like anything bad was happening that could possibly be because of them. But the main reason nobody wanted to lower the black budget was because of the omnipresent threat of the Terran Republic. Everybody knew that, if the black budget were to drop too low, if they forced the Department to get too transparent, if they exposed a plot that happened to be for their own good, the Department of Autonomy would be unable to hold back the tides of the Terran Republic¡¯s centralization attempts. And then they¡¯d be toast, living in an apocalyptic, unregulated hellscape, just like the rest of Terran space. The Department of Autonomy¡¯s chair position was non-partisan, which was strange, as department chairs were political appointees. Most of them came and went by the election cycle; a single department chair rarely lasted longer than ten or twenty years. Yet, in the Department of Autonomy, the appointments were like clockwork. Every fifty years, thirty-one people (a chair and their cabinet) were nominated. Every one of them was always successfully appointed, and they all lasted another fifty years before their successors were appointed in the same fashion. These weren¡¯t random people. In fact, they were nobodies. They had no identifiable pasts. There was no legal presence, no social media presence, nothing. Nobody knew who they were; they didn¡¯t even have a single acquaintance who could be tracked down. Their prior identities had been concealed, and they¡¯d done a pretty good job at that. Sometimes, they attended press conferences, but the information they gave was always incredibly vague. Sometimes, something was declassified, but declassified documents were few and far between, and heavily redacted. Sometimes, something was leaked, but it was never of any consequence. And, like clockwork, a bunch of nobodies were about to be nominated and appointed to the Department of Autonomy. If Nathan¡¯s calculations were correct, it would happen in three months. Nathan had been into politics his entire life. There was something about it that piqued his interest when he was a kid, something fascinating about drafting policies, formulating them to benefit Antares as much as possible. It isn¡¯t going to be easy; there was always a price for power on Antares. But it was a price he was willing to pay. After all, only the corrupt politicians who tried to defy the will of the people had anything to fear, and Nathan wasn¡¯t corrupt. Plus, he was about to get answers. Finally, his curiosity about the Department of Autonomy was going to be satisfied. Well, that was what he¡¯d hoped - he wasn¡¯t quite sure if it was going to lead to real answers, or if it would be yet another bust. There were quite a few attention-seekers, after all - people who had wasted hours of his time. But this lead was more promising. She had claimed to be an ex-member of the Department of Autonomy, three levels down from the top. And she had proof - the certificate of employment was impossible to forge. Perhaps it was an attempt at misdirection, an attempt to feed him false information, but anything was good; lies would still tell him something interesting. Finally, the best part was that they were meeting in a public place - a restaurant about a half hour away by train. This meant he could rule out the possibility of her being a kidnapper. He was going to be fine.
The caf¨¦ wasn¡¯t very busy - only about a quarter of the tables were filled. Despite that, it looked to be a long wait; not very many of the people there had food in front of them. His contact was right on time and relatively recognizable. She wore an orange coat, as she had indicated, and a pair of simple, gray pants. On Antares, simple clothes like these had two separate meanings. As regular clothes, they were typical, and meant nothing. However, as uniforms, they were symbols of power. She was also wearing a surgical mask, generally something that was worn by those who either were sick or wanted to conceal their identities. They specifically requested a booth in the corner. Thankfully, the staff were able to accommodate this. The booths were made of brown synthread. Synthread wasn¡¯t the most comfortable material, but it was easy to produce, tough enough to last a century, and, most importantly, easy to clean. This meant that it was one of the most common fabric materials in the Antares system. The floor was made from hardened synthread - a more tightly wound version of synthread, this material was a popular choice for floors on Antares. It was durable, didn¡¯t wear out, and, most importantly, didn¡¯t hold onto food. The fabric on the booths was starting to wear out, which meant that these booths were at least fifty years old. The only thing that wasn¡¯t made of synthread in the room was the ceiling, which used acoustic tiles that were over five hundred years old. Some technology isn¡¯t improved upon, even after hundreds of years. Nathan had expected someone younger - perhaps in their forties or fifties. The woman he was meeting, however, looked about seventy, fifty whole years into her career. Someone of her caliber should be long gone by now, not fresh out of the Department. Most high-level bureaucratic officials retired around fifty, exiting their high-stress jobs and living out the rest of their years in comfort. They deserved it. If they were particularly dedicated, they might push sixty. ¡°So, Nathan Benedict, I presume?¡± she opened. ¡°Yes, that¡¯s me. What¡¯s your name?¡± Nathan responded. ¡°I¡¯d rather not disclose that.¡± ¡°I understand.¡± A name would link her to the Department of Autonomy, which wouldn¡¯t be thrilled that she was disclosing this information. ¡°So, you want information, right?¡± she asked, getting right down to business. This conversation would be a relatively short one - perhaps featuring the exchange of a datapad. He didn¡¯t want to waste her time by asking for her to give it verbally, after all. ¡°Of course!¡± ¡°If you¡¯ll allow me to ask, why exactly?¡± Nathan paused for a moment, mildly unsure of himself. Why had he wanted to figure this out? He probably couldn¡¯t act on any nefarious plots he were to uncover; this knowledge wouldn¡¯t be very consequential. ¡°I¡¯m curious. I want to peek behind the curtain, know what¡¯s going on, how the Department works, what it does. It¡¯s the biggest anomaly in our society. Of course I want to know more about it.¡± He kept his voice low, making sure that nobody else would be able to hear them. ¡°So, you think that somebody so high up is just going to compromise national security, risk potential punishment from an enigmatic institution that information never leaks from, to satisfy¡­ what? Your curiosity?¡± ¡°I take it I¡¯m not going to get anything out of this, am I?¡± ¡°Why¡¯d you even come here, Nathan? Did you not think that this was too good to be true?¡± ¡°It was worth a try. And, since you offered to meet in a public place, the risk was miniscule.¡± ¡°Well, I suppose I can¡¯t argue with that,¡± she sighed. ¡°So, what¡¯re you going to do? Tell me to stop looking?¡± ¡°No, Nathan. In fact, if you so desire, I¡¯m going to tell you everything you want to know. You¡¯ll get the peek behind the curtain that you want so much.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the catch?¡± She took off her mask. ¡°Join us.¡± Nathan knew that face all too well. She was Caroline Baker, the chair of the Department of Autonomy. She was one of the nobodies from fifty years ago, the face of the Antares Authority to the rest of the world, and the woman with the most authority in the entire stellar system. ¡°You¡¯ll be my successor.¡± ¡°But they¡¯re always -¡± ¡°Yes, they¡¯re nobodies. You won¡¯t be an exception to that.¡± ¡°So, what¡¯ll happen to me, then?¡± ¡°You should have no trouble figuring that out yourself.¡± Nathan took a bit of time to think over the situation. He¡¯d initially thought that Caroline and her cabinet were lab-grown, but that obviously wasn¡¯t the case; the offer he was just given disproved that - if she was telling the truth, anyway. They were nobodies who used to be like him, who used to have friends and classmates and teachers and acquaintances and families. But how do you create a nobody out of a somebody? They couldn¡¯t be eliminated easily. Nobody could completely wipe the memory of an entire individual out of existence, such that they went completely unrecognized - not without leaving a gigantic hole, which would be even more suspicious. Memory wiping wasn¡¯t feasible either, especially due to the high number of undocumented acquaintances. You couldn¡¯t be that precise with a memory wipe. The Department of Autonomy could probably make people disappear, that was obvious. But even they had limits - they couldn¡¯t make someone disappear so cleanly that they could subsequently be a public figure. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! But, what if they had just become unrecognizable? Simply been given new names and new bodies? They could use cosmetic surgery, but they wouldn¡¯t even need that. About three hundred years ago, they had perfected a treatment for various conditions, known as clone transplantation. If something were wrong with a body, they could grow a replacement and transplant the brain into it. This could easily be used with a different sort of body in order to conceal an identity. But it wasn¡¯t just that, was it? The human brain was quite good at detecting resemblances between people, and picking up stray reminders. It wasn¡¯t just the body that had to be altered, but the voice, the cadence, penmanship, mannerisms, everything that could be recognized. Nathan would have to become a nobody in body and mind. He would have to hide himself in plain sight, playing the part of somebody else permanently. He would be completely unable to see his friends and family again. Caroline nodded at him, instantly knowing that he figured it out from the look on his face. He swore he could see a tinge of pity in it. ¡°So, you finally get that peek behind the curtain you¡¯ve been looking for, and you start your career at the top, but -¡± ¡°I become a nobody. Got it. But what if I say no?¡± ¡°You stop asking questions. But, other than that, you live your life as usual. The Department of Autonomy would have to fall back on its second choice for this role. That would be relatively disappointing.¡± At least Nathan knew he was qualified now. He thought about it for a moment, wondering if this could be a ruse. But he concluded that there was no point in them deceiving him. If they wanted him dead, they could just kill him. If they wanted to do something bad to him, they wouldn¡¯t need his consent. There was no point in deceiving him because they didn¡¯t have to give him a choice. The opportunity for refusal was evidence of truth. ¡°How long do I have to think about this?¡± ¡°A half hour.¡± Nathan only needed three minutes.
35 years later¡­ Natasha was on vacation. An entire week free from her responsibilities - she was kind of glad that she was able to do this every year. Besides, she needed the time to rest and recharge. According to the tests she had ordered, this amount of relaxation was the sweet spot, the absolute minimum amount of downtime she could give herself while still avoiding burnout. She¡¯d considered adding a bit more downtime to compensate for the grueling hours, but she¡¯d quickly conclude that that would mean expanding the cabinet - more people like her. That couldn¡¯t happen. She turned her attention back to relaxation. It was just her, the beautiful bluish-white sun, the violet sky, and a lukewarm pool - the perfect temperature for her body. She just floated there, half of her body under the water, and the other half basking in the sun. There was also a faint chlorine smell, because of course there was. The more expensive ones employed ultraviolet radiation to do the same. A bit of a nightmare, energy-wise, but you got a pool with just water. The Department of Autonomy was known by its members for many things, but luxury certainly wasn¡¯t one of them, so they didn¡¯t splurge. So, chlorine smell it was! Regardless, shelling out cash for the latest amenities wouldn¡¯t help things: In the long term, everything would balance out. If she were to spend more on amenities, it wouldn¡¯t be long before everyone¡¯s expectations caught up to the new normal, and she¡¯d be out billions of dollars of budget money for a net morale impact of zero. No, she couldn¡¯t focus on work right now! She had to relax and recharge. Perhaps trying to lay in a pool was a bad idea for Natasha; her mind wandered too much. Maybe it was better to distract herself with something fun, like a video game. Vacations were staggered, so none of her cabinet was on vacation with her. They would be working exceptionally hard to pick up her slack - especially Maxwell. He was the closest to the top, so he had to work the most when she was gone, and vice versa. No, she would have to find something to do alone. Perhaps something on the holopad, or one of those old virtual reality games. Maybe even something online. She immediately dismissed that possibility; online games required too much attention, made her too frustrated, and she¡¯d have to ensure that she kept her identity and any government business hidden. Perhaps this would be feasible any other time, but she was supposed to be relaxing, not on high alert. The video game she¡¯d ended up selecting was called DEFCON. It was about nuclear war on Antares B5. The lore was ridiculous - sections of Antares B5 were split up into factions, each of which had access to a roughly equal amount of antimatter weapons and defenses. She knew where the nukes really were - in an undisclosed location, far away from the government and any major population centers, buried about three miles down in the crust. There was one single stockpile, and it packed enough firepower to wipe out about a tenth of the Terran Republic - assuming none of the missiles were intercepted, anyway. She¡¯d have to make Maxwell update their targeting systems; it was about time for that, and she didn¡¯t want the mutually-assured destruction system failing on them. A single planet, like Antares B5 itself, could be destroyed by about five of those missiles. She always picked the faction that actually had the antimatter weapons, and played against about three AIs. They were slightly primitive, made with dummy algorithms instead of the modern-day machine learning, so they were a tad predictable, but she tried not to exploit the patterns. After all, what was the fun in playing in an unfair way? She was forced to abandon all DEFCON-related thoughts when she received a high-priority notification. She had been contacted by her cabinet. They were competent. They could handle all but the most dire things. Responses were color-coded based on their priority. Green was simply information, usually intended to fill her in on important things that had happened while she was away. Yellow notifications, on the other hand, required a quick response from her, usually a text, or a voice call if necessary. Finally, red notifications were the most severe. They indicated that her personal involvement was required back at the base - her vacation would meet an untimely end. This notification was red. Her eyes scrolled over the blurb. Unidentified lifeforms¡­ probably extraterrestrials¡­ abducting humans¡­ peace unlikely¡­ She didn¡¯t need to read the rest; it was more boilerplate. They¡¯d need her to determine the right places to focus on. Just when things were going right, just when they were in expansion mode, something bad had to happen, the other shoe had to drop. And she hadn¡¯t truly even begun to relax; half the time she spent in this blasted resort was spent on work. With a sigh, Natasha mentally entered work mode once again. Headquarters was just a train ride away, and the next train would depart in about eight minutes. This left her enough time to dry off, put on some street clothes, grab her suitcase, and¡­ that was it. Oh, well; street clothes were less conspicuous anyway.
The war room was relatively cluttered - a repurposed corporate conference room that was intended to seat six fewer people. There was a projector that projected to the front wall, and the two side walls were massive whiteboards, both unusually full of notes. The back wall had the door, the projector equipment, and a few terminals for easy contact with the outside world. There was an elliptical table in the center, made of gray hardened synthread. Various holopapers - simplified tablets, used mainly for writing - were scattered around it. Natasha, her clothes damp and smelling of chlorine, took her place at the head of the table. She was the last one there. Nobody cared that she was out of uniform, or at least they didn¡¯t show it. For some, it was due to familiarity and friendship. For others, it was about respect. For the rest of them, it was because of the hierarchy. They knew damn well that she was the leader of this operation, and her decisions were binding. Elsewhere on Antares, supervisors were regarded either as equals or as glorified servants, depending on the place. Generally, it was their coworkers who they vied for the favor of, as their coworkers decided who got fired and who got raises and promotions. Most Antarean corporations had generalists and specialists, not supervisors and underlings. But the Department of Autonomy was slightly different. Perhaps it was because of their shared experience. Perhaps it was because a traditional hierarchy was necessary for this type of department. In any case, Natasha was given a bit more privilege and authority than most department chairs. She, unlike the rest of the chairs, stood above her cabinet. The Department was organized into thirty branches, each one dedicated to different projects. Here was where everything converged, where the branches coordinated. The head of the Observation Branch, Branch lead Phoebe Waters, began to read a report containing the branch¡¯s findings. ¡°Initial reports of the alien vessels were received about five days ago. I¡¯m sorry, Natasha, I should¡¯ve brought this to your attention earlier, but -¡± ¡°Yes, I understand.¡± They weren¡¯t in crisis mode until now. She didn¡¯t want to ruin her vacation over what was probably going to be nothing. The gesture was nice, but too much was at stake for those sorts of things. Phoebe cared about her mental health too much, and not enough about the fate of Antares. ¡°The initial assumption was that these vessels were uninterested in humanity. The possibility of them viewing us with any interest was regarded as minimal due to apparent technological disparities. Now, however, we have evidence that they¡¯re very interested in us. We¡¯ve collected various reports of disappearances and suspicious deaths, and confirmed that the aliens are responsible via LSDO.¡± LSDO stands for Light Speed Delay Observation. It was a relatively simple process. Periodically, the Observation Branch¡¯s feelers would watch for notable events in various locations. Detailed reports would be collected every day and relayed to Antares. If they wanted to look at an event in greater detail, they could use FTL to deploy a probe the exact right distance away from the event¡¯s past location to witness it in more detail. The desired distance would depend on how long ago the event had been estimated to happen - an event one day ago would be looked at from a bit over one light-day away, and an event one year ago would be looked at from one light-year away. Light took one year to travel a light-year, after all. That was the most interesting thing about FTL travel: the ability to peer into the past while also accessing the present. Of course, the main limit to this method was that light didn¡¯t have the best resolution, and using sonar or radar was impossible. Therefore, it couldn¡¯t be used for anything that happened on a small scale, only large-scale events - mostly, events involving ships that emitted lots of radiation. The aliens¡¯ ships were subtle, but, luckily, they weren¡¯t subtle enough. They had exhaust that could be tracked. ¡°Is the TBI aware of the aliens?¡± Nicole, lead of the Subterfuge Branch, asked. ¡°As of a few months ago, they haven¡¯t figured out LSDO,¡± Phoebe replied, ¡°but they do know about the reports. They¡¯re suspicious, and they know that something is happening, but they probably haven¡¯t confirmed that they¡¯re aliens yet.¡± Natasha silently wondered why the Terran Republic hadn¡¯t attempted to use LSDO; this tool was a disturbingly simple part of their arsenal, and it was the reason they¡¯d been able to gain so much intelligence on the Republic. Yet they hadn¡¯t even considered the possibility. Perhaps the TBI, the Department¡¯s only true rival, had, but they¡¯d have had to be incredibly subtle about it. She¡¯d personally ordered an exploration into any potential use of this phenomenon, and they¡¯d found absolutely nothing. Perhaps their sensors didn¡¯t have a high enough resolution for this to do them any good; the Department¡¯s sensor technology hadn¡¯t been released into the public yet. Or perhaps they hadn¡¯t thought of it yet. ¡°It looks like they have the capability for low-cost FTL data transmission as well. We¡¯ve seen ships do advanced maneuvers which require communication between the two of them, their reaction times didn¡¯t have any light lag, and there were no detected light-speed transmissions. Finally, we sent out a pre-programmed drone to test their defensive and offensive weapons.¡± ¡°Are you saying that you fired on these aliens without requesting permission, or even consulting any of the other branches?¡± Leo, leader of the Diplomacy Branch, asked. ¡°Nobody knows the test drones are ours,¡± Phoebe replied, without missing a beat, ¡°The aliens won¡¯t blame us. Also, they¡¯re abducting people, which means that they¡¯re almost definitely not friendly, so there weren¡¯t any prospects of friendship to ruin to begin with.¡± Natasha made note of that. Her logic wasn¡¯t something that she could exactly argue with, but consulting her would have definitely been preferable - or, if Phoebe hadn¡¯t wanted to bug her, she always could¡¯ve asked Leo. She remembered approving the expenditures for a new batch of test drones ten years ago. They¡¯d been an absolute nightmare to create, and even harder to maintain, considering that they were the only military spacecraft on Antares. An entire percent of their budget had gone into these drones, and they necessitated quite a bit of risky cross-talk between the Observation Branch and the Defense Branch, but they were worth their weight in gold. They were entirely customizable, and nobody below the absolute top knew their true purpose. Each one of them contained a camouflaged signal emitter, custom-built by the Department so that nobody would know they existed - meant for gauging how the test ships were affected by enemies¡¯ weapons - and vice versa. They traditionally posed as pirate ships, firing on ships with known experimental TBI weapons and defenses to get them to use these experimental devices, which would then give them an estimate of the Republic¡¯s latest capabilities. Data on their usage would, in turn, be reported back to the Defense Branch, to ensure that their defenses would be able to repel even the most experimental weapons, and that the planet side artillery would be able to penetrate the Republic¡¯s latest and greatest shields. A summary of the data was put up on the projector. The important results had been condensed into one short video. The drone began to approach the enemy ship, firing various projectiles from different distances: Lasers, railgun projectiles, missiles, shrapnel, plasma - everything. Once the weapons crossed a threshold (about one hundred thousand kilometers), they unceremoniously winked out of existence. Everything, from bullets to light to plasma to lasers to explosive warheads, just disappeared. Natasha gasped. The lead of the Defense Branch, Maxwell Walton, was in shock. No singular defense could work against all of their weapons; that was supposed to be physically impossible. Maxwell¡¯s latest artillery system had been on that ship, and its projectiles had been completely neutralized with the rest of them, with little energy expenditure from the enemy ship recorded. It seemed that the aliens hadn¡¯t even noticed. This defense was automated. The ship crossed the threshold with no issues, which renewed their cautious optimism. Perhaps this meant that they could use close-range ships instead. However, once the ship was inside the threshold, every weapon that tried to fire simply¡­ broke. When the railgun tried to fire, its magazine winked out of existence. When energy finally finished filling the laser¡¯s coil, the coil disappeared. All the weapons were neutralized. They might as well have been scrap metal. So much for that idea. The drone was scanned. After the aliens had confirmed there was no life onboard - a strange thing to do, but the most probable function of the radiation used in the scan - the drone was simply vaporized, the signal from the drone disappearing. External reports showed that it had been completely reduced to plasma. ¡°So¡­ we¡¯re dealing with ships that can wink our weapons out of existence, and instantly vaporize our ships?¡± Natasha asked, simply confirming what she had just seen. She didn¡¯t want to believe it. Phoebe nodded, as gasps and murmurs filled the room. Maxwell took a deep breath before letting out a sigh. The Terran Republic didn¡¯t even stand a chance. The Antares Authority was in an even worse position. Defense Nathan was surprised by how far away they were going from the public government center, where press conferences with the Department were usually held. The commute there, Nathan estimated, would be at least a half hour by train, meaning that anyone involved in a media briefing would be relatively far away from where they did most of their work. Perhaps that was why press conferences only happened during the first 21 weeks of the year. ¡°So, before you discover the less¡­ savory parts of our department, I think it¡¯s important that you know what this is all for,¡± Caroline started, after giving her statement quite a bit of thought. Immediately, Nathan¡¯s mind began to jump to conclusions. They were going to talk about the only public mission the Department of Autonomy had - defending themselves against a potential military invasion. ¡°I mean, it can¡¯t be that complicated. Nukes, shields, and artillery, right?¡± Nathan asked. How hard could planetary defense possibly be? ¡°No, Nathan. It seems simple. But, the fact is, as inefficient as it may be, the Terran Space Force isn¡¯t stagnant. Its weaponry is constantly evolving, and its forces have been surging in number for the past twenty years. It¡¯s an arms race, and it¡¯s exhausting and expensive to keep up.¡± ¡°But, aren¡¯t they focused on the insurrection right now?¡± ¡°Will the insurrection keep them occupied forever?¡± Nathan thought it over. Once the Terran Space Force finished squashing the rebellion, they¡¯d have a gigantic surplus of ships with nothing to do with, and a planet that was previously infeasible to conquer would be, with their new technology and numbers, ripe for the taking. Despite all the fearmongering, it was obvious to almost everyone on Antares that the insurrection could barely threaten a small corporate militia, let alone the might of the Terran Space Force. No, the naval expansion wasn¡¯t truly about the insurrection; it was about centralization. It was about giving the Terran Republic more power over its colonies, tightening the leashes, and re-establishing the corporations¡¯ hold on the planetary governments. The facade would drop after the rebellion was finally gone. Caroline continued, confirming his suspicions. ¡°Nathan, the real target of this mobilization is planets like ours. So, it isn¡¯t just nukes and artillery and shields. It¡¯s a huge amount of in-system infrastructure designed to counter every possible one of their weapon designs, and penetrate every possible shield they could strap to their ships. And it has to have enough firepower to hold off a good chunk of the fleet for days on end. Even the artillery has to be constantly updated and revised to penetrate the latest Terran Space Force defenses. This is expensive, complicated, requires a lot of manpower, and must be kept secret.¡± ¡°Why open with that? Shouldn¡¯t you bring it out when I¡¯m having doubts about joining? If you¡¯re telling me that this is the best thing you¡¯re doing, shouldn¡¯t I just think you¡¯re doing lots of evil stuff you haven¡¯t told me about?¡± ¡°Look, Nathan, it¡¯s not like we do other things on the side. Defense is our primary mission. Everything we do here is to supplement the Defense Branch in various ways. There is nothing we do that doesn¡¯t have that as its ultimate purpose. And you need to know that right from the start.¡± ¡°But why?¡± ¡°Because that¡¯s the only thing that keeps me going.¡± Nathan didn¡¯t know what to think about that. He barely had time to process what Caroline had just hit him with. She was the leader of the entire operation. But it was an operation that he would soon be in charge of. Maybe he could stop the bad parts. Maybe he could - The train stopped. ¡°Well, this is us,¡± Caroline stated, interrupting Nathan¡¯s thoughts on the matter as he followed her out of the train. From there, it was only a few blocks to the building - wherever it was. The building had a disturbing amount of foot traffic for something that was supposed to be top secret. He wondered how they¡¯d managed that. ¡°How can you keep the secrets with so many people?¡± Nathan whispered, his eyes wide. ¡°You¡¯ll get your answers in due time,¡± Caroline replied, seeming surprisingly content, ¡°just give it a few hours. Stop being so impatient!¡± Regardless, they joined the heavy stream of traffic and headed inside. There was a standard biometric checkpoint. Caroline put her eyes up to the scanner and let the both of them through. ¡°This is your last chance to turn back,¡± she stated, just loud enough for him to hear. He stopped walking for a moment, considering his options one more time - but this was just a formality. He¡¯d already made his decision, and he wasn¡¯t about to go back on it. He followed her through. One of the best things about being in a gigantic crowd was the relative anonymity you experienced. However, today, Nathan didn¡¯t get any of it. Tens of pairs of eyes recognized him as somebody new, somebody different, somebody with Caroline. With a few soft murmurs, the stares began to multiply until most of the free eyes were trained on the two of them. Meeting eyes with a few of them, he could see the same look in everyone. It was like they were looking down on him, or telling him to get out, or pitying him - he wasn¡¯t quite sure which, though it could be some combination of the three. They all knew exactly what was going to happen to him. But he knew too; there was no point in Caroline deceiving him. He had abandoned his life, his family, and his friends, for a chance to make Antares a better place. Everything was fine. Everything would be fine. He could live with a new body, and he could live with making public appearances and hiding his true self during them. He didn¡¯t need to be pitied, didn¡¯t need to be silently told to turn around, didn¡¯t need to be looked down on. Seeing the look of resolve on his face, Caroline gave him a tiny smile. ¡°We should probably go somewhere more¡­ private,¡± she remarked.
