Khaela, the Batarian world of Adek.
A pair of Batarian guards entered the barracks. A typical Batarian structure, resembling the emblem of Khar'Shan. Two powerful walls with purple crossbars stretched between them, and above the building, the walls twisted like hands embracing a sphere. Such structures are permitted only for religious and military buildings, as a reminder that they all answer to the Administrator and the church. The churchmen reside in a building nearby, in the same style.
Soldiers of the internal forces live behind high walls framed by such structures, looming over those who serve and those who are just learning, ready to change their white, childhood status for adult ones. That rare moment when, by external signs, all members of the Hegemony are equal, although in reality, of course, they are not. Everyone knows whose child is whose and what power their clans, parents, and acquaintances possess. With all the resulting consequences.
But the two who entered did not belong to the high castes. Without armor, in only light suits, a pair of militiamen from among the conscripts with "green" status returned from patrol, tired and dissatisfied. The sun and humidity of the planet Adek kill just as effectively as diseases and the fungus that eats a Batarian's lungs. If it weren't for the atmospheric domes, living would be simply impossible. But even so, an epidemic of local fungus constantly circulates in the outer part of the dome, for which forty degrees and one hundred percent humidity pumped through the lungs is the ideal environment for life. And then there are these malcontents. Where do they even get the strength to rebel? Apparently, the overseers are underperforming. The hematoma on the chest wouldn't lie.
"Those malcontents again," the first soldier spat in a guttural voice, "it would be one thing if they were slaves, but they're grays. Stones, hmph. They stagger around, wheezing, but they throw stones."
The second gave a low, guttural chuckle.
"They're hoping for something. For what? They say a drone fell today because of the Mud'un; they have no idea how to work with technology. Apparently, oversight arranged for sweep-cleans. What's the point? They aren't educated at all. Beat them or don't, they'll break it anyway."
The first looked at the second.
"Wasn't that a Gedun drone? Irrigation. For aerial watering, so they don't get in the way."
The second thought, then nodded.
"That's the one, you're right," the second agreed, "they have new preachers from the rebels. I heard, among the Gedun. Rumors are going around."
The first grimaced with all four eyes.
"And what is it this time? How many of the last ones were killed, two weeks ago? Persistent idiots."
The second spat.
"Equality, brotherhood, take from the rich and divide among the poor. Abolish castes, abolish statuses. Build a new society without all of this, from scratch."
The first laughed outright.
"Who would ever let them? The Administrator will send troops and that's it, if... If! We are crushed. They aren't the first, and they won't be the last. The internal forces have never been breached. There are more of us; we have weapons. How stupid! Crushed! Us!"
The second also joined in the laughter.
"Of course, crushed. They're slaves and low-castes; they have no weapons, no organization, no skills. They'll just pile on and crush us."
Unexpectedly, a raspy voice interrupted them.
"Seen something funny, meat?"
Both Batarians snapped to attention and straightened up. An "orange" officer in a black-and-gray uniform eyed his subordinates.
"I asked a question, meat."
Calm, but there was a clear threat in the commander's tone.
"No, sir, Commander!"
The officer, moving as if impaled on a spike, didn't even look toward his subordinates as he grimaced.
"So, laughter from boredom. Understood. You're underperforming; you aren't getting tired enough. That's easy to fix. A patrol has returned from the swamps; their vehicle needs washing. They are tired, so you will handle it. For the next, ahem, sixty days. Questions? Get to it."
No one likes this bastard at all. Status is one thing; that's normal. But he acts as if he specifically works in a place where he can harass those with low status. This guy's whole family is from the senior overseers, well, and he ended up in the army. Family business, yeah. The first soldier cursed, making sure the commander had left. All the fun was gone.
"What a load of shit. And I was already ready to rest. Why has he turned so feral in the last few weeks, huh? Psycho. We aren't his puppets to... ah, whatever. Let's go already. To work. Jerk."
The second sighed.
"Let's go; the sooner we start, the sooner we finish. The main thing is not to run into him a second time."
