Mutually Assured Destruction (27/?)

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Memory transcription subject: Governor Sam of the Venlil Republic

Date [standardized human time]: November 11th, 1979

Captain Tak lurched over the table and slammed his cup down. It was his twelfth cup so far.

Our origins as nomads, living harsh lives on arid plains, made us a practical people. Our populace was too few, and the dangers too great, to allow our wars to go on for too long. Ancient tradition decreed that the heads of warring caravans hold a feast when the fighting was done, so as to get out any lingering hatreds.

Hence the drinks.

The humans wouldn't have been able to do that, I thought. Venlil wars were light, compared to the devastating affairs that were human wars. A skirmish here, volleys exchanged there. The legends that survived the Federation info-purges told of battles on the plains, wandering towns that made up the tribe-cities exchanging broadsides.

Not quite the scale we’d experienced in our latest war.

“There, there.” I patted Tak on the shoulder as he cried. He hung off my shoulder as if he were afraid of drowning. Odd, considering we’d been mortal enemies a week ago. But wasn't that the point of the ritual?

“I… I just don't know how we could've done this,” Tak sobbed. “All of… everything!”

He leaned against me, and for a moment I felt like joining him on drink. He was letting loose, but also finding comfort. I could still think about everything. The initial scramble for the asteroid belts and the grueling six-year battle for Mercury. The scouring campaigns to clear the Federalists from the belt. The final invasion of Altair, a neighboring system used by the enemy as a staging post.

Eternity staring into the black, listening to the crackle of the sensors and the pinging of the radar systems, punctuated by minutes of teeth-clenching terror. Not to mention the rat’s war on the ground.

No. I’m not turning to alcohol to solve my problems. I’ll remember everything that happened, in honor of those who died. I was the one who put them through it; it fit that I should bear the weight.

So we sat in silence, contemplating what we’d done to each other.

I let my thoughts wander and reflected, something I hadn't been able to do for quite a long time. I thought of what happened, what could've happened and what didn't.

Tak was snoring now, having passed out. I wriggled out from under him and scooted over to a wall, looking back at the scene.

The room was full of staff officers celebrating the end of the war. Quite a few of them were getting as drunk as Tak, and I couldn't blame them. Many of them had patches of discolored wool that suggested a grafted limb, and small scars and nicks were on just about everyone. The Venlil Navy was meritocratic, and its officers tended to lead from the front. Me included.

I noted with sadness that Tak was the only officer of the short-lived Venlil Federation to be in the room. Normally there'd be officers from both sides settling their differences, but the war had taken a horrific toll on the breakaway Venlil. Zealotry, starvation and sheer attrition had made it so that Tak, a mere captain, was the highest ranking surviving officer left to sign the surrender documents. Everyone steered clear of him, and all his comrades were dead. I couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity.

I dragged Tak over and stuck his head onto my shoulder. The closeness of my fellow Venlil was steadying as I contemplated how to proceed forward. The war was won, the Venlil united. But what do we do now? Punish the rebels? Welcome them home?

The Federalists were still Venlil, even after everything that happened. They had their reasons and believed in their causes. There must’ve been something that made their logic line up.

It all starts with humans. The controversy and the cause. A threat to our autonomy, a wrench in the gears. Contact with them overthrew just about everything we thought we knew. They overturned the status quo and introduced lasting change, but they’d done so too quickly. Though the humans were friendly and showered us with gifts, the speed at which our cultures came together generated friction, amplified by the sudden loss of Venlil Prime that all but forced us into their arms. Like it or not, we had to deal with the backlash.

The Federalists. The rival faction, radical fundamentalists. Rogue elements of the Navy and small cadres of anti-predator militants meshed together into a partisan guerrilla force that made the war a nightmare. Different tactics were needed for them: propaganda teams to starve them of supplies and safe havens, turncoats and moles to get rebel cells to disband and defect, or in extreme cases turn on each other. For a while, the war was indeed civil, with barely a shot fired. Then came Mercury.