There were forty-three basement levels, each one with less foot traffic than the last. Caroline had taken him down to the very bottom, into a small conference room that was tucked at the opposite end of the elevator. It was just the two of them, a contrast to all the craziness that was everywhere else. Caroline let out a sigh of relief. ¡°Finally. I hate going up to the surface so much, Nathan¡­ it¡¯s like walking through a ball pit. You must hate it too! You have to deal with it every day. You know what I mean, right?¡± Nathan shrugged, not agreeing with her. In basically every office job, he had to deal with that kind of traffic, or even worse. It wasn¡¯t annoying or hated; it was simply a fact of life. ¡°Eh, you¡¯ll understand me when you¡¯ve been here for longer,¡± she added, ¡°Stars, I¡¯m going to tell you ¡®I told you so¡¯ so many times.¡± ¡°Anyway, answers?¡± ¡°Oh, right. That¡¯s how it always is. Straight and to the point.¡± ¡°But -¡± ¡°Oh, don¡¯t worry. I¡¯m going to tell you everything. A deal¡¯s a deal, right?¡± She paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts. ¡°So, what do you think are the existential threats to the Antares Authority right now?¡± Caroline spoke in a measured tone, a neutral expression on her face. Nathan gave it quite a bit of thought. Of course, there was the obvious one - the Terran Republic attempting to centralize them. But there were a variety of different ways that they could do that. There wasn¡¯t just the threat of military invasion. They could subvert the Antares Authority by undermining its popular support or sabotaging its infrastructure. They could corrupt the government, they could slowly expand corporate influence until it supplanted the state. Or, they could just wait it out. The Antares Authority was a singular star system; its resources were quite limited. ¡°It could be invaded, it could be subverted by the Terran Republic, its citizens could be convinced to defect via propaganda¡­¡± Nathan mused. ¡°Your list is incomplete. You considered The Republic, and that¡¯s indeed a big threat, but it¡¯s not the biggest one.¡± ¡°What could be a bigger threat than the Terran Republic? Isn¡¯t that our only enemy? Well, the only one with vast numbers and resources?¡± ¡°Direct democracies are inherently unstable. This system, where the masses rule, has one vulnerability - the masses themselves. Of course, they don¡¯t always know what¡¯s good for them. They¡¯re vulnerable to propaganda. Cults of personalities will soon follow. This direct democracy, without a framework benefitting the status quo such as the ancient American States¡¯ constitution, is inherently unstable. It¡¯s a disaster waiting to happen.¡± Everything he¡¯d read on the philosophy of government said otherwise, but he¡¯d bring that up another time. ¡°Why not simply implement that framework?¡± he asked instead. ¡°That wouldn¡¯t work either - do you know what led to the downfall of the American States? Stability brings stagnation - look at the Republic. Additionally, implementing a system like that has vulnerabilities as well. Legislators who aren¡¯t directly accountable to the public? Imagine what just a few rogues could do to that system. Imagine how little effort the corporations would need to expend wrecking a government like that.¡± ¡°If it¡¯s so unstable, how has our government stood for three hundred years?¡± She paused for a moment, mainly for effect. ¡°That¡¯s our job.¡± Preposterous. Democracies could stand on their own if their citizens maintained them properly. The Department of Autonomy wasn¡¯t the only thing propping their democracy up. What could they even do? ¡°And how exactly do you do that?¡± he asked. Caroline let out a sigh. ¡°You don¡¯t want to know, Nathan. You really, really don¡¯t want to know.¡± ¡°Yes, I do. I¡¯ve always wanted answers.¡± Caroline sunk her fingernails into her palms. Nathan could catch her brow starting to furrow before she caught it and immediately pulled it back to the neutral expression she was maintaining. ¡°Look, Nathan. We can talk about this anytime. Nothing about this government is going to change anytime soon. But you are. We¡¯re preparing a mandatory injection for you as we speak. So, personally, I would recommend that you alter the scope of your questions for now.¡± Her voice was slightly more stern this time. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Nathan¡¯s stature began to waver, the sheer weight of what was about to happen finally beginning to hit him. It hadn¡¯t even been an hour, and they were already doing it. ¡°What¡¯s it going to do to me?¡± he asked, his mouth agape. ¡°I thought that had been made clear, Nathan.¡± She paused for a moment. ¡°It¡¯s going to make you into a nobody.¡±
¡°We¡¯ve been over this, Maxwell. This time, it¡¯s different. They aren¡¯t going to win. We don¡¯t need to worry about continual preparation for the long term. There is no long-term anymore.¡± ¡°But, in the meantime, they¡¯re going to focus on centralization. And if we redirect resources away from the defense, they might see that we¡¯re weak and snatch us up. Then we¡¯ll have a war on our hands, and any hope will be completely out the window. Besides, what if they get the aliens to stop?¡± ¡°Right. I understand that. But, at the same time, reverse engineering alien technology is probably our best way forward anyway. There¡¯s not much of a point in developing new things when we have a treasure trove of stuff to reverse engineer, so they won¡¯t be making anything new either. So, why would we spend all our resources going through a middleman?¡± ¡°We¡¯re not going through a middleman. This is information discovery. We¡¯d be making the middleman do the work for us, Natasha. It¡¯s probably far easier to breach the Republic¡¯s security than whatever the hell the aliens have.¡± ¡°So, maybe we¡¯d do a combination of the two? We¡¯ll figure out what the Republic is focusing on, shift our focus elsewhere, and just pick up whatever they figure out as they deploy it. They aren¡¯t going to waste their experimental ships on us when there¡¯s a gigantic alien menace anyway.¡± ¡°But - we could be a good test site for their weapons!¡± ¡°Good test sites don¡¯t fight back. Good test sites don¡¯t need to be left mostly unscathed. Good test sites have no economic consequences for failure.¡± There were a few moments of silence. Neither of them had anything more to say; the argument had concluded. They hadn¡¯t quite reached an agreement. ¡°I wish Caroline was still here. She was a good diplomat. Good at finding a nice middle ground, good at getting people to understand each other.¡± ¡°You know, I don¡¯t think she ever appreciated that part of herself. She told me that she was too soft, and that¡¯s why she picked me,¡± Natasha chuckled. ¡°Apparently, she thought this place needed to be led by someone stubborn, with strong convictions.¡± Maxwell burst out laughing. Natasha joined in soon after. ¡°You know, my predecessor said the same exact thing, Natasha. That she was a goddamn softie, and she needed someone who would stand up for themself, and not get trampled by their underlings.¡± Once again, they began to laugh their heads off at the sheer absurdity of what had happened. Hundreds of years of traditions, millions of dollars of studies, and yet their predecessors were no better than first-time parents, fumbling around and raising their kids in the way they¡¯d want to be raised. ¡°Well, one thing¡¯s for certain,¡± Natasha remarked, ¡°We¡¯re fucked. Thirty-five years of progress, and now we¡¯re going to get screwed over by some goddamn aliens. And we¡¯re finally going to get confirmation that I¡¯m a failure.¡± ¡°Oh, like I could do any better¡­¡± ¡°Shut up, Maxwell. Caroline chose wrong.¡± ¡°Oh, who would you want to replace you?¡± ¡°I don''t know¡­ There are billions of people in the Antares system. One of them has to be better than me!¡± ¡°What about¡­ Phoebe? Or Pheebs?¡± ¡°Hey! That¡¯s a low blow!¡± ¡°I know how you look at her¡­¡± ¡°Shut up, Maxwell. I¡¯m not in high school. I am a very mature woman.¡± ¡°Could¡¯ve fooled me¡­¡± Natasha scoffed, her cheeks a little bit red. ¡°Look, we¡¯re wasting time, Maxwell. We¡¯re supposed to be drafting a budget for dealing with the alien invasion. And I¡¯m supposed to be giving your reverse engineering funding to the Observation Branch so that they can focus on alien technology.¡± ¡°If we¡¯re going by supposed, you¡¯re supposed to be on vacation. And, besides, did you think arguing would be any more productive?¡± ¡°Well, I have the final say on what happens. And we can pick up that side conversation once we¡¯ve drafted a plan, alright?¡± Maxwell let out a sigh. ¡°Sounds good.¡± ¡°So, can any of your weaponry or shielding do anything against the aliens?¡± ¡°You saw all the defenses fail yourself, Natasha. No shielding could stop the disintegration ray, and neutralizing our weapons was trivial in terms of the enemy ships¡¯ energy expenditure.¡± ¡°Do you have anything that we could use to harm them?¡± He shook his head. ¡°Well, I have a few theories, but they¡¯re all predicated on different assumptions. We¡¯d have to figure out how their weapons and shields work to fight them. We could attempt to deflect the disintegration rays. Plus, the projectiles couldn¡¯t have been eliminated with that little power expenditure. I have a theory.¡± ¡°But they have to be gone. We couldn¡¯t detect them at all!¡± ¡°That¡¯s the thing. There was no explosion - no possible way for them to truly get rid of the projectiles. So, maybe they¡¯re still here somewhere.¡± ¡°Sounds intriguing. I¡¯ll pass that along to Phoebe. In the meantime, is it okay if I pull your weapon and defense funding? I think we¡¯re far enough ahead of the Republic to stop for a few years.¡± Maxwell nodded. ¡°I can¡¯t stop you. I would like it back when fighting back becomes feasible, though.¡± ¡°Of course, Maxwell. I wouldn¡¯t dream of pulling it forever. It¡¯s just¡­ money¡¯s a little tight.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t we have thirty percent of the entire system budget?¡± ¡°Yeah, but that¡¯s for all thirty blasted departments. Keeping our planet safe from internal threats is quite expensive, too. Ask Wendy if you want. She¡¯s the treasurer, not me.¡±
¡°Just checking in. Did anything promising in the past few hours turn up?¡± ¡°Actually, yes. We finally got metrics of the alien ships, and we¡¯ve been able to extract their power signatures via Quadro-Spectrographic Analysis.¡± Natasha tilted her head, obviously confused. ¡°What exactly is that?¡± ¡°Natasha, you really should¡¯ve paid more attention last time.¡± ¡°I have a lot on my plate, alright? I have thirty branches competing for my attention. I can¡¯t possibly remember every little technique you explain to me!¡± ¡°Well, I directly supervise forty-five officers, and I do just fine.¡± ¡°Not everyone can be perfect like you.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not -¡± Phoebe was perfect, at least from Natasha¡¯s point of view. During the fateful first months, the rest of them were barely able to do their jobs, often having trouble speaking without their voices betraying their dissatisfaction. Phoebe, however, had taken to it like a fish to water. While everyone else was struggling with adapting to their new bodies, Phoebe was completely comfortable in hers. She was so comfortable that they were able to skip the last step of her treatment. ¡°Yes, you are, Pheebs. Now shut up and tell me about Quadra-Spectergraphic Analysis.¡± Phoebe cringed. ¡°Alright. So, I¡¯ll ignore how you butchered that word¡­¡± ¡°By pointing it out, you aren¡¯t actually ignoring it.¡± ¡°Anyway, so,¡± ¡°Go on¡­¡± ¡°We¡¯ve never really managed to figure out how to get a complete three-dimensional projection of light. However, it¡¯s relatively easy to pinpoint where a power signature is coming from based on latent radiation. When a heavy amount of energy is being produced or consumed, it gives off a telltale emission, which we can detect. Of course, there¡¯s a problem - if we have only one angle¡­¡± ¡°I get it, we don¡¯t know how far inwards it is. So, you need a bunch of different angles?¡± ¡°Exactly. So, Quadro-Spectrographic analysis is when we take emission reports from multiple angles. Then, we isolate dots, figure out which is which. Finally, via triangulation, we -¡± ¡°Find the actual locations of the emissions on the ships. I get it.¡± ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s about right. It usually takes about four angles to correctly isolate and triangulate everything. You can technically do it with three, but that¡¯s only if you¡¯re lucky enough not to have any major collisions.¡± ¡°Right, that makes sense. So, what did you find, then?¡± ¡°Well, we figured out where their sensor array was. That was pretty trivial. But we were also able to pinpoint the emission that corresponded to their reactor, and the one for the jump drive too!¡± ¡°How¡¯d you pull that off?¡± ¡°The reactor¡¯s intensity was quite high, it was roughly central, it continuously fluctuated, and it was proportional to the rest of the emissions. Their jump drive lit up just as brightly, but only when the ship was about to jump.¡± ¡°And what was their power output?¡± ¡°Well, we could only get a rough estimate. Their power output seems to be, at minimum, on the same level of Antares B, and, at maximum, closer to Antares A.¡± ¡°The stars?¡± ¡°Yes, Natasha. The stars.¡± Natasha¡¯s shoulders slumped. ¡°Well, is there anything that we can do?¡± ¡°Well, our QSA yielded a common pattern between the ship¡¯s hyperdrive and whatever mechanism it used to wink the projectiles out of existence. We got the same energy pattern for hyperjumps as we got for its weapon nullification systems. Perhaps the hyperdrive is being repurposed to force objects to jump into hyperspace. That would create the appearance of disappearing objects, after all.¡± ¡°Right. But how could that even work? We all know hyperdrives can¡¯t stay still while moving something else.¡± ¡°It¡¯s alien technology, Natasha. They might have figured something out and realized something we haven¡¯t. They have captive star reactors or something, so I don¡¯t think that¡¯s too far off.¡± ¡°So, what does that mean, then? Let¡¯s say that their hyperdrive is making our projectiles disappear. What¡¯re we even supposed to do about that?¡± ¡°It means that they¡¯re making the projectiles jump into hyperspace. And, the thing is, we already know how to latch onto a ship that¡¯s jumping away¡­¡± ¡°Right! The tethering field. I know that.¡± The first experimental jump drives were only capable of launching themselves into space, usually leaving the rest of the spaceship behind. It was the tethering field that made these jump drives actually practical. By tethering a jump drive to the rest of the ship, the jump drive would send the entire ship into hyperspace. This could also be used to make a ship equipped with a hyperdrive tow a sub-light ship around. Of course, this required quite a bit of time in advance, which made it impractical for a tethering field to be enabled for long periods of time. Normally, the tethering field would be established a hundredth of a second before the jump was initiated, and only maintained until a hundredth of a second after it was completed. She doubted a tethering field could be sustained for more than a few seconds. ¡°Exactly. And we¡¯re going to send in another test drone to test our theory. See if we can fire while tethered and what will happen. Maybe the entire ship will be winked out of existence, but our weapons will remain in one piece, and we could potentially descend and hit them.¡± ¡°But how will we get the data?¡± ¡°I want manual controls. If the ship gets thrown into hyperspace, a human will pilot it into real space and transmit.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve seen what happened to that test plane. We¡¯re not sending a pilot to die to some unknown aliens!¡± ¡°They¡¯re labbies. They¡¯re expendable! Plus, we need the data if we ever want to stand a chance!¡± ¡°Pheebs, can¡¯t a computer with some branching logic do the exact same thing? And far more reliably?¡± ¡°No, it isn¡¯t as reliable as a human, but I guess I could make it work.¡± ¡°Pheebs, I can¡¯t believe you thought I would sign off on an unnecessary death. And, besides, even if it were okay, you¡¯d need a civvie.¡± ¡°A civvie might defect and try to steal the ship.¡± ¡°And labbies know too much. If the aliens capture them, they¡¯d figure out way too much about us. The point is, a human pilot would be far too risky. They¡¯re test drones for a reason.¡± ¡°You¡¯re such a buzzkill, Natasha!¡± ¡°Look, I know how much you love getting high on reverse engineering, but I¡¯m still putting a stop to this. No humans on the test drones, unless it¡¯s absolutely necessary.¡± ¡°But I¡¯m getting funding, right?¡± ¡°Of course. You have Maxwell¡¯s reverse engineering funding until weapons against the aliens become feasible. Then, he gets it back.¡± Phoebe cracked a smile. ¡°Thank you, Natasha,¡± she said, doing her best to hide her excitement, ¡°I¡¯ll put this to good use. I won¡¯t let you down, I promise.¡± ¡°You never do, Pheebs. Just¡­ don¡¯t violate too many codes of ethics without my approval, alright?¡± ¡°Got it!¡± Natasha finally exited the room, letting out a sigh as the door closed behind her. Phoebe was a little intense sometimes - and, as the years had gone by, it only seemed to get worse. That could¡¯ve just been because everybody but her had mellowed out, though. Over the years, it had grown on her, and she had come to look forward to Phoebe¡¯s enthusiasm for her work. That attitude was rare around here, and sorely missed. Why did her subordinates, the people she was supposed to reign in, have to be so cute? Health Nathan¡¯s conversation with Caroline was brought to an abrupt halt. He had just gotten into the building, and he was about to receive an irreversible injection that would probably alter his body. He began to quiver, anticipating the situation and going over the details. How long would it take? What would be done to his brain? What kind of person would he become? Would it hurt? ¡°You have about a minute. Choose your questions wisely,¡± Caroline stated. Looking at her, Nathan knew that she was hiding something about her emotional state. If he had to guess, it was probably pity. This time, he knew she was right to feel it. Why¡¯d he even choose this? What kind of idiot would decide to walk away from their life? Could he back out of this? There was nothing he wanted more than that. He desperately wanted to go back home and hug his mom and maybe plan some sort of big family reunion. ¡°Can I go back?¡± ¡°The decision was final when you walked in here.¡± ¡°Do I have to take the injection?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°What if I resist?¡± ¡°We¡¯ll strap you down.¡± With each answer, Nathan¡¯s shoulders sank further and further. ¡°Can I talk to my mom? My dad? Jim? Anyone?¡± he pleaded. He wanted to at least say goodbye, even if he wouldn¡¯t ever see them again. Just a phone call, anything to hear their voices one more time. Perhaps the only person he was satisfied with his last interaction with was Jim. Last night, they¡¯d played some video games together, and spent the next three hours voice chatting together, talking about their lives, and the most random stuff imaginable. He could live with that being the last time they ever talked. At least they¡¯d ended on a good note. The last time he¡¯d interacted with his big brother, they¡¯d fought. They¡¯d called each other assholes, and vowed to never speak to each other again. That couldn¡¯t be the last time they¡¯d ever interact. That couldn¡¯t be how he would remember him. The last time he talked to his mom¡­ he couldn¡¯t remember when that was. He hadn¡¯t seen her in months. He¡¯d been meaning to get around to it for a while, but things had been pretty busy. Perhaps seeing her should¡¯ve been a higher priority than the wild goose chase he¡¯d conducted. But it was too late now. ¡°Too big of a security risk. You¡¯re going to be dead to them in under a week, and there¡¯s no way you¡¯ll be trustworthy enough before then,¡± Caroline replied coldly. ¡°How do you -¡± ¡°We cloned a brain-dead version of you, killed it, and the police will discover it soon.¡± Not even a phone call. They were going to think he was dead. Nobody would ever fathom looking for him; that was how they did it. That was how they¡¯d manage to procure thirty-one nobodies without raising the slightest amount of suspicion. He finally knew what had been done; a single ordinary death, even after they went missing for an entire week, wouldn¡¯t be suspicious or missed at all. They wouldn¡¯t screen for cloning; that was too expensive. One thing was for certain: The police weren¡¯t in on it. That wouldn¡¯t be feasible, considering that police bodycams were live-streamed 24 hours a day. So, the Department of Autonomy was able to fool them completely. But he couldn¡¯t talk to his family ever again. He¡¯d have to live with this. There was no use in suffering. There were more important questions. ¡°What¡¯s the injection going to do to me?¡± ¡°Your DNA will be rewritten. That¡¯s the easy part.¡± ¡°But doesn¡¯t DNA not -¡± ¡°No, rewriting your DNA doesn¡¯t actually change you. So, instead, we will kick your cells into overdrive, forcing them to divide far more rapidly than usual, to act as a sort of reset. Finally, every few hours, your cells will be¡­ forcibly disorganized. Tissues will be torn apart, bit by bit, and your body will reform them corresponding to its new blueprints.¡± Caroline was reading from a pamphlet. ¡°How long does it take?¡± ¡°About a month.¡± ¡°What kind of person am I turning into?¡± There was a knock on the door.