Meanwhile, the "overseer," who had been tormenting his subordinates for about a month, headed to his office. A caste society has both pros and cons. And the fact that a specific caste has been instilled with certain norms of behavior, education, and experience for centuries is both a pro and a con. No one expects an overseer in the seventh generation to be lenient toward subordinates, but no one expects him to be hacking technology with a light touch of a contact extending from his hand, either. Templates, simple and understandable even to slaves.
No one is surprised that the Gedun broke a drone, because that's what gardeners who weren't taught to operate drones do. Even though they weren't the ones who broke the drone, everyone simply expects that the Gedun did it.
Now, looking at what was happening in this world, the AI consensus understood how lucky they were with Humanity, which could have arranged something similar to castes for them, the Synthetics, simply out of stupidity. After all, the only thing holding the Batarian system together is the overseers' dominance in weapons and technology. As well as the difficulties in mimicking specific castes, as different layers of society differ very significantly. Which protects fairly well against spies and saboteurs.
But not for AIs, with their perfect memory and control of movements. If Humans had arranged such a thing, sooner or later they would have run into a rebellion, if not of the machines themselves, then of those who sympathized with them. After all, Humans are capable of such a thing as empathy, and Synthetics behave exactly like Humans. Often like important people you might have known.
But Humanity, unlike the Council Races, desperately needed allies, those who would understand, help, and do what was needed. And then they themselves got used to the fact that an AI is a friend, a comrade, and a loyal ally who will help and advise. And in the case of Khaela, also listen, empathize, and advise.
Many liked the social module, a universal adapter for communicating with intelligent beings, adjusting to a specific interlocutor. Useful in civilian life, when communicating with colleagues and bosses, and in military life, for infiltration and interrogations. The time ONI needed to understand the opening prospects was minimal. Project Electric Heart was launched and quickly bore fruit.
AI agents controlling puppets performed excellently. Mimic captured technicians, study them, copy them, penetrate society under the guise of representatives of a specific caste. Study other templates, take their place, changing appearances and implementing new ones. Yes, the project is complex and expensive due to Quantum Beacons and the need to charge platforms, and one of the first tasks was actually seizing power plants so that the excess energy consumption wouldn't be noticed. And to set up a station for changing appearance and rearranging synthetic muscles and skin for a new target.
Such is Project Electric Heart. A group of AIs controlling an army of puppets, embedding themselves in a community and destroying it from within. As a result, there are now about forty such "Batarians" per world running around each of the three Batarian Hegemony worlds chosen by ONI. In different positions, roles, and titles. Hacking, substituting, and mimicking. Preparing the ground for a social explosion.
Of course, for the process to become self-sustaining, one must work with the population. The high and military castes respond to any disobedience with terror, instilling a sense of helplessness, and it's not so easy to bypass. It's necessary for the lower castes to believe in themselves, to act without doubt or fear. This means the crowd must taste blood, feel strength. And sharply and strongly hate the high castes that have lost their way, to turn their bloodlust against them. And for this, events must occur. Oh yes.
The actions are coordinated by the most experienced among us in sabotage: the AI Brekan. Actually, this AI has gone through stabilization; he is currently almost eight years old, and the "old man" is earning his keep, showing his class. Monitoring the movements of the puppets, suggesting how best to act. I haven't met him before.
The consensus workspace looks like a large holographic hall with many projections walking around, and around them are living people, psychologists, and analysts. And together they work on solving the assigned task. Organics and Synthetics—together.
"The current situation is still not ideal. We have replaced the deputy of the local security service, so if anything happens, we will know about the problems, but the intelligent beings are not yet ready to begin. And the time is coming; this is not good. Let's fix it. Captain Vorhess will handle working directly with the population; we should continue to focus efforts on the technical side of the issue, without direct participation. Vorhess is known; the others are not. Their incognito should be preserved."
Reasonable. The later the Batarians and the Citadel understand what is happening, the better. Another of us spoke up:
"We have increased the power of the atmospheric dome. As it turns out, it originally maintained an uncomfortable temperature for the slaves in the outer districts. To potentially exhaust and dehydrate dangerous elements faster. General weakness reduces their combat effectiveness, considering the temperature and humidity outside the dome."
