(Copyright Act Admissions/Lanham Act Disclaimers. This piece infringes copyrights owned by Sega and DiC. It is not a product of Sega, DiC, or Archie Comics. All available rights are reserved.)
Royal Court-in-Exile, Fortune Station, 2 Pluvoise 3235
Of all the various drugs one could put into your head to make it faster, caffeine was probably one of the worst. Methylphenidate's cool alertness and precision was the closest thing to a pure intelligence enhancer, the only penalty from overuse being the gradually tightening ring that drew down around the soul, the blinders behind which more and more of your mind would slowly disappear. Dextroamphetamine and levoamphetamine were near misses, but why bother when you have access to methylphenidate? Compared to it, ginseng was small beer, nicotine a joke with nasty delivery systems.
Caffiene.
Vidavin Vulanis.
Caffiene was the alcohol of stimulants. Rapidly habit forming, with a tendency to aggravate the underlying psychological conditions it was meant to counteract. That slowly spreading paranoia that jerked you back from rest, stamped on the subconscious, until finally that constant anxiety was the whole of your mind. Then finally the crash, the twitching semi-sleep, the fever and the dehydration.
Two advantages, again similar to those of alcohol: tasty delivery mechanisms and social acceptability. Advantage two was not to be underestimated: would you care for some coffee? The benefits were even more extreme when compared with busting out pills in front of the entire cabinet. Or in front of the cameras, and there were so many cameras. All she had to do was walk out of a building and someone would have a telephoto shot of the royal amphetamine derivatives, and the tabloids would have a full list of the nightmare side effects running wild in her brain. Openness was an essential aspect of her government's public posture, probably more important than the ultimately marginal aspects of domestic policy that had been surrendered to Parliament, and that to a parliament half-packed with personal appointees for districts still under Robian control, pending liberation and elections. Seeing her in the papers, trivid and nets every day made them feel like they knew her, feel that she was a friend who could be trusted. A photograph every day keeps the domestic opposition away.
It had made her face possibly the most well-known in the world—Robotnik himself was probably neck-and-neck, but hers was certainly more pleasant to look at. The finest reconstructive surgeons had plied their wiles on it, and had restored as much of its natural shape as they could. And the rest was an inspired improvisation: the Queen's mien was wry, ruminative, like an old country squirrel with a nut tucked in her cheek. When you looked at her dead on, and when she talked, the asymmetry was more noticeable. She'd been developing an instinct for presenting herself in profile. In public, she also sometimes let her long hair out of the complicated knot that pulled it taut to the back of her head, so that it would spill down over her left eye and cheek. Here, in the presence of no one but her senior ministers and generals, she didn't bother with such vanity. But she still kept her chair slanted to the left, regarded the room askance.
Sally lifted the china to the corner of her lips. The right corner. Coffee fierce on her tongue, cardamom, just a touch of lemon. She held it, let the warm scent drift up to her nose.
Antoine's voice continued, tinny, bands of light flickering through his visage above the tabletop trivid protector. ". . . will conclude in the next three days. The Crown already has to begin positioning itself relative to the failure of the talks. As I understand it, the War Ministry is eager to begin a hard push to seize eastern Mobotropolis and bring the capital firmly under control. If—"
She closed her eyes a moment, let her thoughts drift as the first of the caffeine began to trigger her neurons, gently inflating her against the constricting pressure of the methylphenidate. Antoine had already explained the situation to her the night before—four hours ago, actually, at two—in much less reserved terms. She hadn't been expecting much to come out of the peace talks, which was why she'd dispatched Antoine. The reason the talks had dragged on as long as they had was the rather unexpected and unusual personal offer from Robotnik's War Minister. After a week of having milintel and her personal oppo researches build a dossier on the skinbag she'd basically decided to let him hang. It was as likely the human was trying to draw her out as some sort of psyop as that he was legitimately offering to kill Robotnik, and even if he was, consultants with Army Rangers said there wasn't much Mobius could do to help him short of wiring the proposed assassination venue with electronic surveillance, which he'd strenuously protested was far too dangerous to himself.
So, let things go. Maybe the human would pull it off without any help. Maybe he'd get caught and throw the Robian war machine groaning off the rails. Or maybe the war would continue to grind along. No downside.