¡°Is there really no way we can cut funding, Chris?¡± ¡°No. If we stop funding the Department of Health, the numbers will stop adding up. There¡¯s no reasonable explanation we can find to cut the genetic modification program abruptly.¡± ¡°What about costs?¡± ¡°If we cite costs as a reason, we¡¯ll draw investigators. No cash will be freed up for the Department of Health, they¡¯ll know that, and then the conspiracy theorists will get confirmation that they¡¯re right. I¡¯ve been over this, Natasha.¡± ¡°Well, what if we said we were redirecting funding somewhere else?¡± ¡°They¡¯ll expect new programs, programs that we¡¯ll have to fund. Overall, we won¡¯t gain any funding to be used elsewhere.¡± There had to be some sort of solution. Natasha could find it. They were fighting unknown, advanced aliens; they needed every penny redirected. ¡°Okay, what about an internal transfer? We stop the focus on new genetic modification projects, strip the serum program down to the wire, and focus on R&D with more immediate, practical results?¡± ¡°With all due respect, Natasha, I think you aren¡¯t thinking of the potential of genetic modification. It isn¡¯t merely a long-term thing; we both know it only takes a month to conform a human being¡¯s biology to new DNA.¡± Natasha shuddered. How could he be so nonchalant about that? ¡°You really should be spending more time learning about what we do, Natasha,¡± he added. ¡°I get that from everyone, Chris. Give me a break.¡± ¡°Well, recently, we¡¯ve made a breakthrough. Turns out the DNA conforming process is far easier to replicate than we thought. It should be financially feasible to alter others¡¯ DNA on a large scale.¡± ¡°What scale are we talking?¡± ¡°We could apply augmentations to a small mining colony, right now, for under a billion dollars.¡± ¡°With no decline in quality?¡± Natasha asked, completely astonished. ¡°None. The only bottleneck is security. If this technology makes it into the public eye, then they¡¯ll know how we came into existence, and the hunt¡¯s on for our old identities.¡± ¡°But, not only will we predate the technology, but they already know about clone transplantation. GVD patients get their bodies replaced all the time. I doubt it¡¯ll be that bad.¡± Chris threw up his hands. ¡°Regardless, the point is, this department shouldn¡¯t be gutted. The work we do is valuable, and it¡¯s usable right now. We could make super soldiers. We could fix any vulnerabilities the aliens find in our brains.¡± ¡°Could the serum be used on the aliens?¡± ¡°We¡¯d need some tissue samples to find out.¡± ¡°Ask Phoebe about that. I¡¯m sure she¡¯d be delighted to find one for you.¡± ¡°Far too delighted for my tastes. I don¡¯t get what you see in her, Natasha.¡± ¡°She¡¯s diligent and passionate. What¡¯s not to like?¡± ¡°She doesn¡¯t care about anyone but us.¡± ¡°It¡¯s our job to suppress our empathy for the people we hurt. They¡¯re necessary sacrifices for the greater good, Chris. That¡¯s practically all we do here - we make the sacrifices that nobody else would be able to make. We make the decisions to help Antares that nobody else can stomach.¡± ¡°Natasha, there¡¯s a difference between suppressing empathy and having none to begin with. I¡¯ve seen how callously she treats sending people to their deaths. It¡¯s like they¡¯re just some statistic to her.¡± ¡°Look, you¡¯re working with the Department of Health. You¡¯re working closely with other people, and your staff sees suffering every single day. Phoebe doesn¡¯t work there. She sees technology to reverse engineer, information to look at. It¡¯s harder to have empathy for people when you never see them. And, besides, she cares about us!¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want her replaced or anything. I just think you should keep your distance from her, and make sure that she doesn¡¯t hurt anyone too badly for the sake of progress.¡± ¡°We aren¡¯t close,¡± Natasha blurted out. ¡°Yeah, sure,¡± was Chris¡¯s retort. Why did everyone think that? Things between Natasha and Phoebe were completely professional. And they had to stay that way, regardless; she was Natasha¡¯s subordinate, after all. Acting on any feelings would be incredibly unprofessional, and the power dynamic they had would make any relationship impossible anyway. She left the room, heading to her quarters. Paperwork was the least fun part of her day, but at least it was predictable. The briefings she read wouldn¡¯t give her gigantic headaches, or fight every single decision she made. Well, most of them wouldn¡¯t.
Instead of the usual, sleek look that the Terran Republic¡¯s ships tried to adhere to, this spacecraft had abandoned all resemblance of form in favor of function. They hadn¡¯t even spent any money on paint - the colors of the different types of equipment, and the metal that made up the outside of the hull, were completely visible. It looked like the ship was bristling with slots for weapons, but all but a single laser had been removed in favor of more reactor space. Blaine Forester, the lone pilot, boarded the ship. On the inside, it looked like it hadn¡¯t even been meant to support life. Everything from the airlocks to the oxygen generator seemed like afterthoughts, carted in at the last minute. All the controls were remote, jury-rigged via exposed red wires that ran through the ship¡¯s maintenance tunnels. The cockpit was tiny for such a large ship, barely giving him room to stand up and take off his spacesuit. Any EVAs would be cumbersome, and the escape pod was barely accessible. But this was a simple, short mission, and he doubted he¡¯d even see any major combat. He just had to watch the ship pilot itself into the correct zone, see it fire a laser while preparing to make a jump, and then guide it back to base. It was an easy job, given to him by an admiral of the Terran Space Force, with explicit instructions not to ask questions and not to tell anyone about it. The base he¡¯d been asked to report to was in the upper quadrant, within the sphere of influence of the Antares system. They were probably trying to figure out how to neutralize its defensive capabilities again. He was a soldier, and he followed orders. It was some experimental TBI plan, the vessel also made by the TBI - it wasn¡¯t an ordinary anything. But he would gladly keep the secrets; he was lucky to be trusted, and he knew what would happen to him and his family if he were to try to squeal. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. The engine activated, without his input. It had been explained: The ship was mostly automated. He was only there to pilot the ship back home after the automated routine had initiated the jump - something about an experimental hyperspace engine that didn¡¯t use much power? Weren¡¯t jumps, once initiated, easy for a computer to complete? There was something they weren¡¯t telling him, though he wasn¡¯t about to ask questions. He was a suitable pilot, however. He could get the ship back, wherever it went. It was headed towards¡­ empty space? No, there was something there. Looking at the sensory unit, he saw a gigantic alien vessel approaching. He did a double take, confirming that he was on an intercept course with the vessel. But that was fine. Maybe that was the target; perhaps they were testing their laser out on an alien ship. They were too far away to do anything, regardless. He began to look around - there were cameras all over the room, a bunch of different kinds of sensors. He was being watched from at least fifty different angles with visible light alone, and the rest of the ship was covered at a similar density. Storing that footage must have been a nightmare. He watched the ship get bigger and bigger, the distance readout getting lower and lower, until it passed a magic number - 100,000 kilometers. Then¡­ the ship¡¯s jump drive began to prepare to jump. It began, as usual, by tethering the rest of the ship to the drive. That was an enormous draw of power, rapidly depleting the batteries. Usually, tethering lasted less than one second. Now, it had been active for five; it couldn¡¯t last longer than fifteen before it ran out of charge. Immediately, he got a notification about the laser finally being able to fire. It had been completely charged up, drawing even more power from the batteries, with the engorged reactor unable to even come close to matching the power required. They intended to shoot the alien ship from a hundred thousand kilometers away - relatively far for a laser, which meant it would be a bit dispersed, but it would work. Finally, after charging for five seconds, the laser fired. And the ship, laser and all, winked into hyperspace.
¡°Dammit, Phoebe! You violated my orders!¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Natasha! I¡¯d already sent the go-ahead, and my cancellation came a day too late!¡± ¡°Civvie or labbie?¡± ¡°Neither. They found a Terran Space Force pilot.¡± Natasha groaned. ¡°Your branch needs to be more centralized, Pheebs. This is the fifth time something like this has happened.¡± ¡°We both know that centralized branches are far less secure. The high information latency is what allows us to do so much with so little risk of being caught.¡± ¡°Well, this is a disaster. The pilot probably already knows too much, so we can¡¯t just let him go free. He knows what our ship looks like, and the TBI could identify that he went missing and question him. From there, they¡¯ll learn too much about the test drone program.¡± ¡°So we eliminate him. Stage a suicide, and nobody will care. Problem solved.¡± ¡°How can you be so -¡± ¡°It¡¯s not that big of a deal. Just one person.¡± ¡°We¡¯re talking about murder, Pheebs! Stars, I just don¡¯t get it.¡± ¡°They¡¯re sacrifices. Besides, we save far more people than we kill. It¡¯s one, compared to an entire planet. What¡¯s even the point of trying to get empathy for people, when it makes it harder to help them? How do the rest of them even do this, if they care so much about individuals?¡± ¡°With a heavy heart, Pheebs. That¡¯s how it¡¯s supposed to be done.¡± ¡°Well, I like my way better.¡± ¡°Look, we need to figure out something else. He¡¯s got to have some use to us alive.¡± ¡°I doubt he knows anything that I don¡¯t know already. He¡¯s an insider, but that doesn¡¯t mean anything - he¡¯s far too low in rank to give us important information. He is experienced, though. He¡¯s a decent tactician, and he has a far better head on his shoulders than most of the Terran Space Force. He knows a disturbing amount about them, too - he¡¯s one of the few who knows how the weapons and engines work.¡± ¡°Does he have a future as an officer? He might still be useful later on. We could bug him or something.¡± ¡°No, he doesn¡¯t have any powerful connections. Perhaps, if the Terran Space Force were a meritocracy, he could be an admiral eventually. But those positions are bought by corporate trillionaires and their families.¡± ¡°Well, that¡¯s a shame.¡± ¡°Perhaps -.¡± ¡°Yeah?¡± ¡°Never mind.¡± ¡°No, seriously, what?¡± ¡°He has potential that would otherwise be wasted, and the Antares Authority¡¯s cabinet has been pretty overburdened lately, and we lack experience with offensive battle tactics, which would be extremely helpful during this crisis¡­¡± ¡°But that¡¯s still murder, Phoebe.¡± ¡°It wasn¡¯t murder for me.¡± ¡°He isn¡¯t you. You were a special case, Pheebs. One that we can¡¯t replicate.¡± ¡°The Terran Space Force is full of society¡¯s rejects with no lives to get back to. They also have elevated rates of GVD, and people outside of Antares are unlikely to disclose their GVD or seek treatment, so nobody will suspect anything.¡± ¡°The chance of that is still -¡± ¡°All I¡¯m saying is, it might not actually be murder. It¡¯s worth looking into.¡± Natasha let out a sigh. ¡°Fine. But we¡¯re only going ahead if you know he¡¯ll turn out like you.¡± ¡°Got it.¡±
There was a tiny drain on the reactor. This was noticed by one Verd, and the one Verd who noticed paid it little mind. Those idiotic primitives had just thrown a small asteroid at them - as if that would do anything. Their projectile deflection system was incredibly sophisticated; there was no way anyone could find a way around it! A captive stellar reactor could even deflect a small moon into hyperspace without breaking a sweat. That time an alien ship had launched their moon at him had been hilarious. He loved seeing the looks on their faces before they got vaporized like everyone else. Perhaps that had been too kind of him. ¡ª Hyperspace operated similarly to a fourth dimension - real space was the ¡°bottom¡± of hyperspace, and, the further ¡°upwards¡± someone went, the further into hyperspace they were. The unit for distance in hyperspace was a ¡°klick¡± - originally slang for a kilometer, but repurposed for hyperspace distance after it had fallen out of fashion in the ordinary world. Most hyperdrives jumped to about 0.3 klicks - the higher you went, the further you could go in a single jump, but the more power was required to get there - and to get back into real space. With the battery power available, he estimated that the ship could manage about 0.8 klicks while still managing to return. The ship had been launched 50 klicks into hyperspace. No power had been drawn from the batteries. This was impossible - impossible according to their interpretation of the laws of physics, at least. The fact that it had been launched so far meant that power must have been drawn from somewhere else - maybe the alien ship? 50 klicks out, it should¡¯ve been quiet. Nothing should have pinged off the ship¡¯s radar. But there were a variety of objects here. Most of them were identifiable as weapon parts and projectiles. Some, however, were simpler - the likes of asteroids and sheet metal. And there was his ship. There wasn¡¯t any traffic here, not even any alien ships like the one he¡¯d fired at. He was the only person. Using 50 klicks of hyperspace, he could go almost anywhere - perhaps multiple galaxies over. But it would take a very long time, and his family would suffer once the TBI found out he hadn¡¯t gone back. So, with a sigh, he plugged the rendezvous point near the Antares system into the computer, optimizing for the 50 klicks of distance he had to cover. The TBI was getting a little brazen - basing themselves less than a light-year from Antares was practically looking for trouble. The Antares Authority was made up of freedom-hating commies who used babies as lab rats, cloned humans to make organ farms for their hospitals, and wiretapped every single one of their citizens just because they could. But they were too economically influential to centralize diplomatically, too well-armed to forcibly conquer without destroying their infrastructure, and their citizens were too smart for propaganda. It was a goddamn shame that they were still allowed to exist in the Republic. Using the reactor, it would take hours to generate enough power to descend, so he just sat back and directed the reactor power directly into the descent, bypassing the batteries. A computer wouldn¡¯t have done that; no programmer would have predicted how far out they¡¯d gone, and its programming would lead to it trying (and failing) to descend instantly with battery power. The TBI was lucky they had brought him into the test ship - if he hadn¡¯t been there, it would¡¯ve been lost. Descent worked slightly differently from ascent - the biggest differences being that descent takes far less power than ascent, and that descent can be done in chunks, while ascent must be done all at once. Without those two facts, if hyperspace had operated slightly differently, Blaine would have been marooned. During the hours-long descent, he caught a glance of his reflection and ended up completely disappointed in what he saw. The stubble on his face was disgusting; he¡¯d have to shave that later. Why did male faces have to be so gross? Men were truly the unlucky gender - a disposable race of people sent to be in the military, as they were fit for nothing else. He loathed women. They had it all. They lived their lives in goddamn easy mode, getting everything that they wanted, being beautiful, and refusing to share their bodies with him. Approaching the rendezvous point, the ship¡¯s automation once again took over as it matched its velocity with the station, and then docked with it. Once again, it was cumbersome. A plastic tube that he swore was only supposed to be used in emergencies, was used as a semi-permanent docking fixture, extending from the ship to the port. The station¡¯s airlock opened, and the pressure equalized. He was notified that he could proceed whenever he was ready. The station was somehow even more clunky and utilitarian than the ship. It had been built in an attempt to be as small and inconspicuous as possible, at the cost of literally everything else. He even had to crawl through the docking port to finally get into the station. After breaching the airlock, he found himself in what looked like a simple buffer room. Those were relatively normal. However, they usually had people in them, greeting him and showing him to his quarters - or to whatever ship he was assigned to next. This one, however, was empty - just a ten by ten by ten cube of whiteness, with doors. This had to be investigated. But he was exhausted; he¡¯d sit for a few minutes first. He finally realized how stale the air in the test ship had been - by comparison, the normal air in a larger station felt incredibly fresh. Almost¡­ fragrant, like roses. It was so comforting. Breathing it just made him want to sit right there, inhaling the beautiful air forever. And then he slept.
Not paying any mind to Nathan¡¯s question, Caroline simply answered the door, smiling at the nurse. It was a syringe, full of about a milliliter of yellow liquid. Nathan immediately recognized it as the genetic modification serum that was given to most of Antares¡¯s fetuses, but it was diluted - something extra had been added. That was probably what caused the month-long conforming process. ¡°What kind of person am I turning into?¡± Nathan repeated. ¡°Well, why don¡¯t we find out?¡± Caroline asked, trying her best to give a malicious smile. It was obvious that this didn¡¯t reflect her true feelings. ¡°Roll up your sleeves and hold out your left arm.¡± Nathan hesitated. ¡°Do you want me to call security, Nathaniel?¡± Nathan complied, rolling up his sleeves. Only after a few seconds of hesitation did he hold out his arm. ¡°There we go.¡± The nurse grabbed an alcohol pad, preparing the injection site. Meanwhile, Nathan wondered if the nurse was on board with the whole thing. He wondered what they¡¯d been told. Perhaps, if he were to inform them about this situation, maybe they wouldn¡¯t agree to this. He was quite charismatic; perhaps he could give a speech¡­ Nathan felt a jab as the needle penetrated his skin and the nurse injected the entirety of the serum into his veins. It was too late. ¡ª Nathan was shown to his bedroom. There was a mirror there. Perhaps it would be a good idea to log what was happening to his body. So, where better to start than with a baseline? He stripped down, paying no mind to the camera - he didn¡¯t care if the threat analysis program would see him naked, after all - and began to look over himself. His body could only be described as familiar. It was like home - it wasn¡¯t perfect, but he¡¯d gotten used to it, he¡¯d grown in it, he¡¯d left his mark on it, and it was his. There were flaws, sure, but he¡¯d gotten used to them and worked around them. And they were a part of him - the small amount of hair on his chest, the too-small nose, the slightly pudgy belly that defied his otherwise lean physique (or maybe that was just where his organs were). That¡¯s where he was right now. His body was his, and he liked it just the way it was. Well, except for the fact that he wanted to be a little more muscular, but he¡¯d been working on that. But they weren¡¯t going to make it worse; he doubted that. He could deal with a change. He wasn¡¯t that attached to it. Sure, things would be shaken up a bit, but it was going to be fine. What kind of people were that attached to their bodies? He never paid attention to it, and nothing important hinged on him having this body in particular. Whatever they did, he¡¯d be okay with it. He took a deep breath. Everything was going to be just fine.
