[SG] A View Of Genocide: The Ballad of Richard Less #5 (1/3)

[Whistling in the Dark]

October 20, 2007
The Combat Zone
Boston, Massachusetts

     It was getting pretty late. I'm not as young as I used to be and
admittedly, the chemicals didn't help. But they were necessary. We had done
studies, back in my days in the black suit. I knew plenty of 'drug czars'
who refused to believe there was anything good to be gleaned from our
pharmaceutical friends, but that's horse shit. We live in a world of
psychics and intuitives. You leveled the playing field however you leveled
it.
     The dead kid came in and sat down next to me.
     "We should put something on," I said. "Something to listen to."
     "You know, your defense was pretty flimsy," he said.
     I shrugged. "She doesn't really want to kill me."
     "Actually, she does."
     "She wants me *dead.* And she'd enjoy doing it. But she doesn't want to
be a killer. Certainly not a murderer. And that's what it would be. No
matter *what* I did, she doesn't have the moral authority to cut me down.
And she doesn't want to cross that line." I puffed at my cigarette. "I had
to give her an excuse to *not* kill me, so she could walk away and hate me."
     "Doesn't it bother you, Richard?"
     "What?"
     "Being hated. Richard, everybody hates you. Everybody. They talk about
you the way they talk about Benedict Arnold. They hate you far more than
they hated Psybernet or Arsenal or Nimbus or even 'Radian.' You're the
traitor."
     I leaned back, smoking. The taste of the holder in my mouth. The smell
of the turkish tobacco in my nose.
     "Doesn't it bother you?"
     "You know something weird? Without Benedict Arnold we'd still be
British."
     "Richard--"
     "No, it's true. It's *true.*" I looked over at him. "The career
officers in the Continental Army -- the *political* officers with the
*connections* were ready to retreat at Saratoga. They'd taken him off the
field, you know. Arnold was in his tent -- but when he heard that he ran
out, got on his horse, and *rallied* the troops. They won Saratoga --
defeated a massive British army. Captured their supplies. Proved to the
French they could win instead of lose. And he was maimed in that fight --
permanent injury."
     "Richard."
     "He captured Ticonderoga, but they gave the credit to a yahoo because
the yahoo's men wouldn't take orders. His first wife died while he was
there, and he couldn't even take pleasure in the victory. He drove north and
captured Quebec. He captured the damn thing. And if they'd resupplied him he
could have ended the whole war years earlier. But they didn't. They listened
to idiots and fools instead. That happened over and over again." I took a
long puff. "He betrayed his comrades and his country for money, but without
Benedict Arnold we would have lost the Revolution." He shook his head.
"Hate? Who cares about hate? I don't have enough life left to let that shit
bother me." I looked at the dead kid. "You know what the only monument to
Benedict Arnold is?"
     He didn't say anything.
     "A statue of a boot. A statue of a God Damned boot." I shook my head
again. "Maybe someday they'll stick a pair of sunglasses on a post.
Y'think?"
     He chuckled.
     "Maybe not. Better go check on your friend. She might be liberating my
dog from my evil clutches."
     He shook his own head then, and patted me on the shoulder, and walked
out to the hall. And I stared out the window and smoked some more.



                         The League Presents

                          A View of Genocide

                      The Ballad of Richard Less
                                  by
                           Eric Burns-White
                      Struggling Against History