". . . necessary, but the delegation should be able to delay the end of the conference another week without breaking any major diplomatic protocols or providing Robotnik with an excuse to unilaterally abandon the conference." Antoine scratched the bridge of his nose, dipped his snout deferentially. "I suspect that we can probably manage to avoid any change in public perception regarding the Crown's negotiating strategy in the same timeframe, thought it would be wise to verify my assessment with public relations operatives that have their ears closer to the ground."
"Thank you, Antoine," Sally said. "This has lasted far longer than anyone could have anticipated. For a month and a half of daily meetings with those hopeless traitors we ought to give you the Order of Valor."
A twitter of approving laughter ran down both of the legs of the arch-shaped table, from the Queen at its apex. Only one face didn't smile, eyes naturally luminous as an artifact of the projection but a hint of anguish in them nonetheless. "I'll see you soon, love," Antoine said.
Sally smiled. She nodded. She killed the connection.
"I've read the ministry reports," she announced. In this she was not lying. She had not kept to the executive summaries for this. The meetings over the next three days would set the tone and pace for the close of the war. Proud, arrogant Robotnik had agreed to talks because Mobotropolis was a natural break point. SAM technology was effective and cheap enough and her economy was such a shambles that manned aircraft were by and large a losing economic bet; even with Lachels support the Great River was a difficult barrier, with every bridge up to the border blown by the retreating Mechanized Army. After that, there was nothing to stop her, all the way to the coast.
Cabinet-plus today, more than could be properly packed into the conference room of the Fortune Station Endicott Hotel: all her ministers and high level Crown officers plus Generals Connell (rearguard), Lowe (forest, irregulars) and Rock (front line), as well as Colonel St. John, the special operations liaison to Alpha Lupe Almatrican. The wolf was there, too, of course, sitting in a far more prominent position than most of the cabinet proper with Reynard behind her. Neither Polanski, the Deputy Chief of the Lachels Defense Supply Agency, nor Lachels General Berg were in attendance. Her friends to the north were increasingly unenthusiastic about the war, convinced after five years that the conflict her people had endured for almost thirty was pointless and without end. If they didn't wish to play, they could stay home. She didn't want them to feel that she needed them.
What's more, she didn't need them.
"The Robians will expect us to push hard right at the river, to keep them from reinforcing." Sally grinned, her thin lips parting to show a flash of tooth. "That's where you come in, Alpha. We'll need your warriors to hit hard: supply lines into the capital, city infrastructure—the fourth and fifth water redistribution stations, too; we'll need to coordinate with intel to see if there's any working electrical grid left to take out.
"At the same time, our front line troops hit hard outside the city. We'll need river crossings north and south. If we cross the river, We're where we want to be. If it's enough to convince Robotnik to redistribute his forces, out of the city, so much the better. We're more than happy to take it sooner rather than later.
"At the same time, we need a relatively small deployment into the Great Forest itself. A long march and an attack from the south requires us to spread forces far more than we would like, and gives Robotnik plenty of time to fortify the river. But totally failing to prepare for a worst-case scenario won't avoid it."
Sally sipped thoughtfully at her coffee. The sound of ceramic on ceramic was loud in the room. All eyes and ears were turned to her, waiting, listening.
"Maybe another target farther behind the lines, if you're feeling up to it, Lupe. Psyops rather than a hard target. Maybe a comms tower in Terscala, maybe—"
"Ironlock," General Rock nodded eagerly. "We could dedicate special forces to that, as well."
The Queen turned her eyes on the wolverine. Her mien was cool, her features smooth, statuesque. "What would be the value in attacking Ironlock Prison?"
No one could be completely trusted. Anything she said even in a highest-security war council could be on the front page of the Times, if someone decided it was the right or the just thing to do. Rock locked eyes with her, afraid of how much fear and shame he would show if he dared to lower his gaze. He seemed genuinely taken aback; perhaps Her Majesty's mention of an attack on the east Mobotropolis water stations had made him suspect her mind was turning to her prior, failed attempt to have a team of Army Rangers destroy the pumping stations and starve out Robotnik's defenders.
What would be the value in attacking Ironlock Prison, indeed.