Blaine Forester woke up to a sharp pain in his left arm. His eyes opened just soon enough to see a transparent yellow liquid exiting a syringe and entering his bloodstream. Seeing him wake up, the nurse made a hasty retreat out of his cell, though taking a second to ensure that the door had locked behind them. The room was small, the interior painted a dark, dull gray. There were overhead lights, but there wasn¡¯t a window in sight. He had no idea who had captured him. Perhaps they were TBI agents who wanted information out of him, by force if necessary. Perhaps they were rebel insurgents. Perhaps they were part of the Antares Authority¡¯s evil baby-experimenting division - that was the most local, and the most probable captor. If it was them, they¡¯d probably want intelligence on the experiment he had helped carry out. But what was the yellow liquid for? Perhaps it was some sort of truth serum. If so, his family was doomed. The TBI would know that he¡¯d squealed, and they¡¯d kill them all. It couldn¡¯t be a truth serum; truth serums didn¡¯t exist. The TBI hadn¡¯t been able to develop one, and they were the best in terms of technology; a bunch of commies couldn¡¯t beat them. It was something else. It wasn¡¯t going to be that bad. He took a deep breath. Everything was going to be just fine. Staffing It had been quite a day. Adjusting to his new bedroom - which seemed more like a prison cell, considering its camera and locks - was difficult. Figuring out whether to trust Caroline was harder. He¡¯d had the chance to back out and didn¡¯t take it. He knew too much; there was no way he could get back. It was impossible to argue with her logic, as morbid as it seemed. No counterargument he tried survived much of his own scrutiny. Regardless of how wrong it felt, she was right. As hard as it was to accept, she was right. There was nothing he could do but suck it up and continue. His old life was already gone, but he had a new one ahead of him. He¡¯d have to be a moron to refuse it at this point. That was what he had concluded, before going to sleep. The Department of Autonomy hadn¡¯t invested in luxury anything for his bed. Everything was made of synthread, as was common in most places he had seen. Well, there was one exception - the walls were metallic instead. This was probably required due to the exceptionally low level that they were on. Every wall had to support over a hundred stories above it, and synthread wasn¡¯t quite up to the task. Synthread would probably be all over the Republic if they¡¯d figured out how to make it. But for now, at least, it was unique to Antares. Centuries ago, terraforming scientists had decided on, rather than importing a biosphere from Terra or Antares A3, creating their own - a biosphere where every species, instead of serving their own ends, served Terrans. The engineered ants stayed away from humans and their buildings, instead preferring to do their consumption out of sight. The engineered decomposers never broke down any food outside specified garbage zones. The engineered plants were made of extraordinarily durable building materials, and produced fruit not in an attempt to create offspring, but simply so that Terrans would eat them. And they all used an extraordinarily simple hormonal language, which would allow anyone with a computer and a hormone dispenser to bend the wildlife to their will. The versatile material that the plants were made of was called synthread - a complicated chemical polymer that was far easier to synthesize in a cell than in a lab. He still couldn¡¯t believe how scientists had managed to create a tree that was made of material as versatile as synthread, much less fill an entire biosphere with it. Perhaps it made the buildings and objects on Antares B5 incredibly boring, but it also made them incredibly cheap. All it took was a computer and a sapling (or a miniature vine) to fabricate anything you wanted - provided that it was made of synthread, of course, and you could wait around a few minutes or hours for it to be grown. You could also make any fruit you wanted, as well as a surprising variety of chemicals, provided you could wait about a week for its development to finish. They¡¯d given him his own sapling, connected to a computer via a CBI (Chemical-Binary Interface). It was much like the one he had at home - except he had limited access to this computer. They would pass any designs he requested through a safety filter, which would ensure that no weapons could be fabricated, and no chemical formulae for poisons would be synthesized by the sapling. The latter filter was almost ubiquitous on Antarean computers, but it seemed like it had been strengthened for this instance in particular. It was obvious that someone had tried something a century or two ago. In a dresser were about ten copies of his new uniform - a solid gray shirt, symbolizing that he was in the Department of Autonomy, with a single black stripe, signifying that he was its Chair, and black pants, symbolizing that he was still in training - a full department head would wear gray pants instead of black ones. Most synthread items were dead, and thus unable to be altered, though buildings were usually still alive (in case someone wanted to do remodeling), and could thus still be changed. The dresser, Nathan noted, was an example of the latter - able to be altered to his heart¡¯s desire if he had the hormones. He could tell based on the dark green color of the top of the dresser, which greedily absorbed most of the light present. The other thing that gave it away was the nutrient slurry that was being pumped into one of its ¡°roots¡±. Nathan began to wonder why the dresser was alive. Perhaps it was a regular target for people¡¯s anger, and they felt that giving it a healing factor was important. Perhaps they wanted to give the occupants of the room something else to toy with. Perhaps they wanted to use the dresser to toy with the occupants of the room in their sleep - which, right now, included him. He tried not to think about it. He¡¯d been in this room for an hour. It had been a long enough day, and he was getting tired. There was no point in delaying it any longer - it was time to go to bed. He wondered what the serum would do to him during the night; it hadn¡¯t done anything significant to him during the past hour, but he knew he wouldn¡¯t be that lucky for long. The bed was completely normal. It was a little rough, as it was made of synthread, but he had never known anything different. To him and his family, money wasn¡¯t to be spent on luxuries - it was a security blanket meant to avoid hardship. After all, in the long term, everything would balance out. If you bought a luxury, it wouldn¡¯t be long before you got used to it, and you¡¯d be no better off than when you started. ¡ª Whatever changes had happened were completely painless. The cell pulses, or whatever they were, were completely unnoticeable. If he had to guess, a lot of engineering went into this; they had to silence the pain receptors before disintegrating the tissue and converting it into loose cells. There was hair in his eyes, a whole mop of it. This was probably a side effect of the whole process - stimulating the body and forcing its cells to divide extremely rapidly would indeed cause rapid hair growth. That made perfect sense. His fingernails would also be incredibly long. Brushing the hair out of his eyes, he looked over himself, and then he coughed. There was so much dust; it was as if he had been sitting for months. Of course; dust was dead skin cells, so that made sense. His fingernails had grown about an inch as well. If that was what only ten hours of this could do, he was going to have to clip them incredibly often to keep his fingers usable. His toenails would be even worse. But this was temporary - only about a month of this before his metamorphosis ended. Sitting up, he began to feel extremely itchy. A quick glance down his nightshirt made him realize the cause - his chest hair had fallen out. A closer inspection revealed that this had happened everywhere, from his armpits to his legs to his pubic region. Perhaps this was good. Otherwise, the hair would be a nightmare to maintain, considering its extraordinarily rapid growth this month. Trying to ignore the itch, he searched for some nail clippers. Luckily, he found one on his nightstand. He got his fingernails and toenails down to more manageable levels. This was great, wasn¡¯t it? Then, it was time to get the hair and dust off his skin. After a quick shower, that wasn¡¯t an issue. He wasn¡¯t that different from the day before, except he was hairless below the eyelashes. After getting the dead, flaky skin off, his new skin was quite soft and smooth. He wasn¡¯t sure what to think about that; it did feel nice, but it was unfamiliar. It wasn¡¯t his skin anymore. He could see where the old hair ended and the new hair began. Everything above the last few inches was an ordinary chestnut brown. The black part, which was previously his natural color, now looked like a weird dye job, extending his hair all the way down to meet his shoulders. He¡¯d need a haircut every single day to keep it short. ¡ª Caroline and Nathan were sitting at a featureless meal table, various different types of fruits available for the two of them. Rather than drink coffee, as was normal on Terra and most of the other colonies, the residents of Antares B5 usually ate fruits infused with caffeine (stimufruits); they were far cheaper and easier for the engineered wildlife to make. ¡°So, how was the first night, Nathan?¡± Caroline asked, before taking a bite of a stimufruit. ¡°Weird and terrible,¡± was his reply. ¡°Well, if it¡¯s anything, it only goes up from here. The first night¡¯s always the hardest to deal with.¡± ¡°Does the hair come back, by the way?¡± ¡°That¡¯ll be your choice. We can grow it back at the end, but most of us just leave the body hair off. It saves time with shaving.¡± ¡°Why would I need to¡­¡± ¡°You¡¯ll see.¡± Why couldn¡¯t he just¡­ let the body hair grow normally, like literally every other guy on this planet? It made absolutely no sense. There wasn¡¯t anything wrong with it, in fact, he¡¯d probably miss it quite a bit. No, there must have been something he was missing. Only women shaved their body hair. Maybe it was some sort of weird dress code. Or, maybe¡­ No, he couldn¡¯t be turning into a woman. That was preposterous. They couldn¡¯t change his gender identity, so making his body female would induce Gender Variant Disorder. Plus, causing that level of suffering for no reason was as horrible as it was inefficient. Nobody could do a job like this well while experiencing something that severe. ¡°So¡­ is the entire department staffed like this?¡± he asked, ¡°people given an offer and altered beyond recognition?¡± ¡°No, that¡¯s just the cabinet,¡± was Caroline¡¯s response, ¡°there are only 31 of us. Did you think we could just do this to millions of people?¡± ¡°Well, it¡¯s just a serum¡­¡± ¡°Creating that single dose of that serum costs billions of dollars, Nathan.¡± ¡°Why not use clone transplantation, then?¡± ¡°The brain¡¯s DNA isn¡¯t altered during clone implantation, so it¡¯s too low-security. It works for disease victims¡¯ purposes, but not for ours.¡± ¡°But couldn¡¯t you alter the brain¡¯s DNA?¡± Caroline let out a sigh. ¡°We¡¯d also have to conform its structures to the new DNA, which would require that exact same serum. Nathan, I¡¯ve been through this. I asked the exact same questions when I was your age. There¡¯s no other way. Let me get to the point.¡± Nathan finished his stimufruit and grabbed another. ¡°So, how¡¯s the rest of the department staffed, then?¡± ¡°Well, it depends. There are really two groups. The first one is civilians, or as we usually call them, civvies.¡± ¡°Let me guess¡­ civilians who do menial work and produce things, but don¡¯t know the true purpose of their work?¡± ¡°Exactly. So, if they leak something, it doesn¡¯t matter as much, because they genuinely don¡¯t know anything that we¡¯re doing. They¡¯re the muscles and senses of the department, pushing and pulling and reporting without having any idea what their true purpose is. And if they get cut off and need to be replaced, it¡¯s fine.¡± ¡°And the second group?¡± ¡°Lab-grown people, or labbies, for short. They were born here, they were raised by their predecessors, and they¡¯re unwaveringly loyal to the cause. They¡¯re hyper intelligent, but their social functioning has been a little¡­ gutted, because it¡¯s unnecessary down here. They¡¯re the bones and nerves of the department, relaying information and providing structure.¡± ¡°And where do you fit here?¡± ¡°We, Nathan, are the brain and face of the organization. We tie all the branches of the department together, coordinate actions, make decisions, and act as intermediaries between the department and the outside world.¡± ¡°Why not just use lab-grown people for those roles?¡± ¡°That would turn us into a stagnant, corrupt monarchy, and make us completely ineffective. Plus, the legislators wouldn¡¯t be very fond of that.¡± ¡°But they never reject anyone. Why do you care about their opinion?¡± ¡°That¡¯s because they don''t have the slightest idea what makes us qualified. But they don¡¯t want lab-grown people at the head of the department. The legislators won¡¯t try to confirm that you¡¯re qualified for the role - that¡¯s my job. Instead, they¡¯ll focus on confirming that you¡¯ve lived an ordinary life in Antares, and that you were unaffiliated with me until recently.¡± There were a few moments of silence. Nathan and Caroline continued to share breakfast - stimufruit, regular fruit, water, and, in Nathan¡¯s case, quite a few hyper-dense nutrient bars. He needed them to fuel the extraordinarily rapid growth that his body was experiencing. ¡°Caroline?¡± ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°What¡¯s going to happen to me?¡± She looked down, trying to formulate a response. She took quite a long time to respond, giving each sentence a lot of thought. ¡°Well, based on what happened to me, it¡¯s going to get worse as the changes compound on each other. But then it¡¯s going to get better. You¡¯re going to get used to it. You¡¯re going to start a new life here. And the Antares Authority will continue.¡± ¡°No, what¡¯s going to happen to my body?¡± ¡°Telling you early will only make it feel worse. But very little of your body is going to stay the same, Nathan.¡±
Harold Food was an idiot, a moron, and quite possibly a dunce. Phoebe had been able to play him like a fiddle. She¡¯d even been able to do the manipulation herself - he didn¡¯t recognize even the most prominent Antarean officials. Sure, it would¡¯ve been trivial to go through an intermediary, but she¡¯d wanted to have some fun. The Terran Republic had already sent him in, so he was going to die anyway. Of course she could refit his fighter with monitoring equipment; there was nothing wrong with that. That was all she was doing anyway. Natasha wouldn¡¯t be mad at her once she understood what was going on. And she¡¯d bugged him, too. If he was going to die anyway, there was no reason not to get a visual feed of what was going on. The monitoring system that she had rigged the ship with had been more subtle than usual. It pointed to a relay buoy, rigged to self-destruct the second anything unusual happened to the ship. About thirty relay buoys later, the information would finally be directed to Antares. With no way to reliably make the monitoring equipment self-destruct, Phoebe had to compromise, using some of their more outdated technology to avoid tipping their hand. She only hoped the aliens wouldn¡¯t be able to follow the trail before it destroyed itself. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. ¡ª Harold Food was better than all the other peasants in the Terran Space Force. He had pilot blood - he was the son of Roland Food, the CEO of Standard Food, and a legendary fleet admiral. And he was an ace pilot. He was untouchable; he could fly anywhere he wanted without ever getting shot at (except for rival corporation territory, of course). The Space Force was lucky to have him. He¡¯d been wired up with cool, advanced mechanical parts that the admiral had promised would enhance his strength and intelligence! Of course, as a proud member of the Food dynasty, with his superior genes, Harold didn¡¯t need any enhancing, but every little bit would help if he was fighting against aliens! He was a fucking space marine, and he¡¯d mow them down! Now, he was flying his fighter, robotic servants and all. They would tend to his every need so he could focus on the important fight. He plugged the coordinates in and watched the computer do half the work while he began to work the throttle. He was superb at working the throttle, working in tandem with the computer to ensure that the coordinates were exactly right. He had weapons ready, the latest and greatest lasers and warheads and railguns. The alien ship was approaching. He was closing in. It was time to fire! PEW PEW PEW PEW PEW PEW PEW PEW PEW! He squeezed the triggers, smiling as he unloaded his ammunition into the ship¡­ Wait, what was happening? Why were his weapons gone? They¡¯d just disappeared into thin air! His memory did kind of suck, but he was pretty sure the weapons had worked. He hadn¡¯t checked in a while, but they¡¯d worked. He was kind of sure of that. Maybe he¡¯d been sabotaged. The evil commies in the Antares Authority might have somehow set him up for failure! After all, it wasn¡¯t like these space aliens could stand a chance against the latest and greatest experimental weapons from the TBI, and the best ship AIs money could buy! Plus, the refit the naval station had provided made his ship into a top-of-the-line masterpiece! At least, that was what she had said¡­ The alien scanned his top-of-the-line ship and moved in to intercept. That was fine; he¡¯d charge them head-on, and they¡¯d feel the wrath of the entire Food dynasty! The alien looked humanoid, but strangely¡­ leafy. Maybe it was an alien? Of course it was an alien, though Harold took disturbingly long to arrive at that conclusion. Five seconds later, he was completely tied up in vines, helpless against the evil green monster. Whatever vines weren¡¯t busy tying him up formed into a humanoid shape. It was about his height, and it was a rather crude imitation of him. ¡°You are being rescued. Please do not resist; that would be inconvenient.¡± What was the alien even doing? Why did it think that him struggling would be nothing but an inconvenience? How could it even speak English? Well, the latter question wasn¡¯t one Harold Food had; he believed that English was the only language. ¡°Unhand me, alien scum! I shall destroy you!¡± The alien ignored that, instead letting him struggle in the vines for a few seconds before he would hopefully realize that it was futile. And then he continued to struggle. The alien gave him credit - at least he had some spirit in him. ¡°Well, that¡¯s rather disrespectful,¡± the alien replied, staring into Harold¡¯s eyes with its own ones. One look was all it took for Harold to become entranced. The struggling slowed down to a crawl and then stopped as his muscles fell limp. There was no need to focus on anything else; the alien¡¯s eyes were so pretty - like diamonds, but somehow even more brilliant. They were a perfect brilliant green hue, tinged with a tiny bit of red in the center. And then she spoke melodic, powerful, angelic words - words that he felt compelled to obey. ¡°You will not struggle or attempt to resist, and you will respect us.¡± That was right. He was going to be respectful to the aliens. That voice was perfect, beautiful, and always correct. If it told him to jump off a bridge, he would do it without hesitation. Respecting others felt so¡­ right. He was going to respect the alien too. And then the hypnosis wore off. He got his wits about him, awareness slipping into his brain. He had been manipulated, toyed with, his mind altered in a way that was completely beyond his comprehension. Yet, it felt¡­ right. This was him now, and, try as he might, he couldn¡¯t find a reason not to respect the aliens. In fact, now that he thought about it, he realized that the peasants deserved respect too. He did have superior genes, but that didn¡¯t make him any more of a person than the rest of humanity. ¡°Would you please tell me your name?¡± the alien asked, using its vines to control the ship, telling it to dock with the Verwandt ship. ¡°My name is Harold,¡± he stammered. ¡°And, what about your last name?¡± How dare she not know? He was a member of the Food dynasty. However, he¡¯d still be respectful - it seemed like there was no way for him to be insolent, no matter how much he wanted to. ¡°It¡¯s Food. I¡¯m Harold Food¡± ¡°Well, congratulations, Harold Food! I can¡¯t wait to get you to your new home!¡± What had Harold gotten himself into?
It was time for a press conference. This was the best part of Natasha¡¯s job - one of the few things she could say were in her wheelhouse. Some crackpot media network had wised up to one of their conspiracies, and it was time for her to defend the Department of Autonomy, and make herself look good. She went over a few talking points in her head. She was going to do this from memory - it made it look more authentic and candid if she didn¡¯t have notes. Going up to the surface was her least favorite part, though. There were so many people, and she was very recognizable. All it would take was a failure on the part of her security combined with a radical conspiracy theorist, and she¡¯d be dead. Neither of these things was going to happen; there hadn¡¯t been an attempt on the life of a Department member in over a century. But she was still anxious as she boarded the subway to head to the public government building. The press was already there, patiently waiting for her. Luckily, she wasn¡¯t late, or she¡¯d be given hell for it. She¡¯d left her usual subtle makeup off, to give off the appearance that she was busy and sick. That would probably help. One outlet in particular was onto them - PEL news. She¡¯d give them time to ask questions - all the time they wanted. ¡°Thank you all for coming,¡± she started, ¡°Of course, I do have a couple of announcements to make, but, as is customary, I¡¯m going to start with taking questions.¡± The floodgates were opened, each journalist frantically trying to get their word in. About half of them had their hands raised, their prepared questions ready to escape their lips at a moment¡¯s notice. But there was a conspiracy theorist in the mix - a conspiracy theorist that was disturbingly close to the truth. She pointed to PEL news. ¡°What is your response to the cloning allegations?¡± Of course, it was the cloning. They always zeroed in on the growing-clones-in-a-lab conspiracy - it was the most plausible one, and cloning people was quite taboo. She could always simply ignore it; that was what her predecessors had done. But they¡¯d grown too widespread to ignore, and conspiracy theorists were notoriously self-destructive. She just had to keep them talking. ¡°Could you fill me in on exactly what these allegations are? What would we be using the cloning for?¡± ¡°To staff your department! You grow and exploit a race of disposable people to work in your bureaucracy! They never know of the outside world, never think of themselves as anything but workers! They live and die in your walls! You¡¯re an inhuman monster!¡± ¡°And why exactly would we do that when there are plenty of ordinary people to employ?¡± ¡°Clones are easier to control!¡± His argument had already been sunk. ¡°So, to sum it up¡­ we have a gigantic cloning facility that produces a bunch of slaves to staff our department. We have a bunch of secret education facilities to educate these people and raise them from birth to be competent employees. This would probably cost a fortune. And this is all so that they¡¯re slightly less likely to rebel against us. I don¡¯t think that would even be a good financial decision.¡± He was getting more distraught. He didn¡¯t know how ridiculous he was about to sound. ¡°We have reports! There are too many similar-looking people for it to be a coincidence! We have testimony, and some leaked reports!¡± ¡°So, none of these facilities have been found, you can¡¯t find a single person who was confirmed to be a clone, and all your evidence is hearsay.¡± He was done. They let anyone be a journalist these days; he was uniquely incompetent. She left herself a mental note to thank the media team for pointing him out; he¡¯d made her job so much easier. ¡°And then there¡¯s the simple explanation that we hire people normally, just like everyone else,¡± she continued, ¡°I think that one makes far more sense. Look, we humans were calibrated by evolution to recognize patterns. You see, we didn¡¯t evolve on Antares. We evolved on ancient Terra. And ancient Terra had a hostile biosphere - one that wasn¡¯t engineered by us. The animals and plants there were selfish, all in fierce competition with each other. They would poison each other, steal each other¡¯s food, anything so that they could get ahead of each other. We are no exception.¡± She paused, letting her words sink in. Old Terra was barely mentioned anymore - a dusty artifact of history. But it still shaped the kinds of people Antareans are today. ¡°We were shaped by that world, which meant we evolved to be better at perceiving these natural threats. Now, the interesting thing is, our eyes aren¡¯t perfect at perceiving things. They often miss details. So, our brains are good at filling in the gaps. So, even when something doesn¡¯t have a perfect resemblance to a threat, we still see it as one. Because, if you see a threat that isn¡¯t there, you get inconvenienced. But, if you don¡¯t see a threat that is there, you end up dead.¡± She gave it another pause, letting people draw their own conclusions. ¡°Sadly, this also leads to people seeing things that aren¡¯t there. It¡¯s easy to cobble together evidence for massive conspiracies like clone armies. Our brains just see the picture that¡¯s been painted. And it¡¯s easy for them to miss tiny little gaps, but all it takes is one little wrong detail,¡± she pauses for effect, ¡°and the whole theory falls apart. It stops making sense.¡± ¡°Now, does everyone remember what happened three years ago? I believe that the staff of the Department of Health are especially familiar with this.¡± She had manufactured that conspiracy theory herself, and now was the perfect time to throw it in the media¡¯s face. ¡°A collection of suspicious reports led to the widespread belief that the Department of Health¡¯s transplant organs were harvested from a slave race of clones. This belief led people to protest and create picket lines, causing disruptions that interfered with many peoples¡¯ important doctor visits and prescriptions, inconveniencing most, and hurting too many in the crossfire. Of course, it turned out to be a false alarm - not only was there no real evidence for this, but it didn¡¯t even make sense - it¡¯s cheaper and easier to grow organs with no bodies attached. And the misinformation that replacement bodies were grown with functional brains almost led to the practice of clone transplantation being outlawed!¡± She didn¡¯t need to state the importance of clone transplantation - about a third of the population of Antares knew someone who had been saved by the procedure, one way or another. The idea of outlawing clone transplantation was enough to scare the public. ¡°You won¡¯t get away with this, scum!¡± he yelled. That sealed the deal; he looked ridiculous. She let out a sigh, for effect. ¡°Are there any other questions?¡± she asked, before calling on a random journalist. ¡°What¡¯s the next Pilot Program going to be?¡± Finally, something good. The Pilot Program was her brainchild; she had introduced it to save money and make the Department more transparent. Every year, she took some of the more benign research or programs that were in the budget, and did them in public, rather than in secret. The funding was provided herself, but, generally, if it was successful and thought of as ¡°worth it¡± in the eyes of the public, the legislators would usually implement it as part of the regular budget, leaving her with more money to work with. The first one she did was an anti-alcohol education program, which she was quite proud of - an anti-drug program that produced real results. The psychologists had put a lot of work into the details. Then, there were a couple of bio-infrastructure improvements that otherwise would have remained top-secret. She didn¡¯t see any reason not to release them to the public - her team had managed to make synthread far more customizable, allowing the production of more comfortable seats and blankets, more durable floors, cheap, biodegradable shopping bags, and even butter knives in some cases. Last year¡¯s Pilot Program was even more synthread research, although lots of it was privatized this year. There were some rather promising results. The one she was focusing on was aerospace-grade synthread, which was airtight and could survive atmosphere re-entry. There was also a robotics laboratory that was researching programming animal-like features into syntrees, which would allow syntrees to develop muscles and joints. This could potentially allow them to move in seconds, rather than hours, and allow moving parts to be made out of synthread. If this panned out, they¡¯d be able to, among other things, control syntrees with buttons that were grown by the syntree, rather than sophisticated hormone dispensers. This year¡¯s Pilot Program had been difficult to decide. They were gearing up against hyper-advanced aliens, so she wanted the program to be something they could use against the aliens. However, she didn¡¯t want the Terran Republic to know about any of their new technologies. Anything that was made public could be used against them, which was why most programs were either things that applied only to Antares - economic initiatives, mainly - or infrastructure initiatives that everyone knew how to do, but just had to be done. There were three main military-related fields of research she could release information for - long-term hyperdrive tethering, DNA alteration and conforming, and hyperspace information transmission. The first one was the obvious answer; it only had uses against the aliens, and there was nothing that tethering could do to them. However, pitching it wouldn¡¯t go over well; the Pilot Program was supposed to be an obvious good. Making their cheap method of DNA conforming public would probably be a bad idea. The Republic would catch wind of it, and who knows what they¡¯d do? Then again, they didn¡¯t like biotech very much, so it probably wouldn¡¯t be that bad - though it would probably make the TBI¡¯s research easier. Maybe that will work well next year. The final one was their experimental hyperspace information transmission system. Inspired by the aliens, R&D was going to try to figure out how to send light into hyperspace while keeping the hyperdrive in the same place. But, again, even more so, she wanted that edge. She¡¯d decided a few hours before the conference. ¡°Our pilot program is going to be a research project on lowering the energy costs of hyperjumps, with a strong emphasis on long-term tethering and short, frequent jumps. We have a budget of 83 trillion, which will be allotted to the most promising researchers and groups.¡± ¡°When will the funds be distributed?¡± ¡°In about two weeks. Note that about half of this research will be done in-house, leaving 41.5 trillion up for grabs.¡± Cheaper transportation - who could argue with that? Nobody would have to know that the research was about blocking alien defenses. There were a few more questions, none of which were about conspiracy theories, thankfully. Nobody wanted to end up like the PEL news reporter. Thank the stars for that.