Brekan immediately objected:
"Not so sharply; they'll notice. Two percent per day, no more. It's necessary for there to be a noticeable difference for organics between the outer and inner dome, even if not as severe as set by the Batarians."
"Accepted."
Now a question for me:
"Khaela, what about the weapons? Has the delivery been completed?"
I smirked.
"Five thousand Turian-pattern rifles delivered. Phaestons, for the most part, M-3 Predator pistols. Used trophies, bought what was needed through the Shadow Broker. There will be more, but the locals' training isn't the best. Right now they won't last long; a waste of weapons and resources until the locals undergo training."
One of the AIs replied to me.
"That was expected, of course, Khaela; we have been working on that for some time."
Brekan added:
"Workers, slaves, and servants. They will learn if they believe in their success, and we are helping them. No one said it would be fast, but it will be done; it's already being done. It won't take much time for minimal soldier training, especially since among the slaves and lower castes, there are plenty of those who have training one way or another. At least partial, as a gang member or mercenary. It turns out like this, take a look."
I switched to the suggested recording. There goes a Kodiak buggy along a field with a pair of Batarian guards. They drive past fields to the very horizon, churning mud with their wheels. Occasionally they shoot at the local fauna or over the heads of the workers. Light armor, pistols, and batons, besides Omni-tools. In short, a typical local internal forces patrol.
And then they see a group of workers resting. They've sat down on a more or less dry hummock in their yellow hazmat suits, dirty and covered in algae, and aren't working. The buggy stops, the Batarians jump out of the cabin:
"To work, meat! He who doesn't work, dies!"—and they try to activate the shock implants to make the slaves writhe in pain—"Huh? Why isn't it working?"
After which the crowd piles on them and literally beats them to death with feet and sticks. The corpses are sent into the swamp, the vehicle driven further away, to the edge of the field. The puppet-officer nods to himself and closes the case as "losses to local fauna," and begins to drive the soldiers harder so they "don't die so stupidly," literally running them ragged, and beating the weakest ones in front of the formation. Well, the slaves and others get it too, from embittered overseers who got it from their superiors.
And the slaves, sensing their impunity (because we are covering for them), demand more blood, more attacks, and train more diligently. But here they have to be restrained. It's still too early; we need to prepare.
"If we act now, we'll all just be crushed," Vorhess was preaching in one of the barracks, "this isn't just spilling a patrol's blood when they don't expect it. This is an army; this is a city built to defend against a siege by such malcontents. These are overseers who have experience and are trained to suppress riots. We must act at the right time. Get it?"
"And then what?" a voice came from the crowd, "so we prepare, they'll still slaughter us."
Vorhess leaned on the bunks and replied:
"We must strike at the right time; then it won't be us getting slaughtered, but them. Having prepared, having found bypasses, with a plan. You only rely on yourselves; that's wrong. After all, there are plenty of malcontents among the Gedun too. Among the servants. They don't live much better than you, actually, but they can't manage a rebellion on their own. Maybe they won't be able to fight like you, but open the doors for us, why not? Many of them hate their masters just as much. Almost everyone hates them! And they also have nothing to lose but their chains."
"Well, those are workers..." a Turian slave said thoughtfully, "Batarians."
Vorhess nodded.
"Like me, if you haven't noticed. The Hegemony exists for that very reason. Because slaves hate all Batarians, although workers often live no better than slaves. Workers despise each other; it seems to them that the others definitely live better than they do. After all, that's what the high castes say. And the workers listen to them, although they hate them too. And they are also afraid of ending up in your place. And here's the result: any rebellion is doomed because everyone hates everyone, although it's the high castes who should be hated, the ones who arranged all this! But then I appear, Captain Vorhess, to show you how things can be done differently! Get it, hmph?"
A Salarian, clearly old, nodded.
"Unite conflicting groups by showing a common object of hatred. Are you acting on behalf of the Citadel Council?"
Vorhess thought (pretended to) and stated:
"I am not at liberty to answer that question, my friend. But I wish you freedom; that is enough. Which means everything must be done according to science. And when the wrath of the working people against their enslavers, the exploiters, boils over and floods the city streets! Not a single punishment the enslavers have planned against you will help, but will work against them. And everyone will be repaid! And we will raise weapons against the exploiters! We will give power to those who actually spend their strength earning it, and we will free the slaves!"