"Well, Majesty," the General continued haltingly, "it might be a very valuable propaganda victory, to be able to free prisoners of war and—"
"General," Sally interrupted, voice cold and smooth as polished granite, "We've discussed this matter already with Ian"—her Press Secretary—"and the Minister of State. We believe that unless the peace talks produce a general prisoner exchange, an action of the sort you describe has the potential to greatly harm popular support for the offensive. Ironlock is so far behind the current lines that we do not believe that any attack can be mounted that will have a successful chance of freeing any significant number of prisoners for at least a year, and probably more. If we were to conduct a surgical strike to free only a few prisoners, we believe that the primary response of the public would be to feel envy for the lucky few families whose loved ones were freed. Our people would resent these lucky ones. Calls would grow for an immediate prisoner exchange, which could only be granted on terms which would cost us the advantages of our current position and throw the entire future of the war into jeopardy."
"I am sorry, Majesty," the wolverine replied. "It's clear that you have given far more thought to this matter than me."
"We have. If you have further thoughts on the matter, please take them up with the Minister of State."
"Yes, Majesty—"
"Now," Queen Sarah said, folding her fingers, turning her body squarely to the table. "Details."
Place Unknown, Time Unknown
"Take, for instance, the ceremony of knighting." Tails did not hear the Lady move behind him, but his fur tingled in anticipation until he felt the touch of a pair of fingers to simulate the flat of the sword. Tap on his left shoulder, tap on his right. "I dub thee Sir Miles. Twenty five reps."
Tails tightened his grip on the plastic handles of the shoulder press, feeling his palmpad slip against his warm sweat, inhaled, locked and pushed. One hundred fifty kilos. After the first week, for two months now, every day, two unspeaking mobian guards, maybe twenty regular faces but nothing sufficiently frequent to become an individual, would order Tails to the door of his cell, shackle and muzzle him, and take him to a prison gym. Not the kind of gym you would find in a prison, whatever that might be—Ironlock didn't have all the amenities—but rather a kind of cross between a gym and a prison, short lengths of chain fastening padded medical wristcuffs to the grips of the bench press, the lat pull, the rowing machine. For when pumping techno and two rows of televisions just aren't enough to distract you from the burn.
But here there were no televisions, and no music. Just mirrors to reflect the scowling, muzzled fox, muscles moving under his unkempt back and armfur like the suggestion of snakes undulating underneath desert sand, ears burning hot, eyes like cold cut agate under the tangled mess of his uncut hair. And behind him, one day per week, the pine marten in her starched black uniform, arms folded across her chest, mouth snarling as the fox's arms began to fail. "Twenty. Twenty-one. More. Fight. Fight. Worm! You're pinned under a damaged bot. A human is coming to kill you. You're dead. She just killed you. You've failed your Lady, and your fellow warriors are dropping like flies. Push. Push!—Twenty-three. More. Should I spot you? Should I call you Sir and bring you tea? Do you need a kiss between your ears? Push!"
Slowly, his arms obeyed and punched through the last centimeters. Twenty-four. When Renee was not marking the week with her presence, her warders would bark the number of sets and reps and then stand silently as Tails did as many as he could, then carefully restore his shackles, lead him to the next of the day's stations, and bind him to the next machine for more lifts. They would spot him as he began to falter; if necessary, they would do negative reps. At the end, one of them would make a tally of the workout on a sheet, make marks as he performed some quick calculations and translated his underperformance into strokes with a length of gasoline hose on his back.
It made Tails stronger. Thirty reps at one hundred fifty kilos was, ha ha, a little insane. It was steroid bodybuilder weight, the sort of lifting a soldier would only rarely have to accomplish and didn't have time to prepare for, because he was fighting in the service of Queen and Country and did not have four hours per twenty-four to spend with arms and legs locked to weights.
Tails wasn't permitted to look at the records, but he thought he did better when his personal trainer was there. Her scowls, her insults, her fingernails pinching his ear, angry spittle in his neckfur: motivation.
Come on, Tails. Twenty-six. Kill me. Twenty-seven, all the way up, kill me. Kill me, Tails. More. More. Fight, slave. You've found a stray moment without your shackles, and you're punching me. A hundred and fifty kilos worth of force into my face. You can see in my eyes that I know. I've screwed up. I've given my slave a loaded gun. I've planned my own murder. More, more—
She would talk while he worked. Insane talk about the future, some world beyond the walls assembled from bits of conversation, wrong words, dark pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that didn't fit—
He didn't want to know about it. He didn't care what she said, didn't understand her and didn't want to. Didn't care about worker dormitories or the Twelve Lords and Ladies or the Great Teachers.