Phoebe looked inside the cell. She had finally managed to rescue a single GVD patient from the hell known as the Terran Republic. Of course, she wouldn¡¯t appreciate her help for quite a while, and she wouldn¡¯t appreciate Phoebe considering her to be a woman either. But that didn¡¯t change the fact that she was a woman, even if she didn¡¯t see it herself. She had pulled all the stops, too. Blaine Forester was going to turn into the type of woman she envied the most, instead of the utilitarian form that she had been given. That was the least she could do for someone like her. And that left one question - what would Blaine¡¯s new name be? She was too conspicuous and unique to just do a female version like Elaine. Lily would be far too stereotypical. She¡¯d make a good Caroline, but it was a little too soon to re-use that name; Natasha would probably throw a fit. So, the obvious answer was Lisa. Perhaps letting Lisa choose her name would be wise, but Phoebe had been named by someone else too. She deserved to pick somebody¡¯s name at some point. The last name had to go too, so Phoebe got to pick that one - though Forester was a great last name. It was quite cool, and it screamed ¡°Leader of the Offense Branch¡±. Perhaps something mildly similar in meaning would do. Sawyer. That was the result of a few minutes of searching, but it was well worth it; the right name didn¡¯t exactly make or break careers, but having a fitting one would certainly improve perceived performance. And Lisa Sawyer was almost as cool as Blaine Forester. Phoebe was operating in uncharted waters now. She¡¯d looked through the handbook her predecessors had made for taking successors, but all the techniques for breaking someone in were based on loyalty to the Antares Authority. They were all about convincing the successor that what they were doing was good for Antares. Lisa, however, didn¡¯t care about Antares in the slightest; in fact, she probably wanted the Department of Autonomy to fail, and, if she were to be released right then, she¡¯d do everything in her power to deliver a gift-wrapped Antares directly into Terran hands. The only tools mentioned in the handbook were The Snip and The Knife. The handbook promised that either of them would work out all the kinks in a successor - from thoughts of rebellion, to general depression, to Gender Variant Disorder. However, snipping would make Natasha throw a fit. She considered it to be murder, after all. Knifing, from its description, was even worse. So, there had to be another way. Perhaps she could demonstrate the value of Antares to Lisa - mainly get leverage and rapport from the fact that they were fixing her defective body. They could show her what a utopia they¡¯d managed to build here, talk about how the Republic¡¯s propaganda wasn¡¯t true. Well, most of it was indeed true. For example, they did indeed use human babies as lab rats - tens of thousands of them per year. Their department was indeed staffed with clones who would live a life knowing nothing but work. But there were plenty of good parts that the Republic had left out. Subterfuge Blaine Forester examined himself in the mirror. His hair had grown disturbingly quickly; it had just been a couple of days, and it was already at the middle of his back. It was clear where his old hair, cut in compliance with Naval uniform code, ended, and the new, blonde hair begun. It was his favorite hair color - on women, anyway. His fingernails needed to be clipped again; letting him do it himself was a small mercy that they had allowed him. As the nurse had said in an extraordinarily blunt way, his body was resetting itself, conforming to new DNA. The hairlessness was a small mercy; according to them, if he had continued to grow body or facial hair, it would¡¯ve become completely unmanageable. He didn¡¯t miss it. He¡¯d tried many times to focus on how uncomfortable it made him. But trying to dig up these feelings of discomfort yielded nothing. What was the point of it growing, anyway? It was one of the little mistakes of evolution - perhaps they were called vestigial structures? That was probably it. Again, he cursed the women who had their life on easy mode - no disgusting body hair to deal with. Well, they did have it, but they were allowed to shave it without being called a faggot. He rubbed his arms, admiring the new, soft skin he had. The dust the shedding generated was a nightmare, but it felt strangely right to have skin like this, like his normal skin had somehow been wrong, and he¡¯d just never known. The only cause for alarm was his rapidly-declining musculature. How could he impress the ladies without his biceps? What the fuck were they doing to him? Making him weak and useless?!! He wouldn¡¯t stand for this. Well, he would; he didn¡¯t exactly have a choice. A woman came into his cell. She looked like she was in her fifties, her raven-black hair already starting to gray. Despite the beginnings of wrinkles on her face, she looked quite lively - as if her mind was somehow younger than her body. And, more importantly, she wore a gray shirt with a single pink stripe around it. He could recognize that uniform style anywhere - she was a member of the Antares Authority, although the lack of decoration signified that she was probably rather low-level. But this was the Department of Autonomy, the only opaque portion of the Department; all bets were off here. The fucking commies had captured him, and the ugliest woman on that blasted commie star system was here to interrogate him. She sat down on a bench right next to him, apparently not threatened in the slightest by a military man without any of his limbs bound. She knew something that made it obvious he wasn¡¯t truly a threat - something he didn¡¯t know. Maybe there was some sort of containment field, or the injection made him too weak to put up a fight. She wasn¡¯t to be trifled with. ¡°So, how were the first two days of containment?¡± she opened, ¡°I know that those are the worst ones¡­¡± ¡°I won¡¯t tell anything about that mission, you stupid commie! You can torture me, kill me, turn me into a fucking soyboy, but I¡¯ll never talk!¡± ¡°Why would I need you to tell me about that mission?¡± Blaine paused for a moment, his eyes wide. He didn¡¯t know what to think, what to say. Why did they even go to the trouble of capturing him, then? The fact that he was missing would be far more suspicious; they could have just stolen the camera feed and gotten away with it. ¡°Well, why am I even here, then? What do you want from me? Other secrets? Battle plans?¡± he asked, genuinely confused. What was he even doing there? What information did they even need? ¡°Frankly, I know far more than you know, Lisa. You have nothing you can tell me,¡± was her curt reply. ¡°Who¡¯s Lisa?¡± ¡°You.¡± What even was this? Some sort of power play? Calling him by a different name for no reason? Wait, that¡¯s what they were doing. The lack of body hair, the muscles, the soft skin, the new name. They were turning him, Blaine Forester, random-ass fighter pilot, into a fucking woman, for whatever convoluted reason they had. And they hadn¡¯t even given him the courtesy of naming himself. Probably some sort of fetish that Ms. Commie had, or maybe he was going to become a lab rat, like one of their fucking test tube babies. ¡°So, you¡¯re turning me into a fucking woman?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Well, then what do you call this?¡± ¡°You¡¯ve always been a woman, Lisa. A woman who happens to be a victim of Gender Variant Disorder.¡± Gender Variant Disorder. That was what the Antares Authority called being a tranny; they believed that it was a disease that unlucky people were born with, and the only cure was replacing the ¡°defective¡± body. They really thought that gender wasn¡¯t influenced by society and culture, that nobody could be turned into a tranny by societal factors, and that you couldn¡¯t stop being a tranny, despite various public reports of trannies who abandoned their disgusting perversions. They had diagnosed him with Gender Variant Disorder, declared that his body was defective, and now they were taking it and replacing it against his will. How dare they? ¡°You strapped me down and injected me with drugs against my will! How dare you do this to me? You don¡¯t know me, you commie scum! I¡¯m not a fucking tranny, I¡¯m not a fucking woman, and I¡¯ll never be one, no matter what your sick perverts try! My name is Blaine Forester, and you will never take it away from me!¡± Ms. Commie let out a sigh, clearly defeated by Blaine¡¯s mental prowess. She took a few seconds to think, wandering around the prison cell, figuring out her next response before sitting down. ¡°Okay, so, do you want me to bring your body hair back then, Blaine? Your tough skin? Your muscles?¡± That was his name¡­ Ms. Commie had used his real name. Why did it hurt so much? He wasn¡¯t supposed to be like this, he wasn¡¯t supposed to be so effeminate. He wanted to go back. But why did the idea of going back hurt? He¡¯d been used to it; he¡¯d spent seven years being used to his body hair and his skin and everything. It was all familiar; he was supposed to miss it. Why didn¡¯t he? He managed a nod. She grabbed a communicator from her pocket, hitting the transmit button, and began to talk into it. ¡°Hello? Nurse? We have a real man on our hands. I need an antidote, stat. He wants his chest hair back.¡± Why did that feel so painful? He imagined going back, imagining the body hair, the rough skin, the muscles. It was wrong. It was hard to admit - he was supposed to miss it, but he didn¡¯t want any of it. A minute went by, and he remained silent. The nurse came in, holding an aluminum tray, containing a syringe with a blue liquid in it, as well as an alcohol prep pad. It wasn¡¯t supposed to be there. This was wrong, but he didn¡¯t want the antidote. ¡°Wait!¡± ¡°What is it, Blaine?¡± That name stung. He hadn¡¯t quite realized how bad it had stung until now, now that he realized there was an alternative. ¡°I don¡¯t want the antidote!¡± The nurse continued to approach him. ¡°Well, then, I¡¯ll need you to answer one question,¡± Ms. Commie replied. What question would she even need answered? As he felt the alcohol pad being rubbed on his arm, he began to ponder. They didn¡¯t need anything; Ms. Commie already knew everything about their navy, if she was to be believed. He was apparently useless in terms of information. And then the question came. ¡°What is your name?¡± He knew what he had to say. ¡°Lisa. My name is Lisa.¡± The nurse retreated. There was no pain. There was no antidote injected. He wouldn¡¯t get any of his male features back. And that was good.
Perhaps watching the video feed was a waste of time; it would be better to spend it doing something else and wait for Phoebe to tag the interesting parts. But, after a week of making budgets and plans, Natasha finally had some time on her hands, some room for inefficiency. She could watch full videos now. She could burn a bit of free time. She still had to eat, drink, and breathe work, but she could do her breathing a little easier. The tone of the alien¡¯s voice had been filtered. There was a note of explanation attached: The Verds, as they were called, spoke in tones that were rather¡­ hypnotic. It got into the mind and seemed to be incredibly persuasive, the voice having been intentionally modulated to attack the human psyche. One of the technicians reviewing the sample had become compromised, their mind influenced too much to be salvageable. They¡¯d regrettably had to snip him, and a few others had to be reassigned to less critical roles. It was a shame; retraining was expensive, and snipping was even more so. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Additionally, they¡¯d logged the Verds¡¯ capability of a more direct, active form of influencing the human mind - hypnosis. Every labbie who¡¯d watched the raw video had been hypnotized. Luckily, the words didn¡¯t affect them in any meaningful way; the hypnosis was highly situational, and wouldn¡¯t affect their ability to do their jobs. Still, just to be safe, she was going to have them all snipped tomorrow. Thank the stars they could just snip labbies instead of having to replace them; body disposal, according to Caroline, had been a nightmare. But, on the bright side, they¡¯d learned a valuable lesson about alien interaction. If one of those aliens were ever identified as present, they could filter all of their techniques out of the recordings. The hypnotic eyes were easy; a simple machine learning algorithm would identify them and black them out. There was a worry that the algorithm could be hypnotized by the footage, which was rather farfetched, but it was addressed by resetting it after each frame it saw. Before then, applying a simple Gaussian blur to all the videos would work well enough. The Department of Autonomy wasn¡¯t fond of machine learning, and preferred more traditional, if old, programming instead. Traditional algorithms were rigid compared to machine learning, and required more work, but they were less vulnerable, less likely to have backdoors, and, most importantly, more transparent and easier to modify - and, thus, more trustworthy. Natasha had seen the dangers of rampant machine learning firsthand - Phoebe¡¯s underlings had been able to use prompt injections to grab important corporate secrets this way. She didn¡¯t want her systems to have those vulnerabilities. The biggest problem they¡¯d had trouble with was the vocal cadence. Despite all the filtration, the Verds were still able to exert too much influence simply with the pattern of their words. In order to filter those out, they had to get slightly creative - they ran it through a primitive speech-to-text system, and then they ran the output through a primitive text-to-speech system that outputted voice without using any tone at all. Finally, the entire video was sanitized, and there it sat, ready for consumption by her and her cabinet. Sometimes, she wondered if growing a slave race in a gigantic lab was unethical. But this work had to be done by somebody; it was better if they were born into it, instead of experiencing a normal childhood and then being taken into this place. Of all the potential solutions, this was the most ethical way to keep Antares alive. But was it really worth it? Yes; the math didn¡¯t lie. She¡¯d seen the horrors that took place outside Antares, and she wouldn¡¯t let them happen here. She couldn¡¯t. The video started with a green, writhing mass of vines breaching the idiot¡¯s hull. The alien was a formless mass of extraordinarily durable vines capable of surviving in the void. It was able to exert incredibly high amounts of force, as the sensors had recorded. It restrained Harold Food, and then¡­ It simply informed him that he was being rescued, and asked him not to resist. What exactly was Harold even being rescued from? He was blatantly an enemy; this made no sense. But the alien simply kept restraining him. There was no attempt to sedate, no attempt to neutralize¡­ it simply knew that Harold wasn¡¯t a threat to it. It slowly panned over Harold, doing an in-depth search. The bugs that Phoebe had put into him were completely ignored, as if the aliens didn¡¯t know their purpose, or had been unable to see them. Perhaps somebody lesser would count their blessings and blame alien incompetence for the bugs not being found out. However, Natasha knew that these aliens had decent scanning equipment. There was no way that equipment like this would be overlooked or not found if they¡¯d figured out how to scan for lifeforms properly. No, the aliens knew that they were watching. And this was something that they wanted Natasha to see. It was something they wanted everyone to see. She immediately went to attach this conclusion to the video, typing it in and attaching it, making note of the timestamp. The Department of Autonomy¡¯s system was ingenious - any media had notes that could be attached to them. These were usually summaries and just general descriptions that made it easier to process. Putting the annotations in the same file as the videos had made her job a lot easier; she wondered why civilians hadn¡¯t done this yet. What was this? Was it imperialism? Did they think that people like Harold Food would want this sort of thing? Regardless, Natasha knew their natural ability to manipulate people. But, they did approach this as if they were genuinely trying to help Harold. Perhaps this was manipulation, but perhaps this was genuinely how they saw things. These aliens might not actually be evil; they might be capable of reason, of holding a conversation. Regardless, even if it was a lie, any information they were to divulge would still tell her something about them. She wasn¡¯t naive, however; she knew the precautions to take. She wouldn¡¯t risk her diplomats. No, any conversation she were to hold would have to be digital to allow for filtering. She wouldn¡¯t let aliens hypnotize any more of her labbies. She wouldn¡¯t let the aliens sway them with their biorhythms, or woo them with their cadence. No, any diplomacy with them would either feature a sacrificial lamb, or the conversation would be extensively filtered. She would have to talk to Leo about that.
