The Unified Continent of Freedom, as the imperialists liken themselves, is the singular threat to global stability and international peace. The extractionist warmongers should have died out long ago, crumbling under the immense weight of their own internal contradictions. It is only by the development of two incredibly potent technologies that the UCF was able to survive to the present day. The first is obvious for most educated observers to locate — the Egregore Engine, that abominable creation from the depths of humanity’s antipathy towards itself. In the last days of the US empire, a rapidly accelerating energy crisis seemed like it would be all that would be needed to take the nation off life-support. Not so. By some detestable joke of fate, the energy revolution would come in the US. An engine powered purely by human suffering. Grief as a fuel source. How utterly fitting for the United States, that foremost exporter of suffering in the world, that they should discover the capacity to form a direct, physical pathway between the suffering of others and their own wealth. The second technology was more elusive for some to identify, and yet is in fact simply an advancement on the theory of a much older technology, dusted off and repurposed for a new crisis. This technology is Fascism, and of the two technologies, it is the more primary.
Hidden Dragons, Paper Tigers, Running Dogs: A Field Guide to Contemporary Reactionaries, originally published in the Monthly Review, by Dr. Xiāo Sīzhēn (蕭思真), PRA Political Commissar and Professor of Political Science at Tsinghua University
UCFS Rumsfeld, low-earth orbit, UCF 09/30/453
Darkness. It stretches out, infinitely, a silent ocean of still waters. Without warmth or cold. A softness of neutral buoyancy. Someone hovers over the waters. She — she? — looks into the mirror-like face of the darkness. She sees a face. Whose face? Familiar, but not comforting. Something horrible and hungry hides behind those eyes. The face grins at her, a smile far wider than it should be. It only says one word. Light.
Flechette wakes on the cold lithosteel deck of the UCFS Rumsfeld’s primary THRONE hangar. The deck is hard and rough against her face. The bright lights far above blaze like white points of burning magnesium. She groans. Rolls over onto her back. Takes a moment to breathe. All around her, the orderly frenzy of soldiers assisting in the de-meching of the remaining members of Squadron 16 can be heard, filling the hangar bay with the shuffle of procedure.
Flechette flutters her eyes open, locks gazes with the cold, ceramic face and limp form of the BIRTH OF VENUS. Her mech. That machine that has become so familiar to her, so associated with victory and safety, with exceptionalism and performance. To all outside appearances it looks completely inert, steam boiling off from its panels, slowly cooling from the heat of its violent escape through the grasping hands of low-atmosphere friction. But as Flechette continues to stare at the monstrous face of the mech, there seems to be a glimmer of life deep within the lightless optics array, a gargantuan alien presence that freezes her with an ancient, hunted instinct. She realizes she is face to face with the most perfect predator ever designed by God or Mankind, unsure if it still remains under her command.
She lies there, frozen, in the view of this massive beast machine, until a single thought pierces her entire person.
Tang. My cross. My brother.
She’s on her feet so fast and sprinting to Medbay 16 that she just barely fails to notice the slightest, subtlest twitch in the focusing lenses of one of the VENUS’ optics, as if following her exit.
Flechette slides around corners and hallways, sprinting like she’s once again trying to outrun a blaze of Thanatic charge chasing her down. She flings herself towards the entrance of Medbay 16 and bursts into the room. Her lungs are burning. She scrambles to her feet, yanks out her tags to be scanned at the door, and manages to pant out three words:
“Where. Is. He.”
“Your cross? Right this way, sir. Don’t worry, we’ve got him in stable condition.”
“Show. Me.”
“Of course.”
Tang is sitting up in a medical cot. He’s minimally wired-up, a single medical omni-monitor strapped to his chest, while he makes pleasant conversation with the attending nurse. He spots Flechette as she comes in, throwing his arms wide and shouting, much to the mild amusement of the medical staff.
“BROTHER! O BROTHER OF MY SWORD, YOU WERE A SPECTACLE!”
“Tang, I— I’m so glad to see that you’re safe.” Words fail to express the magnitude of the sentiment. Seeing Tang as rambunctious and jovial as ever immediately calms the rush of adrenalines animating Flechette’s frayed nerves. She slumps into the seat beside Tang’s cot, cut strings of a marionette.
“More than safe, brother, thanks to you! You saved my life. Again! Haha, I think I owe you a lot more than the first round this time.”