                              Part Five



December 24, 1997
Shoshoni Center
Shoshoni, Wyoming

     It was the second hour of the offensive, and Richard Less knew he was
watching a winner. He knew it the way you could watch your team's
quarterback run the ball for a first down in the first quarter and you knew
that quarterback would be wearing Gatorade in the fourth. Most of the ULA's
primaries -- original and 'secondary' -- were on the field of battle or near
enough to coordinate it. The legions of Psybernet-controlled armies were
working with their eerie precision. The war drone heavy armor and artillery
that Arsenal had been holding back were out there now. The Lady's forces
were fighting with her characteristic tactical brilliance, but she hadn't
committed enough to hold position. The allies were doing their damnedest,
but they hadn't committed the right balance of troops.
     Less didn't like to admit it, even now, but Oracle had been right
again.
     "So, I'm confused," Bankert said as they watched the big board. "Why
did they kill Artifact?"
     "I wasn't in the room," Less said. "I got this third hand from
Wollstonecraft."
     "So what did he say?"
     "You remember how Oracle kept blathering about traitors and men with
plastic smiles and shit? When she'd gone crackerdog, I mean. Well, after the
X Factor was silenced, she began to regain her composure. She got focus on
that little issue -- started prophesying about traitors from within the
heart of the ULA."
     "And that was Artifact?"
     "That was Artifact. Think about it. Artificial man, artificial smile.
Who knows how long he'd been feeding tactical information to the enemy."
     "Which enemy?"
     "The Lady, we assume. It's hard to tell."
     "Couldn't Psybernet scan him?"
     "She's a little busy -- and he was a machine intellect. When she was
mostly meat, that was her specialty, but these days it would have taken too
much. Not that it mattered. I guess Egoiste vivisected the thing before he
could strike out, and then between Stigmata and Arsenal there weren't enough
parts left to--"
     "And that ended the traitor prophecy?"
     "According to Oracle it did." Less sipped coffee, watching the big
board. "This is going to hurt the Allies."
     "I thought this was primarily against the Lady," Bankert said, watching
the pattern of the battle.
     "It is. We win this offensive, we secure the Middle East. We've got
Radian up in the Balkans, and she's just started smashing apart supply lines
to Europe. The forces we don't have committed to the offensive have cut off
the pacific rim. Lady Awe-Inspiring's the smartest woman on the planet, but
her planes still need jet fuel and her tanks still need diesel, and her
supply is about to be choked to nothing."
     "So why is this going to hurt the Allies?"
     "They bet on the wrong horse. They were sure the Lady was going to deal
us a critical blow in Asia and they were sure we were going to get cut apart
by the Allies in America. But Oracle pointed what forces we had in just the
right places, and now we're about to get an absolutely fucking solid command
and control. We're going to own the Middle East. We're going to own Russia.
We're going to own the Pacific Rim. We're going to own the United States.
And then all we have to do is close ranks and wait six months, while
converting the rest of China and India into Psybernet's troops. Between
that, the industrial base we've got in Korea and Pakistan--"
     "Three and a half days of Oracle having a clear head, and we're going
from almost being out of contention into a superior endgame?" Bankert shook
his head. "Amazing."
     "Yup. And thank Christ Wollstonecraft didn't hear you say that. He's
been fucking crowing for three of those days."
     "Where is he?"
     "Level 5. Oracle's little temple. Where he always is when he isn't
doing her bidding." Less leaned back. "Check it. Seven bogies incoming from
Israeli airspace."
     "Missiles?"
     "Transports. Allied reinforcements."
     "That part of the plan?"
     "Oracle said the Allies would draw their net tight, whatever the fuck
that means. I assume this is part of that."
     "I thought you didn't trust her prognostications."     
     "I don't. But right now, my job's local, not foreign."
     Bankert chuckled. "Well, we got Team M.E.C.H.A. finally. Didn't capture
them, but with Oracle's intel... well, between Springfield and the strikes
in Nevada--" The blue phone rang. Three shorts, one long. "Hrm. Hang on."
     "What's--"
     "Pizza." Bankert didn't elaborate.  Pizza meant the safehouse, where
Scholarman was living off an IV of nutrition, saline and sedatives powerful
enough to keep him from dreaming.
     Less frowned, letting Bankert take the call.
     "Control. Wh-- *what?* When? How man-- did you ID? Jesus-- right. Yes.
Yes... a *girl?* No, get the fuck out of there. I have to crash the Center."
Bankert slammed the phone down, scooped it up, and punched three numbers.
"Crash it. Crash it all."
     "Talk to me, Bankert." Less felt oddly lightheaded. Not nervous, not
panicked. Not even surprised.
     "Scholarman's gone," Bankert said, slamming the phone down.
     "How?"
     "Two intruders appeared in a burst of blue light. One was ID'd as Roger
Nobody--"
     "Roger Nobody's a mage. With some *healing.*"
     "I know that! The other one -- they didn't recognize her. A kid, maybe
a new Mob member. Female, brunette hair--"
     "Five foot six, almost elfin, slight asian cast to her features but not
easy to pin down?"
     "Could be. You know her?"
     "Know of her, s'more like it. She's one of the ALU's little students.
Codenamed Transit. Teleportation powers -- incredibly precise." Less took a
long pull off his coffee. "We're fucked."
     "You *think?* They got away with the package, Less. They--"
     Less narrowed his eyes. It still felt unreal, but there was something
-- some piece just out of reach.
     "Boss? Boss! It's go time! I've called in the crash, but we need to--"
     "How did they know where to find Scholarman?" Less asked quietly.
     "Does it matter?"
     Less cocked his head. "Yes. Yes it...."
     And then he got it.
     "Boss?"
     Richard Less looked at the big board. Looked at the seven bogies. He
glanced at several other monitors, watching hallways. Alarms were sounding
in them, though there was no audible alarms in Strategic Operations itself.