Nicole, lead of the Subterfuge Branch, was looking at her diplomatic contact, William Thorten. He was heavily decorated, his gray shirt sporting five horizontal blue stripes that went from his waist to his chest, where three medallions were positioned. He thought that these were about specialization, the stripes meaning that he somehow outranked Nicole. In reality, each stripe was a symbol of inferiority, each medallion even more so. It was fun to watch him play diplomat. He genuinely believed that everything he said was true. And their lie detectors did too. She laughed to herself - they genuinely thought this was an official diplomat, somebody who knew everything. Well, perhaps she shouldn¡¯t overestimate them; being inside the government allowed any document you printed to be real. The room he was in could only be described as excessively opulent. The table they were at was made of gold, encrusted with diamonds wherever was possible. A feast was arranged on it, the main course being roast Wagyu beef, smothered in an inordinate amount of gold leaf. Everything about the scene made Nicole sick; there was so much wasted potential. Across from him sat Roland Food¡¯s most trusted diplomat, Tyler Sustenance - a man who practically exuded corruption. Well, that wasn¡¯t surprising; what else could a corporate man willing to make a deal with ¡°communists¡± be described as? ¡°As you know, Roland Food wants his son dead,¡± Tyler opened, ¡°Reluctantly, he has gone to you for help. He is willing to make a deal - if you can fabricate an order from Standard Oil for a suicide mission¡­¡± ¡°That can be arranged. It would be trivial. But, I have a counterproposal.¡± His face lit up, his honesty incredibly clear. This was a direct order from the legislators of the Antares Authority, notarized by all of them. He pushed the proposal over. ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°We know that Standard Food wants to go to war. It¡¯s an obvious conclusion; you hold the upper hand. But we could cripple them and ensure your victory.¡± ¡°And how exactly could the Antares Authority do that? All your weapons are defensive.¡± ¡°Ah, but war isn¡¯t just waged on the battlefield. If we pool our influence in the senate with yours, we could get rid of the monopoly Standard Oil has on plastics. The Antares Authority is prepared to undercut them and cripple their profit margins, which would destroy their ability to do business, allowing you to seize their infrastructure with ease.¡± ¡°What¡¯s in it for you?¡± ¡°Profit. We¡¯d take over the plastics business with our cheap, durable alternatives, and you¡¯d be down one rival. Win, win.¡± ¡°Throwing our weight around for this is incredibly costly, and it¡¯ll make it more difficult to defend ourselves from impending legislation. How do we know that you won¡¯t double-cross us?¡± ¡°We¡¯ve been your staunch ally against Standard Oil for over a century. What kind of moron would throw all that goodwill away? And, besides, everything is legally binding. I¡¯m Antares¡¯s prime diplomat; I¡¯m irreplaceable, and whatever I say goes. Finally, I¡¯d like to show you records of our food production.¡± He slid over a notarized graph of Antares¡¯s domestic food production - barely half of what¡¯s required to feed Antares itself. They still relied on imports from Standard Food in order to function. ¡°We simply aren¡¯t a threat to your food business. Undermining your monopoly would be useless.¡± Tyler Sustenance snapped his fingers, and armed guards shambled into the room, each of them taking their place right next to William. ¡°Then, you won¡¯t mind if I keep you here as insurance, then?¡± ¡°Of course not! Plus, there¡¯s no way they¡¯d leave me to die. I¡¯m irreplaceable! Nobody¡¯s capable of matching my prowess!¡± ¡°We agree to your proposition,¡± Tyler said. The guards immediately grabbed the diplomat, and, without a fight, he was led into a comparatively non-opulent jail cell. ¡ª The next meeting, having taken place one day later, was slightly more grim. Brendan Oil had a little bit more of a personal touch. Instead of the opulence of a king that Roland Food preferred, Brendan¡¯s place of residence was more of a supervillain¡¯s lair - lots of open space, a black throne, and enough cybernetics that Brendan himself looked more like a machine than a human. It was incredibly intimidating; Nicole would give him that. Perhaps, if she were there, she¡¯d crack. But it was impossible to crack someone who genuinely believed they were telling the truth. Boris Milton, Nicole¡¯s other diplomatic contact, stood on the opposite side of the room, ready to begin the negotiations. ¡°I¡¯ve received advanced warning that Standard Food is going to blame Harold¡¯s death on you,¡± Boris opened. ¡°Good. Then they¡¯ve walked right into our trap.¡± ¡°I have a proposal to make, your highness.¡± A creepy smile appeared on Brendan¡¯s face. Upon closer inspection, it seemed to be one of genuine elation. ¡°Yes, yes. You may speak.¡± ¡°The Antares Authority wishes to help make the war even easier. They desire to remove Roland Food¡¯s monopoly on food, which would cripple them! If you throw your support behind the measure, it would make your victory all the more glorious!¡± ¡°An interesting proposal, and a tempting one. But how am I sure you aren¡¯t planning to double-cross me?¡± It seemed like he could destroy Boris at any moment, if he so desired. ¡°Y-you can¡­ scan my memories, your highness.¡± Without a word, Brendan rose, almost gliding to Boris. A cybernetic tentacle, made for this exact purpose, wrapped itself around Boris¡¯s head and began to bore into his skull. Boris screamed in pain, his mind being violated by the CEO of Standard Oil as he searched every nook and cranny of his cranium, internalizing every fact that Boris knew. Boris was telling the truth. He was a premiere diplomat of the Antares Authority; the decisions he made were binding. And he was one-of-a-kind and irreplaceable, a once-in-a-generation genius. Boris was unceremoniously tossed upwards, his arms latched onto some black metal fixture as he was hung from the ceiling of Brendan¡¯s throne room. ¡°I accept your proposal. You will remain here until the vote concludes¡­ for insurance purposes.¡± ¡ª The wars had begun days ago - light lag was a bitch - but the vote still had a week or two before it happened. She¡¯d confirmed; the corporations were going to lay waste to each other. ¡°So, you¡¯ve set up a scheme with both of them? Isn¡¯t that a waste of resources? Isn¡¯t one of your diplomats going to die?¡± ¡°Maxwell, you know how much they hate each other. We can use that to our advantage. That animosity was pitifully easy for our ancestors to cause, and now we¡¯re reaping the fruits of our labor.¡± ¡°I mean, that¡¯s just how this kind of operation works. You have to side with one of them. The entire point of this is to create competition and chaos and power vacuums. Doing both is useless.¡± ¡°Well, I¡¯m doing something a little bit different this time.¡± ¡°Seriously, Nicole¡­ Who wins this one?¡± Nicole¡¯s tone could only be described as smug. ¡°Us.¡±
One week after receiving the serum, he had finally kind of gotten used to all the changes. Clipping his nails three times a day was frustrating, but he managed. He¡¯d gotten his hair lopped off to a more manageable length the previous day, only for it to already be back down to his shoulders. The hairlessness was weird, and it felt completely wrong, but he¡¯d gotten used to it, somewhat. The skin took getting used to, but was surprisingly nice. Working with Caroline was nice. He could just get lost in the paperwork, the budget requests, the maintenance that had to be done. He¡¯d learned quickly, and he was already able to do some of it - although he was quite a bit slower than Caroline. The hardest part was shadowing her when she interacted with the rest of the cabinet. He¡¯d gotten to meet them, and he was aware of the existence of others like him, but they never let them interact with each other in any meaningful way. Caroline wanted everyone to be finished changing before they did so. Still, despite that, he could still see them. They seemed to be in similar situations to him, feeling absolutely horrible about their changing bodies, trying to chug along despite that, everything. Everyone except for the new boy in the Observation Branch. Perhaps it was fake, but he had a smile on his face, like he was glad that this was happening to him, like he was glad to be here, like there was nothing horrible about this place at all. It was an even mix of guys and girls, all with long hair, soft skin, and no body hair whatsoever, but he didn¡¯t know any of their names - the only name he knew was Caroline. The lack of social activity was getting to him a bit; it seemed like all he was allowed to process and consume was information, as if friendships and bonding and emotional fulfillment during this time meant nothing. He did have awfully big shoes to fill, however, that was true. And being prepared to lead a systemwide government agency would definitely be difficult. He gave himself a good look in the mirror for the first time in a while¡­ there were more things. His face was unrecognizable, like the person staring back at him wasn¡¯t really him, like his face belonged to someone else. He¡¯d expected it, braced for it, but he wasn¡¯t prepared for what he saw. It was all wrong. The eyes were too wide, the lips were too thick. His entire face was too soft - not just because of the new skin, but because his very bones and fat distribution had been altered. He didn¡¯t know that could be done. The eyes were wrong, too. They were the same color as they¡¯d always been, but there was something indescribable about how the irises had been altered. They were a window to someone else¡¯s soul now. Even his hairline was different, his widow¡¯s peak gone. He wanted it back, but not even a razor could help him anymore. If he squinted at the face, he could see¡­ No. They wouldn¡¯t make his body defective. They wouldn¡¯t curse him with Gender Variant Disorder. They weren¡¯t that cruel. He stripped down, looking for the anatomical signs that he was still a guy. Penis? Yeah, he still had a penis. Balls? Present - hairless, but present. Chest hair? Nonexistent, but that was to be expected. Flat chest? He could see them. Not very big, but undeniably there. His breathing accelerated as he stared at them like a deer in the headlights. They were there. He was becoming a woman. How could they do this to him? They were mutilating him, turning his own body against him, transforming it into something alien that he¡¯d never desire being. He would never be a man again. He would never pee standing up, he¡¯d have to deal with all this painful period stuff, everything. He¡¯d never be able to get someone pregnant. Body hair wouldn¡¯t look good on him anymore. The worst part about this was the familiarity he was going to lose. Being a man was like home. His body was like home. Above all, his manhood was the last remnant of his former life. It was his rock, his island of stability, a piece of driftwood in a raging sea. For the first time in years, Nathan wept. When he realized how girly he sounded, he wept even harder. ¡ª ¡°Why the hell are you turning me into a fucking girl?!!¡± Nathan screamed at Caroline, his voice too androgynous for his tastes. He couldn¡¯t drop it any lower than it currently was. ¡°You see, modifying peoples¡¯ DNA is difficult and expensive. The more modifications, the more steps you need to take to ensure that you have a viable strand. Making someone unrecognizable is tough. Changing a sex chromosome is the easiest way to do that. Most bang for your buck, if that makes sense.¡± ¡°But what about GVD?¡± Nathan asked, holding back tears. ¡°You get used to it, Nathan. I promise you that.¡± ¡°But that¡¯s not how it works! I¡¯ve read the medical textbooks. You - you can¡¯t just get used to Gender Variant Disorder. It only gets worse while you ignore it!¡± he stammered. ¡°Let¡¯s just say¡­ we have our tricks, Nathan. Everything¡¯s going to be just fine in a couple of months. I promise,¡± was the reply. As much as Caroline attempted to be reassuring, it didn¡¯t work. Nathan wasn¡¯t convinced. And he stayed not convinced for an entire day. Offense Blaine wasn¡¯t sure what to do. Why had he turned down a chance for the antidote? Why had he said his name was Lisa in order to turn down the antidote ? Why did his past self feel so detached from his masculinity? It made no sense! And yet, try as he might, he couldn¡¯t miss anything. He knew he was supposed to miss his old body, feel uncomfortable with the changes that had happened, yet¡­ He gave himself another look in the mirror. It was disturbing how quickly this genetic serum had been able to change him. Just one milliliter of the stuff, and here he was, developing a disturbingly large pair of boobs. All of his features were softer, prettier, better . Two weeks, and he was already beautiful if he were to squint. It seemed like his features were shifting into the kinds of things he used to envy on women - the very things he wished he could have. He began to wonder whether it was a coincidence or not; had Phoebe looked in his diary, seen his crushes? Seen the envy that he¡¯d left dripping on every page? It was embarrassing to even think about it. His dick, small as it was, stood erect at the sight of the beautiful blonde woman he saw in the mirror. It was probably going to disappear at some point, submerged under the shifting tide of rapidly dividing cells. He wasn¡¯t going to miss it at all. Looking down at it, he realized that there was a slight discrepancy, something he was surprised he hadn¡¯t seen until now. Right below his shrunken penis was¡­ Nothing. He didn¡¯t miss them either. What was even the point of having balls? Producing baby juice? He wasn¡¯t going to be a dad; what was even the point of being a dad? Besides, getting pregnant was the more important parental role. Providing genetic material was worthless; it didn¡¯t really make your kid yours ; you might as well adopt. Carrying a fetus for nine months, though¡­ that was important. That was a big thing. Embarrassingly, he looked into his partially transformed body. He knew that this was incredibly wrong; it felt like he was defiling his own body. But, on the other hand¡­ it had been two entire weeks, he was incredibly pent-up, and the woman in the mirror was smoking hot .
Nathan was suffering more and more as his body began to turn against him. Caroline had lied; this week had been far worse than the first one. In the first week, there was some optimism, some ignorant bliss about what was going to happen, but¡­ he was having trouble focusing on things other than the¡­ dysphoria, that¡¯s what it was called. Dysphoria. He¡¯d seen one of the male staff members, and that had been enough to set him off. They reminded him of the things he¡¯d lost, the things he¡¯d never get back - the prominent muscles, the height, the body hair - all attributes of his body that were stolen and would never be given back to him. But, at least his body was still nominally male. He still had a penis and a pair of balls. However effeminate they had made him, he was still a guy. Yet, looking in the mirror, that had grown harder and harder to remember. The haircuts had become absolutely necessary every single day, to prevent himself from seeing a woman in the mirror. Sometimes, they weren¡¯t even enough, and that was all he saw - none of the man he used to be was left on the outside. But he still had his brain; it was the inside that counted. He was still a guy, and there was nothing they could do to take that from him. No matter what they did to his body, that was the immutable unchangeable fact - as long as he lived, he would be a guy. That provided some relief. And then, once again, looking in the mirror took it all away. Crying had grown more commonplace. He¡¯d tried to stop himself from doing it, yet it was impossible to stop his emotions from being overloaded now. That made sense; he was under a great deal of stress. And even his voice was being ripped away from him. His precious voice, the one he enjoyed talking in, another anchor, another bit of familiarity, was being shifted into yet another alien aspect of himself. He couldn¡¯t even hear a man anymore as he spoke. Try as he might to lower his voice, his new vocal cords simply couldn¡¯t produce the correct pitch or resonance. Regardless, he did sound as masculine as ever, in terms of cadence and tone. This would probably be forced to change as well, knowing the Department of Autonomy. They didn¡¯t want to leave any trace of this modification, so everything would go. He looked at himself in the mirror once again, once again looking at the checklist as the number of male features left to count began to dwindle. He skipped most of it; they¡¯d all been gone for a few days now, and they weren¡¯t coming back; that was obvious. But he still had his dick and his balls. Dick? Yep. Where were his balls?!! Searching his body was an utterly pointless endeavor, but it was one that his desperation forced him to do. Feeling around for them resulted in the confirmation that they were truly gone. All that remained of his manhood was a penis, one that had shrunk a disturbing amount. He collapsed onto the ground, once again pushed to the edge. All it took was a couple of weeks, and he¡¯d already been reduced to a sobbing mess.
Brendan Oil had just voted as the Antares Authority had directed him. They had taken care of Standard Food, and, together, they would destroy Roland¡¯s monopoly. Everything was submitted, and it was all final. All there was to do was wait for the senate¡¯s results. In theory, the senate was governed by the people, but, in practice, it was governed by corporations giving campaign contributions and exerting their influence. The corporations had decided to limit campaign spending and forced it to be at most 0.1% of the budget in order to prevent them from choking each other out. It was obviously a trust agreement, against the spirit of even a basic level of competition, but what was the Terran Republic going to do about it? The 0.1% had been spent, and Standard Oil¡¯s contribution to the senate campaign funds had been locked in. There was nothing that he could do to change it. Now, it was time to watch his enemy die, and then, the Antares Authority, those loyal communist suckers , would crumble. The diplomat was the first one he¡¯d kill. Then his militia, finally reunited with Standard Food after 120 years of conflict and multiple generations, would destroy the pitiful defenses of the Antares Authority. They were calibrated against the Terran Space Force, weak to corporate militia strategy, tactics, and technology. And that was going to cost them dearly. But only after they were reunited. ¡°So, it¡¯s done, your highness?¡± The diplomat spoke. But it wasn¡¯t his voice. It was the voice of a woman. A pathetic, dumb bimbo who probably belonged in the kitchen. Or, no, not even that; she was a middle-aged prune. Worthless in every way, and he could tell that based on naught but her voice. But it was some higher-up; that was for sure. He couldn¡¯t believe that a higher-up like this could exist in this farcical society. ¡°Yes, you stupid bitch! It¡¯s done. Your government was foolish to ally with us.¡± ¡°Oh? Are we?¡± Meanwhile, the diplomat began to shudder. He was surprised. He thought she was his secretary, as did Brendan himself. ¡°Yes. You will be discarded; everything is done, and you cannot change your votes. We will beat Standard Food, and then we will beat you.¡± ¡°I think you need to learn a little bit of history, Brendan. ¡± ¡°What do I even need to know?¡± ¡°What happened one hundred and twenty years ago?¡± ¡°Robert Oil, CEO of Standard Oil, had twins, Percy and Terrence. At Robert¡¯s untimely death, they were unsure who would inherit it. They were originally going to share the crown, but Terrence tried to rule it for himself, and founded Standard Food instead.¡± This was basic history; he knew this. Percy was his great-grandfather, and he had been double-crossed by Terrence. But the Antares Authority had come to the rescue, informing him of his twin¡¯s impending betrayal, allowing him to prepare and seize half the throne. ¡°Who do you think gave Terrence that idea?¡± How dare she? Did she think she¡¯d outsmarted him? Who¡¯d done it?!! Terrence had come up with that idea on his own; it was obvious. Meanwhile, the diplomat himself had a completely different expression on his face. He felt betrayed, confused, having no idea what was going on. ¡°So?¡± Brendan asked, ¡°Get to the point.¡± ¡°Oh, I will. Eighty-five years ago. Standard Food¡¯s spies stole your corporate secrets under Percy Oil¡¯s reign. Who really did that?¡± ¡°It was Standard Food, you imbecile! Of course it was Standard Food! They¡¯ve had it out for us since we¡¯ve split!¡± ¡°Fifty years ago. Your grandfather was killed in a bombing orchestrated by Standard Food. This led to a big skirmish between the two corporations. Who told them his location?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know! We never found out!¡± He exclaimed! ¡°Grandpa just died ! Why did they have to do that to him?!! He was a good man! We played baseball together!¡± The formerly intimidating man had been reduced to tears. But Nicole had another round. ¡°Twenty-five years ago. Standard Food discovers the espionage operation we ordered, and used that diplomatic incident to justify a surprise attack. A city¡¯s worth of assets were destroyed. Who tipped them off?¡± Brendan¡¯s sadness cemented into anger. ¡°That was the worst day of my fucking life! You¡¯ve investigated this fucking garbage, you worthless bitch! You tell me what happened if you¡¯re so good at figuring it out.¡± ¡°A month ago. The Antares Authority informed you that Roland Food wanted to blame you for his son¡¯s death. You prepared for war. Who gave him that idea?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know, an advisor?¡± Brendan asked, ¡°What do you even want from me?!¡± ¡°Yesterday. Standard Food and Standard Oil both turned their attention towards attacking each other. The senate, as a consequence, will up repealing both of their monopolies. This wouldn¡¯t be possible without the intervention of another party. Who repealed them?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know, the influence reports won¡¯t be available for another few days! Go to someone else if you need intelligence! Fuck off!¡± The diplomat was shivering, and holding back tears. He knew something that Brendan didn¡¯t - the obvious conclusion of everything Nicole had been saying. His entire life had been a lie. What he didn¡¯t know was that he had a ten-pound biochemical explosive right under his stomach. It was a combination between pure oxygen, powdered sugar, and a synthread containment vessel, none of which would be detected as anomalous on a scanner. The detonator was cleverly hidden in the standard recording equipment that most diplomats had embedded in their bodies. ¡°Today. The CEO of Standard Oil dies in a mysterious explosion, leaving his heir fatherless at age fifteen. Who caused the explosion, dipshit?¡± Then, there was snorting. And, a few seconds later, laughter. There was a lot of laughter as Nicole tried and failed to stop herself. They really thought that she was a corporate spy. The diplomat began to scream in pain, realizing exactly what was going to happen to him. Brendan Oil¡¯s thick head finally realized. His eyes widened, the anger on his face vanishing, replaced with sheer shock. ¡°It was Antares. It¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s always been Antares.¡± The dark room finally lit up. And then he was nothing.
The recording device for Harold Food¡¯s recordings hadn¡¯t been taken out, though the aliens had obviously seen it. That raised a few questions: Were their scanners really that bad, so bad they couldn¡¯t figure out what the bugs they¡¯d embedded into his skin were? Or did they want them to see what they were doing to him? What they were doing to Harold was incredibly flattering. The aliens had used their mind control abilities to render him docile, and then¡­ pampered him. He lived in a way that was perhaps even better than he¡¯d lived previously. There was luxurious food, there were devices that could create anything he could dream of, and, so long as he didn¡¯t hurt anyone, he had free rein. After three days of ensuring that he could be trusted (mainly via hypnosis reinforcement), they¡¯d let him go anywhere he pleased throughout the ship. It was more like he was a guest than a prisoner. The most alarming part, of course, was that he was being filmed. The labbies had labeled cameras that appeared in Harold¡¯s field of view, and it was obvious that there were far more. Was this a¡­ publicity stunt? But what about all the other abductions? They¡¯d happened weeks ago, and yet there was no publicity. Perhaps it was because Harold Food was a prince, whereas the rest of them were too low-profile to be good publicity. But, the question remained: What happened to them? They¡¯d just entered the mothership, and never left. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. One thing was for certain, however. Natasha could deduce that they at least cared about public relations. Whether what they were doing was ethical¡­ the jury was still out on that, but it was always important to prepare for the worst. She thought to a lesson she had learned years upon years ago: Even a lie can provide valuable information about the person telling it. No matter what the aliens¡¯ attentions were, the fact was, they cared about public relations. That was a lever, a lever she could potentially use in diplomacy. They would have to be consistent and keep to their word, in order to get the public opinion they obviously cared about. Natasha still had no idea what they were using Harold Food for. But it probably wasn¡¯t representative of what all the other abductees were getting.