After the loss of Venlil Prime the metal-rich planet became our main base of industry. When the war turned hot it became a major objective for both our factions. The most militant Federalists, turncoats from the Navy and Marines, launched a planet-wide assault to take the planet and fuel their war machine. My attempts to blockade the planet met their ships in orbit, and the ensuing battle escalated beyond all comprehension.

Stories abounded from the ground, cut off by the war in the air: bodies harvested for organs, then burnt like trash; soldiers made to die again and again, every failed organ replaced, squads of cobbled-together machines fighting without end; of the municipal maintenance robots, rebuilding devastated factories and broken tenements over and over with oblivious mindlessness, creating warped, uncanny copies of what we once called home. We Venlil had done a lot to each other. I had to deal with that as well.

In summary, we were devastated. We’d been torn apart and put back together again, operating in a fugue state. Venlil of both inclinations were rocked by the horror of what happened.

What do I do now?

Again, I thought, the answer lay with the humans. Wars of this scale were common to them. Surely they’d navigated this problem before, and had done well if their friendliness was anything to go by. So with Tak on my shoulder, I booted up my tablet and searched up our observations on humans, specifically post-war operations.

1917. A brutal war even by human standards, cemented into the public eye as something never to be repeated again. Post-war ops involved a punishing treaty and draconian reparations, so thoroughly cruel that it spawned extreme radical movements in the defeated states, resulting in a second war within twenty years. It would be a bad idea to punish the Federalists, at least to that extent.

1918. A scaled-down version of Selvim's predictions for humanity. An entire peninsula reduced to radioactive slag for taking credit for a Venlil preemptive strike. Largely regarded as humanity's greatest shame. Extermination of the opposing side could be convenient if hidden. But something in the back of my mind told me it was a bad idea.

But there wasn't a reason for this, so I pressed the issue. All logic told me a silent purge would be the best option. There would be no problem of deradicalization, no inconvenience of watching my back for resurgent enemies, no need for open cruelty or difficult kindness. Even if the purge were to become publicly known, it wouldn't be too difficult to write off the victims as defective. The brutality of the war was well known, and my citizens still believed in the practices of the Federation, despite everything. I knew it wouldn't be questioned.

So why did I find this option repulsive?

I surveyed my assorted officers, these tired, mutilated souls, and concluded that we’d had enough pain for today. We must be better.

I thought back to the ritual we were partaking in. The rekindling of friendships, the mending of bonds, meant to preserve our population that was already so small. We are better than killing off our own. There is a better way.

1945. A war that saw millions dead, only stopped by the use of atomic weapons. Treaties were friendlier, and the principal states of the defeated sides underwent extensive deradicalization under military occupation. There was rehabilitation; involving commerce and trade, resulting in prosperity in affected areas. Defeated states remain staunch allies with their former occupiers to this day. It was a long, costly road with many setbacks and a plethora of difficulties, but if I put in the work we could make something similar happen.

But what about those who didn't accept my work? Any of these former rebels could stab me in the back. How do I solve this?

Divert their efforts. Let them oppose me safely and openly and they’ll take the path of least resistance. Debating me on the stage certainly beats scheming in the dark. And I was supposed to listen to my constituents, after all. If my opponents had good ideas, I would be remiss to suppress them.

But this would only work if I am reasonable and listen to complaints. I have to take into account differing viewpoints; I can’t just discard opinions or else knives in the dark will appear the easier option to my opponents. There must be trust, in other words. I thought to myself. Had I been trustworthy of late?

No. I didn’t think so. Before I became Selvim’s adjutant I’d been head of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the Venlil Secret Police. My rule since Selvim disappeared was marked by espionage and wetwork. Working from the shadows was what I’d always done, it felt natural to me.

But a civil war had broken out on my watch; evidently something was not right. The results were clear: it was not the right way to rule.

Things had to change. Starting now.

I hummed to myself as I drafted up the rules and procedures to sew my nation back together. Maybe, just maybe, things might turn out okay.