Wing Commander Ulan broods in her command chair, listening to the sounds of the war bird around her. They are the usual unobtrusive sounds of a star ship in flight; the soft whoosh of life support, the small chirps and beeps of computer equipment as it tracks and monitors a billion circuits throughout the ship, hushed voices as her crewmen confer on this matter or that. And under it all the deep, barely perceptible thrumming of her ship’s engines as they propelled her though space with unimaginable speed. She has sat, listening, a hundred times before. It’s a habit she developed when on important missions; listening for any small sign that there was a problem. It’s silly she knows, the computers would alert her crew of any malfunction. But still, she liked to feel in control, even while waiting for events to play out.
This mission was especially important. The wing she now commands consists of every last war bird the Empire could muster. Cloaked, and traveling at top speed toward a date with destiny.
A tall thin man enters the bridge. His trim black uniform and red epaulettes with green and gold markings identify him as a member of the newly formed Psi-terrogator division. A shiver runs up her spine at the thought of what he represents, but she keeps her composure. Her face remains fixedly non-committal, betraying nothing of her feelings as he approaches.
“Are we on schedule, Commander?”
“We are.” Her title is Wing Commander, and normally she would point that out and demand the respect she deserves, but she chooses to let it go. She keeps her eyes fixed on the bridge view screen; velvety blackness studded with thousands of pinpricks of light and the occasional wisp of a stellar gas cloud. Beautiful, but not the least bit unusual. Not worth the attention she is paying it.
“You don’t like me, Commander, do you.” It was not a question.
Slowly she turns to look into his eyes, “I have no feelings for you, one way or the other, Major.”
“Liar.” He smirks, “It’s because of what I do, isn’t it?”
Wing Commander Ulan knows the story. Long, long ago, her ancestors reached a point of civil… diversity… that required that they divide their people, each going their own way, pursuing their own goals.
Her people embraced life; passionately. They controlled their passions; decorum and self control were important, especially when in view of your subordinates, but it was the thrill of victory that made victory worth the battle. And battle they did. Their space ships, shaped and painted like great birds of war, conquered and held every star system they could reach.
The others, who adopted the name of Volans after the split, were pacifists. They prized thinking above all. They believed that ordered, logical thought could solve any problem. They pursued this goal to the point that logic became their religion. The Volans eliminated emotion, and focused on controlling themselves, and thus everything around them, through ordered thinking. Over the eons some Volans developed the ability to focus their thoughts so tightly that they could push their intellect into anothers mind. Thus joined, they were completely united; sharing each others thoughts. This technique was and is used only for sacred rights and can be performed only by the most accomplished, disciplined thinkers.
Bird Men had not been able to duplicate the Volans ability. They concluded that it was some mutation of the Volan brain that allowed the feat to be performed. A mutation brought about by the regimented rote practiced by the Volan priests. A mutation in which the Bird Men had no interest. Until recently.
“No, Major,” spat Ulan, “It’s because of what you’ve done to yourself, more than what you do to others. I don’t care about the insanity you create by raping the minds of our enemies, they are our enemies. But to allow your brain to be modified with implants… how does that make you any different from the Cyborg?”
“It differs, Commander…”
“Wing Commander, Major.”
The Major gives an apologetic bow of the head, “Wing Commander. It differs in that I still have free will. I am a thinking, rational being. In addition, psi-terrogation is the only way we could learn what we needed from the Cyborg. You know only too well, Comm… ah… ‘Wing’ Commander that our usual interrogation techniques, as effective as they may be against most life forms are, against the Cyborg; time intensive, costly and completely ineffective. Psi-terrogation, however, has worked very well.”
She knew: she’d been part of several Cyborg interrogation sessions. Nothing worked. She’d also witnessed the carnage resulting from psi-terrogation; even on the stalwart Cyborg. Another shudder ran up her spine. “And brought the full force of Cyborg wrath upon us. Assuming we survive this war, what happens when it’s over, Major; no more Cyborg to interrogate. What will become of your kind?”
“The Empire will always have enemies for ‘my kind’ to work on.”
“And how long will it be, before you are used against your own people? Or until it is decided that all Bird Men will wear your ‘implant’?”
“Ahhh… now; that’s what you truly fear, isn’t it? Well, fear not Wing Commander Ulan, it is a very rare individual who can make use of the psi-terrogator implant. Only a handful of us have survived the process. As for our being used against you; only if you were to be deemed an enemy of the Empire would you need to worry about that.”
Her retort is cut off by the sounding of a buzzer and her helmsman’s report. “We are within sensor range of the target, Wing Commander.”
“Very good! Signal all ships: go to battle stations. Remain cloaked. Use passive scanners only. We don’t want to alert them to our presence until we are within striking range.”
‘Finally’, she thinks, ‘We’ll find out if these abominations we’ve created are worth the trouble they’ve brought us.’
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