Phoebe walked in right as he was finishing. ¡°You know, you lasted longer than me,¡± she giggled. ¡°What do you even-¡± he stammered, ashamed of getting caught. He quickly grabbed a tissue, wiping up the mess he made, before pulling his pants back up. ¡°It only took me a week to¡­ do the deed, when this happened to me.¡± ¡°So, wait a second. You used to be a¡­ guy?¡± ¡°Well, no. I¡¯m like you. I¡¯ve always been a woman. I just used to have GVD. All the other women here used to be guys.¡± ¡°Like¡­ that entire government agency?¡± ¡°Yep, all 31 of them.¡± ¡°But your body used to be male, right?¡± Phoebe let out a sigh. ¡°Yeah, like I said,¡± she replied. Blaine wasn¡¯t quite sure if he believed that. ¡°So, want to play a game of chess?¡± Phoebe added. ¡°A fucking commie kidnaps me, changes my body against my will, and then asks me to play a game of chess?¡± ¡°Well, yeah. I¡¯m assuming that you¡¯re bored out of your mind, and you know how to play, right?¡± ¡°Did you read my diary or something?¡± ¡°Yeah, why?¡± He didn¡¯t expect her to admit that so casually. That was a dramatic invasion of privacy, and it was completely messed up, and here she was, acting like it was no big deal. ¡°That¡¯s pretty fucking creepy.¡± She shrugged. ¡°That¡¯s literally my job. So, are you game?¡± He nodded, while Phoebe went to grab a chessboard. ¡°So, why am I even here, Phoebe? I¡¯m pretty sure there are better ways to cure peoples¡¯ defective bodies than to kidnap them.¡± ¡°Well, that¡¯s a long story,¡± Phoebe replied, ¡°Let¡¯s just say that my team messed up a little bit. You weren¡¯t supposed to be sent with our drone. It should¡¯ve been completely automated, according to Natasha. Also, it really shouldn¡¯t have been you. You¡¯re in the Terran Space Force, and you shouldn¡¯t have been familiar with our experimental program. That turned you into an information risk.¡± ¡°So, basically, you guys fucked up, I figured out too much, and you had to take me here. I get it.¡± He moved his bishop across the board, capturing Phoebe¡¯s rook before she returned the favor. ¡°Why am I still here then? Why not eliminate me?¡± he added. Phoebe took quite awhile to answer that - about three chess moves. ¡°Well, Natasha didn¡¯t want to kill people unnecessarily, so she vetoed that option. And then I made a proposal. We needed someone with military experience on our cabinet.¡± ¡°Wait, is she the Natasha? Like, the head commie?¡± Natasha, the chair of the Department of Autonomy, had been given the nickname of ¡°head commie¡± by the local chapter of the Terran Space Force. Since she was the most powerful figure in the Department, she was the closest thing they had to a leader - although there was no one true leader of Antares. ¡°Yeah, sure, she¡¯s the head commie.¡± ¡°Alright. Let me get this straight. You¡¯re trying to make me into a high-ranking government official? Just some random pilot?¡± ¡°You¡¯re quite bright, Lisa. You have lots of wasted potential. You¡¯d be an officer if you were in a real meritocracy. Even an admiral, with a bit of luck.¡± He¡¯d correct her, but¡­ As much as he didn¡¯t want to admit it, the name ¡°Lisa¡± was actually quite nice. ¡°Do you seriously expect me to just flip into some sort of loyal Antarean? This just makes no fucking sense!¡± ¡°Well, the thing is, you¡¯re from the Terran Space Force. They hate Antares, and they spread a lot of propaganda about us. And, quite a bit of that is exaggerated and fake. I just think that, once you discover the truth, you¡¯ll come around.¡± ¡°Okay. So, let¡¯s go through the propaganda, then. Do you experiment on babies?¡± Knowing lying would be useless here, Phoebe let out a sigh, admitting the truth. ¡°Yeah, we actually do that. Our health branch experiments on a few thousand per year, doing trials of genetic modifications to apply to various contingents of the population. In our defense, most of the genetic modifications are safe, and all of them are quite well-tested via computer simulations.¡± He hadn¡¯t actually believed that the Antares Authority was doing genetic experiments on babies; he¡¯d thought that was just one of the lies, or at least exaggerated. This made them even worse than he¡¯d thought they were. ¡°Okay, but¡­ what about cloning? Do you raise clones just to reap their organs?¡± ¡°No! Why would we even do that? That¡¯s hilariously inefficient! It¡¯s so much easier to just grow the organ.¡± They didn¡¯t do it; that was good. But Phoebe hadn¡¯t said anything about finding the idea of raising a clone just for its organs to be unethical. It sounded like, if growing organs alone were impossible, she would use human cloning to get her organ supply in a heartbeat. ¡°And what about the wiretapping?¡± ¡°We do that. It¡¯s completely universal. We don¡¯t look at it most of the time though. It¡¯s just that, if everyone¡¯s wiretapped, nobody will notice when we single them out, so it¡¯s way less suspicious. We don¡¯t do data mining¡­ most of the time.¡± The Antares Authority was indeed made up of freedom-hating commies who used babies as lab rats, cloned humans to make organ farms for their hospitals, and wiretapped every single one of their citizens just because they could. ¡°You¡¯re not really selling the Antares Authority to me, Phoebe,¡± he chuckled. The situation was so ridiculous, it was hard to even think of it as something real. Phoebe laughed with him. ¡°Well, firstly, nobody ever goes hungry. We make sure everyone on Antares has a home. Oh, and our doors are open; we take anyone who wants to come in -¡± ¡°Not very many people, I assume?¡± ¡°No, nobody likes us that much. All the capitalists think we¡¯re communists, and everyone else hates us for a bunch of other reasons. The anarchists don¡¯t like our organization, and the communists don¡¯t like that we purchase goods from other corporations. So, our alliances with those are a bit shaky.¡± ¡°Okay, but what about the normal-ass liberals?¡± ¡°Either they¡¯re too poor to move here, or they¡¯re too invested in the status quo¡­¡± As horrible as she felt about it, Lisa - wait, he meant Blaine - was finally starting to understand the Department of Autonomy. Perhaps it was exposure, or perhaps it was some mind-control agent they¡¯d put in the air, but it made a bit of sense, as obviously wrong as it was. ¡°Is that why alcohol is banned here? Because people don¡¯t know what¡¯s good for them, and they should be forbidden from hurting themselves with drugs?¡± ¡°Yeah, exactly! That one was a toughie. Getting support for it was hard, and getting people to stop making it was even harder. Thanks to Natasha¡¯s policy, we¡¯ve gotten drug use down 90%!¡± ¡°When am I going to meet her?¡± ¡°Oh, give it a few days. She¡¯s very busy.¡± Lisa looked at the chessboard once more. Time had flown during her conversation with Phoebe - they were already in the endgame, and Lisa was up - material-wise, at least. ¡°And you aren¡¯t?¡± ¡°Let¡¯s just say this is part of my job description. And, hopefully, I can make up for lost time when I offload some of my tasks onto you!¡± For the first time during the conversation, Lisa Blaine didn¡¯t think of himself as a prisoner. The way Phoebe talked, it made it so easy for Lisa to feel like she he was eventually going to be a part of the cabinet, be Phoebe¡¯s coworker. She could already imagine it, and she was spending a dangerously large amount of time thinking about it - what the job would entail, the kinds of stuff they were going to make her do, what she was going to be in charge of¡­ What had they even done to her?
¡°Nathan?¡± Through his own sobbing, he could just barely hear Caroline¡¯s voice. ¡°Why are you doing this to me?¡± he sobbed. He didn¡¯t even protest at the fact that she¡¯d walked in on him; that had been established as something that was to be expected. ¡°It¡¯s the only way, Nathan.¡± That didn¡¯t do much to help. ¡°Can I tell you a story?¡± she asked. There was no response. She took a deep breath, and started to talk. ¡°Well, Nathan, you aren¡¯t anything new. I was just like you once, if you can believe it. If anything, you¡¯re taking it better than I was.¡± A weak nod. She was getting somewhere. What she¡¯d just told was kind of a lie, but it was true enough. ¡°You see, fifty years ago, I was your age. And I was a twenty-year-old boy, in an old diner. I was aspiring to be a business manager, not a politician, but I was obsessed with the Department, just like you. I was someone who needed to know more. Someone who couldn¡¯t resist when my predecessor offered to take me in.¡± Managers and politicians were two very different types of careers; that was a given. Managers on Antares were softer than the ordinary Terran Republic variant. Managers were trained in diplomacy; they had to connect a large team together and ensure that everything ran smoothly. Politicians, however, were more focused on charisma and general policy work - they drafted legislation and convinced people to adopt it. Politicians were also better suited to diplomacy in more hostile situations than managers; they thrived better when different people had different goals. Caroline looked at Nathan, making sure he was listening. It seemed like he was getting a little better, thankfully. ¡°And then, I was tortured for about two months. You know, Nathan, before all of this, before my predecessor made my body betray me, I was six feet tall, I had a couple of tattoos, and I was absolutely ripped .¡± ¡°Yeah, I know, it¡¯s super hard to believe, isn¡¯t it?¡± she continued. He turned around, looking up at Caroline and wiping the tears from his eyes. She was the exact opposite of what she had described; it would have been impossible to believe if he hadn¡¯t experienced a similar shift. He burst out laughing. ¡°Yeah, I know. You know, nobody believes that. I mean, tattoos at 20? Turns out they make it just a tad hard to find decent employment. Luckily, they all come off during the rapid cell division, so I didn¡¯t have to live with the world¡¯s stupidest decision. You know, that¡¯s the thing, Nathan. You get a clean slate here. It¡¯s almost like, by the time everything¡¯s done, you¡¯re a new person. And that¡¯s good sometimes, alright? All the embarrassing stuff you did is gone, swept away in the wind.¡± He managed to choke out some words. ¡°If you know how much it hurts¡­ how can you do it to me?¡± Why did Caroline need to find a successor? It would have been easy to end the whole thing; finding and selecting Nathan had been an awfully involved process. And, although it was vital for the Department of Autonomy to function¡­ ultimately, it was her decision whether it had a successor. She wondered what would become of the Department if some political appointee were brought in instead of a handpicked successor. They¡¯d probably uncover everything, make a huge public spectacle, shut it all down, and Antares would be annexed soon after. Maybe they could survive another fifty years without a proper successor; that was quite generous, assuming that the hypothetical successor would keep the most vital things under wraps. That was why. She needed to keep this stellar system autonomous, she needed to keep the democracy functioning, and, thus, she needed to keep it prosperous. The welfare of billions hinged on the torture of a small few. She remembered her family. It was gray and faint, but she knew what life was like. She knew what life was like outside of Antares as well - horrible for all but a small few. To fail to find a successor was to damn billions to a cruel life. That was why. ¡°Remember what I told you two weeks ago, Nathan? About the defensive branch?¡± ¡°Yes - everything you do here is to safeguard the autonomy of Antares from the Terran Republic, or something like that, right?¡± ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m doing this, Nathan. And that¡¯s why you¡¯re going to carry on my work.¡± ¡°Why should I? Why shouldn¡¯t I just sulk in a corner for the rest of my life?¡± Nathan couldn¡¯t be forced to work; that was obvious. ¡°Because, you¡¯re not selfish. You know what your life was like, Nathan. You had a bright future. You had a pretty damn good life before this, as do most people on Antares. And, right now, you¡¯re the only one who can hold this planet together. Anyone who I¡¯d replace you with would be inferior. So, remember your family. Remember how good their lives were, how happy they were. You¡¯re protecting them, from afar. You¡¯re helping them. And you¡¯re helping billions of people like them.¡± That didn¡¯t move him. Nathan continued to sulk, not psyched up at all by Caroline¡¯s attempt at a motivational speech. That was fine; sometimes people just needed time. Brett had needed quite a bit when he was Nathan¡¯s age. But she was going to have to do lots of paperwork on her own, which she wasn¡¯t exactly looking forward to. He was a bright kid; they always were. She¡¯d made the right choice in bringing a politician onboard; he was already getting to be almost as effective at policy drafting as she was, and his charisma would certainly be effective at propelling the Antares Authority to new heights. Perhaps they could move from fighting for survival to competing with major Terran corporations. Caroline stood up, leaving Nathan naked in the bathroom, exactly as she found him. As horrible as he felt right now, she knew things would still work out. After all, the pain would go away soon enough. She didn¡¯t know how to feel about that.
The planet of Britaka had originally been a lush paradise, full of new, diverse life. However, it made the mistake of having both rich agricultural land that could be used to dump out hyper-palatable cereals at an incredible pace, and oil fields that were begging to be made into petrochemicals. This had turned it into a turbulent dystopia, filled with smog and huge levels of carbon dioxide. Burning the oil was surprisingly conductive to agriculture - carbon dioxide was good for plants - and the toxins? Nobody from Standard Food cared about those; they didn¡¯t eat their own products. Coexistence had been shaky for the past 120 years, to say the least. But, a month ago, it had boiled into the staging ground for a gigantic war between Standard Oil and Standard Food. Squadron upon squadron of spaceships were engaging in dogfights in orbit of the planet, attempting to secure enough space to supply their troops without such supplies being shot down. Explosions were commonplace, and, were it not for the shield technology that most militia ships employed, they all would¡¯ve succumbed to Kessler Syndrome long ago. ¡°Why are we even doing this?¡± asked Captain Petroleum, a high-ranking officer in the Standard Oil militia. He was lucky to have been awarded a command position in the militia, especially commanding one of the Boulder-class battleships. Well, he¡¯d thought he was lucky when he received the command. The reality of the situation was, corporate militias only saw combat during petty squabbles; they were nothing more than mercenaries. Nothing they did would ever mean anything. Luckily, they¡¯d gotten a break from the action; their weapons were recharging, and they¡¯d been able to disengage from the front lines safely. ¡°Oh, Standard Food and Standard Oil had another feud,¡± Commander Relfar replied, apathetic as always. Hundreds of thousands of people were dying, and it was all because of the petty squabbles of one family - one family that was divided because some long-dead twins were too greedy to share. It was almost funny how powerful rich people were; when they got upset, people died. Well, it was funny until you were in the path of their erratic temperaments. And then, suddenly, the firing stopped. It started on the other side of the planet, but the ripple effect continued to cascade as something completely unknown happened. With no idea what was going on, they could only speculate, as Captain Petroleum began to shiver. He was paranoid; there were a bunch of horrible options he could think of. ¡°Looks like our orders have been changed. Quentin Oil has told us to cease all combat,¡± Relfar noted, holding his position and looking at the new orders he had received. ¡°What the hell? Did they kiss and make up?¡± ¡°Looks like it. There¡¯s a video attachment too.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s see it.¡± The video started playing on the big screen, the surroundings of the ship monitored on the auxiliary screens by people of lower importance. It was a video of the late Brendan Oil¡¯s throne room.
Textual contact had been initiated between the Verwandt ship and the Department of Autonomy. They¡¯d agreed on a time and place; they were going to send an emissary. The emissary didn¡¯t know very much, and was simply tasked with obtaining information. The Verds had been particularly incessant in asking for a face-to-face meeting. This was accepted by the technicians in charge of relaying communication to Phoebe and Leo. These technicians weren¡¯t supposed to be in charge of making decisions, which made things alarming. During the textual conversation, the Department of Autonomy had snipped five more people, learning a valuable lesson: Even the word choice of a Verd was a toxic cognitohazard. Phoebe¡¯s quick thinking had dramatically lowered the downtime - they had simply needed to gate the words through a thesaurus, and randomly edit the sentence structure to something radically different - all while preserving the basic meaning of each sentence. This would also dramatically increase the communication delays between them and the aliens, especially if they were to hold any in-person conversations. ¡°You know¡­ the aliens¡¯ voices are incredibly powerful. Just getting someone to listen for a few minutes could potentially convince them of anything. And having your mere words seriously affect anyone in your presence¡­¡± Natasha trailed off. She didn¡¯t even need to talk about the hypnosis, or finish her thought, for Chris to know what she was talking about. ¡°We need to safeguard Antareans from this, stat. I¡¯ll work on some testing,¡± Chris replied. ¡°Oh, yeah, that too.¡± ¡°What were you thinking about, Natasha?¡± She was surprised she wasn¡¯t on the same page as Chris. Perhaps she was more disconnected from her cabinet than she thought. ¡°Isn¡¯t it obvious? Imagine being able to give a speech and convince anyone that what you¡¯re saying is true. We wouldn¡¯t have to operate in the dark anymore. No successors! No labbies! We could just tell people not to look for things! Convince them that the things we do for them are ethical!¡± Chris paused his briefing, devoting his full attention to staring at Natasha, mouth agape. ¡°Have you gone mad?¡± ¡°Think about it, Chris. And, with a few well-placed diplomats imbued with these abilities, we could wrap the Republic around our finger.¡± ¡°This is literally mind control! You¡¯re talking about subjugating our entire civilization, the one we¡¯ve been created to protect! Would we be any better than them at that point?¡± She let out a sigh. ¡°It¡¯s only bad if you use it for a bad thing. We wouldn¡¯t use it to make them accept things that are bad for them. We¡¯d just use it to make them accept a few hard-to-swallow pills. And, besides, it¡¯s not like we¡¯d get any worse. We already do plenty of things that would make the civvies wince, and we get around it via lying. This is just an easier way.¡± ¡°That¡¯s obviously wrong. But, even if you were right¡­ we found a backdoor that makes our population easy to control, and we¡¯d be deciding to just leave it in . What if the TBI figures it out too? What if the aliens go face-to-face with civilians? Unless we figure out how to safeguard our citizens, we¡¯re toast.¡± Natasha knew he was right. But, on the other hand, the potential enhancement to her diplomats was too good to pass up. It wouldn¡¯t be feasible to protect every Terran from alien mind control, so what was the harm of imbuing a few diplomats with it? They¡¯d be able to catapult Antares¡¯s influence light-years ahead. ¡°Okay, so let¡¯s just do them both. We reverse engineer their mind control strategies and defensive measures. Then, we give everyone both via the regularly scheduled flu shot.¡± ¡°Flu season just ended a few weeks ago.¡± She cursed under her breath. ¡°Well, then, we manufacture a flu outbreak for a weak strain that wasn¡¯t in the vaccine, and then put the modification in a booster shot.¡± ¡°That¡¯ll kill a thousand people, minimum!¡± ¡°We could lose the entire planet if the aliens come quickly enough, Chris. You said it yourself, we need this. Do it.¡± He didn¡¯t argue, instead cutting to the financial specifications. ¡°I ran the numbers. I¡¯m going to need about 7% of the annual budget for the deployment.¡± Natasha winced. This was just for one round of vaccination, not even counting the research and development. ¡°I¡¯ll redirect the funds. We should get some extra revenue from taking over the food and plastics industries, which will hopefully cover it...¡± If things went well, she wouldn¡¯t have to make budget cuts. Otherwise, she was looking at an absolute nightmare. Diplomacy Cassia, member of the Commune of Eraginkorra, sat at her desk. She, by popular consensus, handled diplomacy. She didn¡¯t have any true authority, as the Commune was decentralized, but most of the people there followed what she said by default. Her authority wasn¡¯t enforced; she just made suggestions and people followed them. That¡¯s how true authority was supposed to work; it was optional. They¡¯d overthrown the Terran Republic on multiple planets, staging guerilla wars which made it impossible for them to take them over. They¡¯d cut ties with them, and managed to thrive on their own. It wasn¡¯t much, but they had been able to secure freedom from the oppression of the Terran corporations, freedom from the system of capitalism. Well, there was one exception - The Antares Authority. It was a subsidiary of the Terran Accord, but basically everybody knew that they were rogue; they were only a subsidiary on paper. They had formed a mutually beneficial relationship, with the Antares Authority secretly sending them food supplies in exchange for different materials, like iron and uranium - Antares was quite limited in terms of mining. After all, allies were few when you weren¡¯t a capitalist. The partnership had to be kept secret, but this was understandable for Cassia. It had been three years since the Republic had tried anything, too. They were completely self-sufficient, completely ignored, especially because the Terran Space Force was gearing up for some unknown threat. Everything was going to be great. With the TSF distracted, the anarchist revolution would go without a hitch. And the Antares Authority had just offered to pitch in, giving them resources to liberate yet another planet belonging to the Republic, save people from their chains. All she had to do was a bit of paperwork - making her preferences known. Her endorsement of the Antares Authority¡¯s initiative was what was necessary to codify it, and she was about to give it. And then¡­ ¡°Cassia?¡± Penelope yelled, ¡°You have to see this!¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a video of the moments leading up to Brendan Oil¡¯s assassination. It¡¯s been distributed across the entire galaxy.¡± What was going on? ¡°What does the execution of capitalist swine have to do with anything?¡± Cassia asked. ¡°Just watch it, Cass!¡± She obliged. It was indeed a video of Brendan Oil¡¯s lair. There was camera footage - something quite rare for a CEO¡¯s place of residence, something that could only be described as completely idiotic, especially if such a CEO were doing any dealings under the table. You didn¡¯t want these kinds of things to be recorded. There was an Antarean diplomat raised up in one of the CEO¡¯s traps - something that was quite surprising. Since when did the diplomats of Antares make deals with corporations? What was going on?