“I honestly can’t believe we made it out of that alive.” Her disbelief is genuine. She barely remembers what happened. Like she wasn’t even there.
“Alive! Brother, I barely get one scratch on me. You one star among the heavens. One chosen among chosens! Brother of my deepest heart, what would I ever do without you?”
“Well, you’d be open to attacks from behind,” Flechette sighs, joking dryly.
“Ha! Yes, I guess I would be, eh? Your wit’s as sharp as your sword, as usual.”
“Thank God in Heaven for that.”
“True that. Come on, come on, let’s go get a drink. What the hell was that last move you pulled? We gotta talk story. Seems you been holding out on me. Tell me over a few rounds. Doc! Am I good to go? I swear, you don’t need to baby me. I’ve still got breath in me! Come on, come on, let’s go!”
The nurse smiles. Tang’s good humor is just what this medbay needed after a catastrophic operation like that. “Alright, Tang, but be careful. Don’t drink too hard, and come straight back if anything feels off.”
“Shootz, bro. I’m a responsible young gentleman!” He beams, and it seems to put the entire room at ease.
“My cross has brought me back from the brink — I think Death’s had his fill of me today!” He stands up and wraps his huge arms around Flechette, squeezing her gently but fiercely, masterfully in control of his immense strength.
“Flechette Jaydamn, I owe you my life.”
Flechette drinks with her cross in the mess hall of the UCFS Rumsfeld, debriefing about the operation. Flechette is visibly shaken, her usually impeccable appearance ruffled just enough to warrant a careful, quiet concern from her cross. And there’s the issue of their escape from the strike site. The incredible performance as a pilot, surely, but more than that — that kind of performance shouldn’t be humanly possible, not from a pilot, nor from a THRONE mech. No, something happened, and neither of them really understands what. For the first time since their tenure as Academy cadets together, Flechette can’t find the words to speak with her cross. The tension in her shoulders would go unnoticed by most, but she and Tang have been through every type of intimacy together — a bond deeper than brothers, more committed than lovers, passionate in ways that can only be understood by two soldiers who have danced in perfect synchrony, back to back, in that incredible pulsing rhythm of combat. Tang can feel Flechette’s anxiety as if it were his own.
Tang broaches the topic gently, always the braver one.
“So. Hell of a performance today.”
“Yeah, no shit. You were killer, Tang.”
“I’m not talking about my performance. You know what I mean, Edge.” The invocation of her callsign, a beckoning towards trust, to remember the blood they’ve shed together.
She scowls, investigating the sediments in her drink with derision, as if irritated at their disorder. But she can’t avoid this question. One way or another, she has to face it, and she’d rather do it with the unfaltering companionship of her cross.
“Yeah, I don’t… Yeah. It felt different. It was strange, like— like I wasn’t there. But I wasn’t somewhere else. I was both gone and fully present.” It never fails to catch her off guard, that uncanny power that Tang has, to get people talking, to trust him not just with their lives, but their deepest selves. It’s an incredible and terrifying ability. An edge unlike any other — not a sword but a scalpel.
“Sounds spooky,” Tang says, sounding genuinely haunted. Flechette laughs, which was clearly the intent. Tang smiles.
“Yeah, I guess it was. It felt like I was becoming someone else. Like someone else was in the cockpit with me. Except… It wasn’t a different person. It’s like it was me, but also, not me. And it didn’t come from inside me. It came from outside. From the VENUS.”
Tang stays silent, staring with intent and care.
“It felt incredible. Like power I had never known before. And it was terrifying. Like holding back the sea with your arms, and winning.”
“Sheesh.”
“Yeah. I’ve never heard of anything like this happening to a pilot.”
“Me neither… Something to keep an eye on, for sure. But, Edge, remember — you, doing whatever that was — you saved our lives today. Remember that. Whatever this is, you saved lives with it.”
It’s just like Tang, to know the deep fears that bleed through. When Flechette looks back up at him, her eyes are shining. He smiles warmly.
“Edge. We're in this shit together. Through and through. You never gonna need to do anything alone.”
He looks out the mess hall windows, at the immense curve of the earth overhead, and sighs. Wistful and sad.
“Together. In everything.” Flechette is awash in emotions. Trust, affection, commitment. She doesn’t notice that Tang almost sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.