He leaned down to his control panel, and made adjustments. Activating the
video cameras in Oracle's little faux temple.
     "Boss? What's going on? What's -- oh *shit!*"
     Richard Less didn't answer. He watched the screen. Watched as
Wollstonecraft crawled along the floor in a lot of pain. Watched as Oracle
-- one of the most powerful metahumans on the planet -- screamed her head
off. An eerie sight without audio. Watched as the guards in the room were
felled by spells cast by Roger Nobody. Watched as Transit of the Adjusted
League Unimpeachable Academy moved like she was doing a martial arts
demonstration, causing sparks to flare and knocking out armed men across the
room. And watched Scholarman between them, staggering towards Oracle with
something in his hands. The camera was over his shoulder. He couldn't see
the X Factor's face.
     But he could see Oracle's.
     "Emergency!" Bankert was shouting into another phone. "All troops to
Level 5! All troops to Level 5! Protect Oracle--"
     "She's terrified," Less murmured. "The prophet's completely blind now.
She's *less* than Alanna Gordon."
     Out of the corner of Less's eye, he saw troops running Hell bent for
leather down corridors. But he knew it wouldn't matter. He saw Oracle
sobbing. Begging.
     And then he saw her die.
     "Oh shit," Bankert whispered.
     Less snorted. "The snake warned me," he said softly. "And it bit me in
the ass anyway."
     "What do you mean?"
     "Do you remember your question? Back at the safehouse, when we were
standing in the parking lot?"
     "Huh? What are you fucking talking about? Less, should we evacuate? Do
we--"
     "You asked me how Egoiste knew about Scholarman. And I asked you if it
mattered. Just like you just asked me if it mattered how the Allies knew the
*precise* location Scholarman was hidden in?"
     "I...."
     "I mean, we know our business. We have ways to screen from scrying and
psi and all kinds of shit. So how'd they get the coordinates so precisely
that a teleporter could appear in the room?"
     Bankert opened his mouth, and then closed it. Flustered, upset, angry,
and most of all scared.
     But Richard Less wasn't. He walked over to the coffee pot and poured
himself the last of the cups. Good and sludgy. "Don't you see? Egoiste knew
about Scholarman because he was told. The Allies knew where Scholarman was
because *they* were told."
     "The traitor," Bankert whispered. "But you said it was Artifact--"
     "Who was killed by Egoiste, probably before he could even defend
himself."
     "But... but that's insane. Egoiste was one of the original Primaries!
One of the driving forces behind the whole fucking war! Are you telling
me--"
     "Check it out. The seven bogies are deploying."
     "Huh?"
     Less nodded to the big board. The seven bogies had disgorged a number
of smaller blips. One by one they were identified, and all of them heroes.
And all around them, carefully positioned fortifications began to fall -- as
if the heroes had been told exactly how the ULA was going to set up their
attack.
     "Ho... holy shit," Bankert said. "Richard... the Crimson Crowbar's
down. Telemetry--"
     "He's dead," Less said, without even looking to confirm.
     "Yeah." Bankert's voice was empty.
     "He won't be the only one. More than half the ULA's vulnerable to the
new front. And of course there's Egoiste."
     "Richard... why would Egoiste betray the Unimaginable League Amoral?"
     "It wasn't supposed to be this way," Less said, just as softly.
Watching. Watching as one of the more advanced war airships moved out of
position, driving suddenly towards the core fortifications. Where the
primary repeaters were held. Where the primary armaments and supplies were
held. Where the key automation center for Arsenal's drones was being
controlled. He could see reports scrolling around the bogie -- Stigmata was
dead, now, and so was Seraphim, and even Nimbus couldn't be tracked -- but
he kept his eye on the ship. The one tagged with two stars. Two stars for
two Primaries. Arsenal and Egoiste. Blue and Black Steel. Gabrielle and
Anthony DuMarque.
     "Oh my fucking God," Bankert whispered.
     And then the ship hit. And there was a ripple, and telemetry went down
for thousands upon thousands of the ULA's assets.
     "Director Less?"
     Richard Less didn't respond. He watched the picture on the screen.
Watched as what remained of the ULA's forces collapsed. Watched as the
reports showed that Incendiary and Goldenrage were dead. Nimbus was missing.
The repeater network flared red as well -- too much interference. Too much
feedback. Where ever Psybernet was buried, she was probably in agony from
the hit.
     "Director Less?"
     Richard blinked and turned. The chief of Center security was there.
"Yeah?"
     "Sir, the Center is secure. Oracle is dead. Mister Wollstonecraft is in
the infirmary. The invaders escaped."
     "Yeah."
     "Sir, we should prepare an evac--"
     Less snorted. "There's no reason. We're too far back from the lines and
individual heroes are going to be busy for a while."
     "Sir. Their teleporter could reappear. With a nuclear weapon,
potentially. We need to crash and evacuate."
     "She won't be back. Not unless things go startlingly wrong for the
Allies, and frankly I don't see that happening."
     "How can you be sure?"
     "Because the Allies aren't in the habit of turning teenaged girls into
weapons of mass destruction. That's more our playbook than theirs. Go to
full lockdown. I want a complete sweep of the Center. Get the fucking
commanders on the line. Bankert? Send Radian's recall. I want her in this
fucking base. Begin a strategic withdrawal along the repeater lines and fry
them as you go. I want as many troops as we can get our fucking hands on
pulled back into America as quickly as possible. Someone put on more
coffee."
     "Sir," the Chief said slowly. "By... by what authority are we issuing
these commands? They exceed your mandate, don't they?"
     Less looked at the Chief. "Don't you get it, son?"
     "Sir?"
     "The Unimaginable League Amoral is dead. They're all dead, son. All but
Psybernet. If she contradicts me, let me know. If you can find her, anyway.
That might be a little hard right now, especially since I assume she's in
Russia. Absent her? This is our war now, son."


[Side one is over. You should move on to Side two, which has only just
begun... to live....]