Lisa looked in the mirror. In the past week, everything was coming along nicely. She had lost a few inches of height, which was completely fine. In fact, if she were to admit it, everything about this change felt good. She was beautiful. Her face still had a hint of androgyny, but the features were mostly there. Her hair was the exact right shade, and her breasts were supple and on their way to being perfectly sized. Looking down, her testicles had disappeared, although she wasn¡¯t sure exactly how that had happened. Perhaps they had been shed off with the rest of her skin. Perhaps they¡¯d retreated into her body and were then absorbed for the nutrients. It didn¡¯t matter; she didn¡¯t miss them. Everything was getting more and more perfect. Her past self was melting away before her very eyes - the form that she didn¡¯t think she would miss, but now was itching to see disappear. She really needed to give Phoebe credit; she¡¯d somehow managed to pull all the stops. Every little detail of this body was beautiful; it had been carefully crafted to be as appealing to her as possible. She¡¯d thought about how they could have figured out how to give her such a body, which had soured her perception of what Phoebe had done. If anything, thinking about that made it quite creepy. How had they known her favorite hair and eye colors, her preferred cup size, preferred height, every last detail of her type ? It couldn¡¯t have been a brain scan. As the nurse had said, DNA alteration patterns had to be made about a week in advance, which meant they¡¯d known what was going to happen to him at least a week before they¡¯d actually captured him. So, Phoebe had set her eyes on him with this exact role in mind. She didn¡¯t know whether it was Phoebe or a team of nurses who had figured out her ideal woman¡¯s exact shade of hair. She didn¡¯t know whether it was a covert brain scan, a case study of her life, an analysis of her social interactions, or simply leafing through her diary or internet account history. Regardless of who it was or how it was done, it seemed very intimate; these were details she wouldn¡¯t want a total stranger to know, and definitely not somebody like Phoebe, who was more of a mother figure than anything else. Of course, this was a general theme of Antares and the Department of Autonomy - simply how they operated. They did morally objectionable things, although the outcomes were undeniably positive. Lisa decided that it would be best not to question any of this, and not look too hard at the opportunity she had been given. After all, it wasn¡¯t like there was anything she could do about it. It wasn¡¯t long before she heard a knock on the door. It was Phoebe. ¡ª ¡°And¡­ checkmate!¡± Phoebe exclaimed. From the jaws of defeat, Phoebe had finally won her first game against Lisa. Of course, this was after ten consecutive losses, but who was counting? Well, they both were, but that was beside the point. ¡°You know, I think I¡¯m finally starting to come around to this,¡± Lisa said, ¡°I mean, yeah, it¡¯s all massively fucked up, but you can¡¯t argue with the results.¡± ¡°See? It makes perfect sense!¡± ¡°Yeah. It¡¯s kind of hard to believe that I thought I was a guy a few weeks ago. And I was calling you all commies!¡± The Antares Authority wasn¡¯t communist in the slightest; in fact, they were just as capitalist as the rest of the Republic. However, they believed that corporations worked best when they were regulated by the steady hand of a powerful government, which gave them that label. Phoebe took a moment to reflect on how quickly Lisa¡¯s viewpoints had changed. She had no idea how this could happen so quickly. Perhaps it was because of the leverage that they¡¯d gotten from curing her Gender Variant Disorder. Perhaps the Antares Authority¡¯s philosophy was correct, and she had bowed to reason. Perhaps she was impressionable; there were plenty of plausible explanations. But it all seemed¡­ too good to be true. Nothing odd had come up on the brain scan. Everything was fine. She had to stop being so paranoid; she knew the TBI inside and out. ¡°Yeah, I know,¡± she replied. ¡°So, what do you do here. Phoebe?¡± Lisa asked. Phoebe began to think. Could she really tell Lisa about this stuff? She wasn¡¯t confirmed to be loyal yet, which meant she was still a security risk. Still, there were some obvious things that she could talk to Lisa about - information that was already public anyway, or surely things the TBI already knew. ¡°Well, I¡¯m in charge of the Observation Branch, and the main thing we do is, well, observation. We look at fleet movements to make sure that, if there¡¯s an impending attack, we¡¯re ready. We also keep track of the economy, the senate, corporate dynamics¡­¡± ¡°And various top-secret TBI and TSF channels, I assume?¡± It was kind of obvious. What Phoebe had described the Observation Branch as doing was rather small for someone of her caliber. Additionally, she¡¯d been able to impersonate an admiral from the Terran Space Force well enough that even she¡¯d been fooled. That didn¡¯t just come out of nowhere. ¡°Well, yes, but I¡¯m not going to go into detail about that.¡± ¡°Well, that¡¯s beside the point. I didn¡¯t ask what the Observation Branch does. I asked what you do.¡± ¡°Well, why don¡¯t I show you?¡± ¡ª The reception room wasn¡¯t even remotely different from what Lisa had imagined. It was littered with various different terminals, and there was barely any space to walk around. Every square inch was devoted to something important. ¡°So, unfiltered data comes in, which is then sifted through for important things in a three-level process. Then, the important bits come here, which I compile and forward to the other branches so that they can make the proper decisions,¡± Phoebe remarked. Looking over her shoulder, Lisa could see the different packets of data that Phoebe was sifting through. The headers indicated what each one was about. They all looked important, high-level, and distilled, yet there were just so many of them. Some of them indicated fleet movements and potential new developments, others indicated changes in corporate behavior, and some were reports of alien activity. Just a glance was enough to know that there were so many verified accounts of alien abductions, it was a common thing that didn¡¯t require Phoebe¡¯s attention anymore. And then¡­ Phoebe cursed under her breath. ¡°What is it?¡± Lisa asked. ¡°Standard Oil and Standard Food were supposed to be fighting a massive war against each other,¡± Phoebe replied, ¡°but it looks like they aren¡¯t fighting anymore.¡± ¡°Well, isn¡¯t that good? More stability and less bloodshed?¡± Lisa asked. Phoebe shook her head. ¡°That makes no sense. I mean, you¡¯re claiming to be a singular beacon of light, yet you thrive on the instability of all other planets. Doesn¡¯t that create some sort of conflict of interest?¡± Phoebe didn¡¯t respond to that. Instead, she simply pulled up one of the documents from her feed. It was an intercepted communication between Brendan Oil¡¯s son and Roland Food. Lisa skimmed it. And then she went over it, making sure to read every word. And then, finally, she double-checked it, just to be sure. Standard Oil and Standard Food, now united under one banner, were going to attack Antares in one week. They were fucked.
Leo, the leader of the Diplomacy Branch, was catching up on the latest news. Unlike the other staff, he had added a bit of flair to his room. Instead of the usual gray, it was painted dark blue, a color that he found helped him focus. There was a bowl of stimufruits next to his computer, which he would often consume if he had trouble staying awake. The rest of the room served as a custom-made holoscreen, which he used to keep track of the complicated situation that the Antares Authority was in. The Authority¡¯s image depended a lot on what you knew. The public thought of it as a vassal state of the Terran Republic, simply another member of the gigantic democracy. The military, however, was subject to propaganda, and they viewed the Antares Authority as evil communists. There were various propaganda efforts that the TBI had successfully used to prepare the soldiers for the inevitable command to invade the Antares Authority, not all of which were untrue - allegations of cloning, baby experimentation, the whole nine yards. They were the Department of Autonomy¡¯s greatest enemy, the authors of various plots that had to be found and subverted. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. There were various rebel states as well, each of which with their own levels of awareness of the type of government Antares was. Some of them thought of the Authority as yet another enemy, while others were valuable seeds that Leo had nurtured, which would soon grow into thorns in the Terran Republic¡¯s side, and, with some hope, potential allies. The corporations were the biggest mixed bag. Most of the corporate leadership thought of the Antares Authority as communist scum. However, some of them, curiously, thought that the Antares Authority was secretly on their side, thanks to Nicole¡¯s plots. On their side, and nobody else¡¯s, against all the rest of the corporations - he had no idea how she¡¯d done it. Major corporations in the Terran Republic could be loosely put into three categories: The monopolists, the competitors, and the conglomerates. Each category corresponded to the three ways for a corporation to succeed: Be first, be smart, or cheat. The monopolists were the most corrupt and stagnant of the bunch. Descended from large, ancient corporations from before the Terran Republic, these corporations were able to get laws passed which cemented their domination of the market. Most of these were monopoly laws, which restricted the interplanetary export of certain sectors to a single company. Standard Food and Standard Oil were two of the most corrupt examples. They were able to profit heavily off of these laws, and maintained a niche that made them impossible to drive out. They didn¡¯t innovate because there was simply no need to, and nobody else competed with them because it was impossible. Monopolists were easy to convince The competitors were far less corrupt. This, of course, meant that capitalism worked better in areas dominated by these types of corporations. However, it did mean that they were thorns in the Antares Authority¡¯s sides. Their leadership positions were cutthroat, chosen by teams of shrewd shareholders instead of inherited. Most of the people living under these types of corporations were screwed over by instability and conflict, not the corporations themselves. Luckily, they were usually too busy fighting each other to be that much of a threat. The conglomerates were by far the most nefarious of them all. They were the opposite of the monopolists - instead of taking over a single industry, they dipped their toes into every single industry all at once. Instead of going interstellar, they stuck to singular planets, purchasing every aspect of them in order to create artificial, contextual monopolies. They were the cruelest of the three, operating more like slave states than corporations. It was easy to keep all their citizens in debt slavery when they ran all the banks, restaurants, grocery stores, and shuttles. Conglomerates made Leo wince, but they were the easiest to work with diplomatically. They liked the status quo, they readily accepted trade agreements, and they didn¡¯t ask questions. Thus, the Antares Authority had many different faces, and Leo¡¯s job was to address them all. He had to keep the military propaganda from affecting the masses, he had to ensure that none of the corporations bragged about Nicole loving them and only them , and he had to put on a different face for every person he talked to. It was exhausting. He slowly began to collect updates. It was mainly from Phoebe¡¯s feed - the Observation Branch was instrumental to his success - but there was also some important communication through official channels that his own branch kept tabs on. His own feed consisted of public channels that weren¡¯t worth Phoebe¡¯s time, such as the senate, as well as direct contacts with potential allies, such as the Commune of Eraginkorra. Recently, this had been joined by one single communication channel with the Verwandt Empire. The sudden communication from Phoebe¡¯s channel had been completely unexpected. The red alert was even more of a surprise. This was diplomacy; it was slow by design. Everything that affected Antares¡¯s diplomacy was known weeks or months in advance. They had eyes and ears everywhere. He skimmed over it, worry growing with every word he read. There was a leak. It was a consequential leak on the Department of Autonomy, the first one of its kind, ever. Brendan Oil had recorded Nicole¡¯s dramatic villain monologue. Like the absolute moron he was, he had put a camera in his own throne room, recording his secret dealings with a planet that was almost universally reviled by most corporations. His son, as expected from someone somehow even dumber than his father, had published this for the entire galaxy to see. Admitting to dealings with the Antares Authority was a surefire way to end any prospect of influence that Standard Oil might have in the future; he had signed his own death warrant. But that meant that the Authority¡¯s reputation was also going to be completely changed. He began to do the calculus, anticipating how this would affect diplomacy with each party. Diplomacy with the military was already impossible, but this would give them new propaganda, which wouldn¡¯t exactly be fun to sift through and counteract. Still, that was minor. The masses would turn against the Authority for a little bit, but a little bit of media diversions, and they wouldn¡¯t care that much. It would blow over relatively quickly. The conglomerates were selfish but reliable; they wouldn¡¯t care about this. They just wanted their little planets of slavery. Trade would continue as normal. The competitors, if anything, would respect the Authority more than before. They knew how corporate warfare worked, and they wouldn¡¯t find it abhorrent. In fact, discovering that the Antares Authority opened up two new industries for them to compete in and shook things up would earn them favors. The monopolists, however, would absolutely hate them. Nicole¡¯s other subterfuge projects would be stopped in their tracks, as everyone woke up to the Antares Authority¡¯s true stance on violence. They would finally realize that the Department of Autonomy didn¡¯t believe in pacifism; it believed that violence was simply inefficient when you could get others to do the fighting for you. As for the rebel states¡­ their reactions would be completely unpredictable. With any hope, they¡¯d see this takedown of two entrenched megacorporations to be a good thing. This wouldn¡¯t be too much of a diplomatic nightmare¡­ right? There was an incoming transmission from the Commune of Eraginkorra. It was a high-priority one, done over expensive FTL transmission lines. He immediately accepted. ¡°Good morning, Cassia. What did you contact me about?¡± he asked. ¡°Let me keep this brief, Leo. I saw the video.¡± ¡°And what did you want to say about it?¡± She immediately broke into a monologue. ¡°I can¡¯t believe it. You claimed to be proud, anti-capitalist warriors. You claimed to be insurrectionists working from the inside. Yet, your government has no principles, Leo, not a single one. You murdered one of your own diplomats in cold blood, for no purpose but the murder of yet another person. Another of your diplomats was discarded and left to die. And that¡¯s just from what happened right there!¡± Shit; they really cared about things on such a small scale. ¡°Your government played both sides of a feud in order to divide a corporation against itself, without regards for the side effects of such an act. It was complicit in terror bombings, and it even ordered quite a few of them. It sent an innocent man on a suicide mission, for the purpose of starting a war between two corporations that resulted in even more bloodshed . Countless lives were lost. People died, planets were laid waste to, their biospheres plundered even more than they already have. And for what, Leo? For what?¡± This was awkward. ¡°Profit, Leo! That¡¯s all it was for. You just wanted to take their industries for yourself, and the hundreds of thousands you murdered just didn¡¯t matter. I thought Antares was different, but I was duped. You¡¯re no better than the rest of them. You¡¯re just another slimy, profit-hungry corporation that will stop at nothing to pursue power.¡± He could at least try to defend himself. ¡°It isn¡¯t about money! Standard Oil hated Antares. If we hadn¡¯t divided them, they would have destroyed us! If it weren¡¯t for the wars, we¡¯d be long dead! If we left them with their industries, they¡¯d still be able to take us apart!¡± Her response was swift. ¡°Is keeping Antares alive really worth all this bloodshed? I think not. The only thing separating us from the capitalist pigs is our principles, and you have proven you have none. There will be no more trade deals. We will do without you.¡± ¡°You do understand that you won¡¯t be able to survive without our food shipments, right?¡± He asked, making sure that she was aware of what this meant. ¡°Better to die on our feet than to live on our knees. We¡¯ll manage, corporate scum .¡± She disconnected. Well, that was just great . Their most reliable ally, their best hope at fighting the Terran Republic, had decided to abandon them in the most suicidal way possible. Leo scheduled a time to yell at Nicole. She¡¯d completely fucked this up, leaving him to clean up this gigantic mess - although she had a big mess to clean up too. She should¡¯ve known better than to rely on the intelligence of stagnant plutocratic dynasties.
Maxwell¡¯s defenses had been continually polished, maintained, and developed, and a lab-grown crew had consistently maintained training on how to properly operate these systems, but nobody had ever used them in real life. Their first use ever would be for the purpose of eliminating a corporate militia hell-bent on revenge. This was, to say the least, unexpected. ¡°So, do you have any insight on their attack patterns?¡± Maxwell asked. ¡°Well, they¡¯re a corporate militia, so they aren¡¯t exactly the most competent,¡± Leo replied, ¡°and their corporate leaders have a slightly different goal in mind for attacking.¡± ¡°What does that mean?¡± ¡°Well, the Terran Space Force is generally mostly competent. There are a couple of loons near the top, but they don¡¯t really give the orders. They operate in terms of pragmatic interests - they want to take us over, instead of destroying us, because they don¡¯t want to suffer the economic consequences of the loss of such a gigantic trade hub.¡± Maxwell knew that very well. It was why the antimatter weapon deterrent was so important. Antares B5 had a gigantic stockpile of antimatter weapons, which were pointed at various different planets, as well as Antares¡¯s colonies themselves. Threatening this massive amount of destruction was what deterred a military invasion; if they could feasibly fire the missiles when they were threatened, invasion wouldn¡¯t be in anyone¡¯s best interests. ¡°Meanwhile, they just want us dead, right?¡± ¡°Exactly. So, your nuclear deterrent won¡¯t work on them, and their goal will be to cause as much damage as possible, without regard for the consequences. Their target isn¡¯t the Department of Autonomy. It isn¡¯t even the Antares Authority. It¡¯s Antares itself.¡± Maxwell cursed. This meant¡­ he brought up a map of Antares. Planets were marked in white, and Antares Authority assets were marked in green. Different defense coverages were also highlighted, for his convenience. His antimatter warheads wouldn¡¯t be useful at all against a dispersed force, so they were out of the equation. There was no point in using them on the planets against a force with nothing to lose either. His more conventional explosives, however, were greater in number, so they were more feasible to use. These would be the only long-range weapons, which made them his only reliable offensive weapon against the invasion force. They also had a large amount of short-range plasma turrets. They were relatively dispersed, however, and would be quickly overwhelmed. During times like these, he wished the Department of Autonomy had the budget to field ships. After all, that was the best way to make plasma turrets work - put them on something that made intelligent decisions and could maneuver. He did have the test drones, but there weren¡¯t enough of them for it to matter. If he¡¯d had more time, they could have refitted civilian ships, but that would take about a month. Still, the conflict would probably drag on for quite a while; he was going to start the refitting process right away. Until then, they weren¡¯t fit for anything but evacuation and cannon fodder. They couldn¡¯t even ram anything; it would be too easy for their nimble ships to get out of the way. The most potent weapon he had in his arsenal was a solar ray. Antares A and B had the beginnings of Dyson swarms set up, which usually redirected light into energy collectors. However, they could easily be weaponized. He had created a large amount of amplification arrays, which would receive light and direct it at a singular point. This functioned as a death ray, with its only limit being the ability of the enemy to dodge it. The death ray could be spread out a bit, turning it into more of a death zone and making it more difficult to avoid. This could still destroy the enemy ships reliably, and prevent them from getting into bombing range, but it meant that the station¡¯s range was rather limited - far more limited than enemy railguns, missiles, and lasers, which wouldn¡¯t have much trouble hitting their stationary targets. Overall, this meant that no meaningful defense of Antares could be mounted beyond the planets. The best they could do was evacuate the mining colonies, and salvage what they could while they still had the time. Defense of the light amplifiers, their main means of orbital defense, was the main thing they¡¯d concentrate their point defense on. When they fell, whatever planet they were defending would be toast. The main logistics of the battle were already planned. This would be a war of attrition, a war that they weren¡¯t truly prepared for, and a war they would probably lose. He had one straw to grasp at. ¡°Leo, I know that Standard Oil and Standard Food hate us, but what about the militia? Are they on board with this?¡± He gave it a bit of thought. ¡°They¡¯re the militia, Maxwell. They hate Antares, and they probably relish the idea of being able to fight us instead of random corporate squabbles. I don¡¯t think there¡¯s any way to convince them to stop.¡± ¡°But they¡¯re going to bomb billions of civilians!¡± Maxwell exclaimed, ¡°They¡¯re innocent people! What kind of barbarians could do that?¡± ¡°I bet half of them have kill counts that number in the thousands. They¡¯re used to this sort of thing. Perhaps a few of them could be convinced to stand down, but I seriously doubt it.¡±
Nathan was struggling. He had pondered figuring out a way to escape, yet it was obvious that he wouldn¡¯t be able. Did he really think the Department of Autonomy, the largest institution in the government, wouldn¡¯t be able to make him disappear? There was simply no way other than forward. He went through all the potential solutions in his head - even suicide. There was no option except to plow into the pain, and try his best to grow numb to it. Over the week, distracting himself had grown more and more difficult. Perhaps he would get used to the small lumps of fat clinging to his chest, but that wasn¡¯t going to happen anytime soon. They were painful and wrong , and every time he managed to forget they existed, he paid the price when he bumped into something. Why did they have to be so sore ? Looking at a blank monitor or a reflective surface was enough to trigger him. The face that stared back at him was completely unrecognizable, and yet it was him . That was his face now, and that could never be changed. He¡¯d constantly informed Caroline that it wasn¡¯t going to work, asked for an antidote, pleaded to be changed back, and it all fell on deaf ears. Nothing could ever be done. He¡¯d developed too many evasive strategies to prevent himself from being triggered like that. He tilted his gaze down whenever he looked in the mirror. He ensured that he never looked at himself when he showered. The haircuts grew more and more frequent - he usually lopped it off himself. It was an obsessive practice, just making sure that the ever-growing hair would never reach his shoulders, one that he had been forced to maintain. Yet, each haircut was a source of continual despair, each cut harder than the last. He struggled to get himself to do it without trying to think about it, without trying to process the fact that his body would only get worse, and that even the shortest haircut wouldn¡¯t come even close to restoring his manhood. Going through reports was the bulk of his future job. There were a variety of different papers, all from different branches, each displaying high-level overviews of various projects. Some were proposals, with descriptions of what the proposal would feature or address, as well as their costs and expected effects. Others were reports on the status of these projects, or general incident reports. Looking through these, Nathan had begun to see how the Department of Autonomy viewed Antares, and Antareans. It painted a picture, one that he didn¡¯t like. Antares was constantly in grave danger, and they could never fend for themselves properly. Their solutions were straightforward, efficient, and brutal, with little regard for individual lives. Over the weeks, he¡¯d seen thousands of peoples¡¯ deaths ordered with the click of a mouse, and thousands more lives ruined. One time, they¡¯d updated their list to consider the lack of a genetic modification to be ¡°defective¡±, forcing millions to choose between not having kids and going against their deeply-held beliefs. The report was about the backlash the public had against the policy. It outlined the details of this backlash, before getting to a proposal to synthesize a flu outbreak to distract the public from this backlash. It was despicable. The people impacted, the lives ruined, the grieving families, were nothing but numbers. And, with the click of a mouse, Caroline murdered thousands of people, just to distract Antares from the millions of lives that had just been ruined. How could she even do this to the people she was supposed to protect? The sentiment was echoed in every single member of the Department, from Caroline and all thirty members of her cabinet, to every lab-grown underling who wrote the reports. It was obvious when the reports were done by a civvie - it focused on what had been done, not the actual impact or intent of the project. Not only that, there was a level of narcissism that was present in anything written by a civvie. He didn¡¯t know which report style he disliked more. It had seemed stable before, but now he realized how dire the situation truly was. They were practically drowning in spies from the Terran Bureau of Intelligence, heavily militarized corporations were constantly investigating the possibility of taking the system for themselves, and the Terran Space Force had practically exploded in number, using the excuse of ¡°fighting the Commune of Eraginkorra¡±, which forced them to triple their defenses over a few years. Just in the past five years, the Antares Authority had had three brushes with death. Not only that, they were constantly looking for methods of saving money. Nathan had initially thought that 30% of the budget would be far too much for what they were doing, but the numbers didn¡¯t lie. Every penny had an important use somewhere. Even the vacation time had been optimized to maximize staff effectiveness - one week per year was optimal. It felt so wrong, and yet, try as he might, he couldn¡¯t find a single thing wrong with the calculations. The Culture Branch was the most grim part of the Department of Autonomy. The reports had made it obvious what they were doing - influencing Antarean culture to make it more productive. They spent tens of billions of dollars on disincentivizing art in favor of more scientific pursuits. Even more money was spent on attempts to make the Naturalist movement less politically popular, in order to make genetically modified children more prevalent in Antarean society. And then there were reports on the effects of these programs. The results made things clear: Iterations of these programs from ten years ago had already paid for themselves. Modifying Antares¡¯s culture was essential for the continued success of the Department of Autonomy, essential for the continued existence of the Antares Authority. The non-consensual genetic modifications were essential too - perhaps even more essential than the cultural programs. Without them, according to various predictions, the Antares Authority would have stopped existing 200 years ago. Once he got in power, he couldn¡¯t discontinue these programs. He would have to continue them, and perhaps even expand their scopes. Otherwise, billions of lives would be ruined. He noticed a pattern: The most horrible programs were the ones with the best results. The ones that were the most morally objectionable were impossible to cut - too many programs depended on them, there was no substitute available, or anything that would replicate their effects would be far too costly to implement. It was horrid, and yet it was perfectly logical, which made it even more horrid. What could even be done?