And her little history lessons, like today. Tails hated them. There were fewer and fewer stories about the recent past—the Great Dawn, industrialization—more and more about distant history and even prehistory, the first dynastic period, the early centuries of the Mobian aristocracy, before the formalization of the councils and the dominance of the house of D'Urisne. He wasn't sure if Renee's tales were historically right—history had never been Tails' strong suit, he liked engineering and science more—but there were little details, horrible details, that went against what he'd picked up over the years, always horrible, horribly wrong. Always plausible enough to scrape against your teeth, stick in your ears when you were trying to sleep in your cell, repeating and looping while you drifted off to sleep.
Today it was knights. Tails knew that in the old days they had been landholders and warriors. He also knew the TV shows he had watched in Knothole as a child, War-era movies and before, stuff to set a boy to building couch-castles and snow forts. He had a memory from when he was about twelve, when their war had begun to grow, of a complete stranger kneeling to his Aunt Sally, and feeling his heart beat faster, because the movies were true. He lived with Kings and Queens and heroes. Sally even had a crown, and big gloves! He would lie under his cover and wonder if Aunt Sally had a sword. He thought about Sonic kneeling down before her, feeling the cool metal touch him so lightly, one shoulder, then the other, changing you, making you different and special. Tails would hold his covers tight around his shoulders and neck, imagining it. May these be the lightest wounds you ever receive—
"That was a later addition as the aristocracy turned weak and decadent. The lightest wounds. Death is the stuff of war; pain and injury are its currency." Renee walked Tails like a repen, letting the chain dangle lightly from the fingers of her left hand, swinging loosely back to the ring from whence it anchored his wrists and ankles. His palms and feet were soaked, his ears burning hot, his nose sticky from trying to pant through it; more than a third of the way into her routine he was in no condition to fight. The blows she would give him at the end of the workout would not be a fight, just a beating, as she so often told him. "The lightest wounds is not a well-wish. It is a promise given to a slave: if you obey, there will be no more punishment. A Mobian Lord who made such promises would lose his land and his warriors.
"The knighting ritual was a formal submission rite, practiced by one of the sons of our great King Vodavin, when Mobius Major was being forged. Kneeling is the act of making oneself helpless before a superior. Remember?"
You've only told it to me about a million times, Tails thought.
"In the early, forceful days of the Kingdom, the King did not make the meaning of the act implicit. Every new knight and lord was a possible rival for the throne. How to trust them? They would kneel before the King."
She pushed Tails to sit in a leg adduction machine, then stayed behind him, resting her hands lightly on his shoulders. "And the King would swing the flat of his sword. And dislocate one arm—" Renee squeezed his right shoulder. Not hard enough to actually hurt. ". . . and the other. A difficult feat, but he would practice on peasants and criminals.
"The knights would bite their tongues, or vomit. They would weep. And the King would reach down, scrape their bones back into place, stand them on their feet, knowing that he possessed a new creature. That is what it is to be a knight, Sir Miles. My brothers and sisters aren't changing Mobius, fox. We're restoring it. We're the highest expression of its most ancient genius—"
He kicked against the footrests, trying to—he didn't know what. Trying to drive his skull into her chin, but he had no angle. She clubbed him in the side of the head with her fist, woozy dull ache blossoming in his brain and ear, and then her fist slammed into the side of his neck, and he shrank like a bug in a flame, spasming, muscles locked tight, grimacing snout pressed against the site of the blow, wet sounds coming from his throat.
Renee leaned over him, studying his agony, and drove her fist sharply against the top of Tails' right pectoralis major. The blow was not crushing to his ribs but the muscles were already aching and at failure, and they were tied to those in his neck. The fox wilted further, twisting halfway off the sweaty black cushion, his right arm hanging limp and dead, tails immobile and askew.
She grabbed his left shoulder, digging her fingers into his underfur, and clamped him against the seat. Two more punches, the same spot. Exactly the same. Then she threw him to the scant padding of the floor, dust and furoil and sweat. Tails rubbed his face against it, his canines, trying to crawl away, trying to do something.
He felt her fingers rub between his ears. "The more you fight, the more I want you," she said, her voice soft but close. "You understand that, yes?"
Kain Blackwood 2010
