King Nothing
By author Xandeross
Armat IV Vien, Great Despot of Teccurus, master of the entire world and the three-billion souls upon it, paced back and forth in his central command bunker. Ten metres, back and forth, back and forth; that was the space left to the master of the world. Around him dozens of people, generals and soldiers and servants, worked at consoles, spoke into telephone lines, had arguments with each other; these were the people left to the master of three-billion. One wall of the bunker was dominated by a great screen, displaying the status of the armies of the Great Despot, the extent of his power and control. Now it displayed the extent of his powerlessness, as every icon save one was the grey of uncertainty and lack of communication.
Armat IV Vien, Great Despot of his central command bunker and the two-hundred souls within, considered it might have been a mistake to defy this 'Imperium'.
"Any progress on breaking through the jamming?" he asked, the eighth time in the past hour.
"No, sir. Their ships have a lot more raw power available then our own communication equipment, and their operators shut down whatever gaps we can find within minutes." For the eighth time, the same answer. He did his best to control his frustration and fear. The most fundamental part of leadership: never let them see you sweat.
"Let me know if anything changes," he commanded, and returned to his pacing. Ten metres back and forth, the status screen mocking him at every turn. He did not expect to receive a response soon, but perhaps—
"Enemy jamming has halted entirely in the 310 to 350 band. Receiving an extremely high-power video transmission in that band; probably the enemy making an announcement."
Vien blinked, processing the unexpected report. "Well, if the enemy wants to give us a chance, let's not waste it! Get to work re-establishing communications!" An unnecessary command; he could see the staff already hurrying into action. "And… show the transmission. Might as well see what they have to say for themselves."
The screen flickered, and on it appeared Armat IV Vien. Tired and dirty, clad in ceremonial regalia, he was speaking.
"—know that you are all willing to fight and die for our way of life, as am I. But now we are at a point where that is not enough; where the strength of our arms and the righteousness in our hearts will not produce victory. So I ask you, instead of dying for Teccurus, to live for it. It is with a heavy heart that I command my army and people to lay down their arms. To focus on preserving—"
"Shut it off," Vien growled. The fake Armat IV Vien and his fake surrender vanished from the screen. Consternation spread through the command centre as they realised what the enemy was doing. He found himself grinding his teeth as he considered how many soldiers might be duped into laying down their arms without a fight by these lies.
"Get me a microphone! I won't let this pass unanswered!" he growled. A recording device was thrust into his hands, and he started speaking.
"My people, do not be fooled by the lies of the enemy! They seek to win by deceit and treachery, because they know they cannot overcome the fire in our hearts any other way! No matter how powerful their weapons or how powerful their armies, they cannot overcome the might of a people united! People of Teccurus, take heart! So long as my heart beats in my breast, I will never rest and never surrender, and I know the same is true of all of you! Fight on, to victory! For the glory and honor of Teccurus!"
He clicked the recording device off, and ordered that it be broadcast to everyone they could reach, for as long as possible. It was not long; the jamming closed in again after a few minutes. The great screen had been partially updated in the interval. It was not a reassuring sight. Many units sprouted the black and yellow fringes of destruction and damage, while the red and pink dots of known and suspected enemy landings spread like a rash.
A few hours after the invasion began, and perhaps half the world was still under the control of his loyal soldiers. And he was in control of a single bunker complex. He returned to his pacing—ten metres, back and forth, back and forth. All the space left to the master of the world.
The end came not long after.
An unfamiliar alarm rang, sending the soldiers into a furor. Vien glanced about, bewildered, before asking what the alarm was for.
"Intrusion alarm. The guards up top are reporting contact!" was the response. The command centre devolved into chaos. Soldiers shouting, running around, readying their guns. Muffled gunfire echoed from somewhere up above, before the sound was cut off by closing blast doors. The lights went out as some generator was destroyed. For a moment, there was only absolute darkness and terrified shouting. Then the emergency chem-lights cut in, bathing the chamber in a bloody red glow.
Vien found himself, without quite knowing how, kneeling alongside a simple private, shovelling classified documents into the secure incinerator. Around him technicians were purging cogitator databanks and shredding maps. They were denying as much information as possible to the enemy. To what end, now, Vien could not say.
An ear-splitting metallic screech rent the air like a knife, forcing everyone's hands to their ears. The blast doors fell inward in a shower of sparks, crushing the leg of an unfortunate guard. A shape stormed through, almost too fast to track, a silhouette in the bloody light, cloak lashing behind like a banner in the gale. Rifles chattered, strobing muzzle flash and gunsmoke stench filling the chamber. Few of the bullets came near their target. Men were flung about like dolls by the thrashing of its steel limbs. Screams of pain joined the cacophony.
Armat IV Vien scrabbled for his ceremonial pistol. When was the last time he had even drawn it? The master of the world was not supposed to shoot things personally. He got it out of its holster, levelled it. Then it was slapped away by a casual backhand. He fell, and cried in pain as he tried to catch himself with a broken wrist. He managed to make it up onto elbows and knees before a pair of steel claws grabbed him from behind and lifted him onto his feet and he came face-to-face with a monster. Too tall, too many limbs that bent the wrong ways, too many eyes, a wide iron maw filled with too many rows of teeth. Not human, not human at all.
"Armat IV Vien," it said, voice incongruously feminine and smooth. "Great Despot of Teccurus. I require your unconditional surrender."
Perhaps he should have felt something. Outrage? Despair? But Armat IV Vien, master of nothing and nobody, felt nothing. He stood, surrounded by the cries and moans of the wounded, cradling a broken wrist, and felt nothing. There was nothing left to feel. Nothing left to do. And only one thing left to say.
"It hardly seems like you need it, but you have it."