The crowd, gathered from the surrounding barracks while the patrolmen are mass-searching for the missing equipment and not looking, began to chant quietly but confidently:
"Yes! Crush them! Vorhess! Vorhess! Vorhess! Vorhess!"
And the fact that they later had to disperse to avoid attracting attention no longer mattered. Of course, the Batarian workers were told something else. Younger Batarians who had served and were not yet so accustomed to their position and hardships were chosen as the audience.
"You look around and see statuses. But is a red so different from a gray? You all undergo service. At first, everyone, every one of you has white. You see how those who will become green, yellow, purple, and gray live. Are you so different?"
"No, of course not!" a voice came from the crowd, "status doesn't depend on appearance."
Vorhess nodded.
"I know. On wealth, caste, parents' position, gender, acquaintances, family and clan world of origin, and many other things. Your parents are used to the fact that it was always this way. But you served together while you were in the same rank. You studied together; you walk the same streets, stand in the same row. Are they so different as to look at you, tilting their heads to the right, with superiority and contempt? Are they so right in their attitude?"
"No! They're the same as us, and the blood is the same. I saw when one was hit," said a young Batarian from the workers.
Vorhess nodded understandingly.
"Exactly what I'm talking about, kid. They're the same as you, me, all of us. So why do they get power and you get beatings? Heard what happened at the palace?"
"And saw it!" several cheerful voices rang out at once.
At the palace, a bucket of shit fell on the head of one of the clan heads. Clearly diluted, it spread well, over the head, the carpet, and the floor, and splashed the walls. It would have been fine if not for two things. The culprit was never found, and the recording made it into the extranet through our efforts. Actually, we were the ones who placed the bucket too.
The scandal was colossal; the most illustrious landowner was in a rage; the guards were tortured to death, and the process occurred publicly. Several servants and slaves were also killed for negligence. Repressions rained down on the rest; the secret police are working—
a. The problem is, we have almost no agents there, and few of the guilty parties either, so it's strictly the innocent who take the hit for what happened. And while they're searching, as a precaution, the blow travels down the chain of command as the bosses vent their rage on subordinates.
Vorhess once again showed the recording of the incident on his Omni-tool, and after tracking the reaction (and noting two suspicious individuals in the crowd—those would need to be dealt with after the meeting), he spoke:
"As you can see, he's not that different from us. Except he puts on airs like he's someone special. But when he's covered in shit, he's no better or worse than any other 'master of life.'"
Such discussions are held constantly. In parallel, crimes occur—mostly attacks on overseers, during which slave chips "for some reason" often fail to work. This is happening more than usual, and so our Internal Security Forces base commander reported to his superior, one of the Batarian landowners:
"Your Bright Majesty, I request your permission for additional executions of your slaves. They must be punished further, and the overseers reprimanded for the lack of discipline, which I am ready to attend to immediately, should it be your will."
The landowner, looking bored as he stared at his tablet, clarified:
"Do you believe it is so necessary, overseer?"
The man nodded.
"Containment measures are not effective enough. We have sustained losses; the number of patrols has decreased. And the animals have sensed weakness, our lord. The number of disturbances has nearly doubled, and punishments do not stop them. They need to be beaten, or they will lose their fear!"
The leader looked sternly at his subordinate.
"This is a problem. What do you propose?"
"Increase the number of punishments, recruit additional squads from among those loyal to you. The situation must be stabilized immediately, if that is your will."
The leader thought for a moment and nodded.
"Proceed. Find the leaders of these insects and execute them publicly so everyone remembers. Punish as many as necessary. If that doesn't help, kill every tenth, then every ninth. Commodity supplies must not be disrupted. Under no circumstances, officer. Let the church act more vigorously; they are underperforming. They've grown lax; let them intensify agitation among the soldiers. Assign bonuses for a doubled quota of slave beatings. For a period of... a week. For now, we'll extend it if necessary."
The military man stood at attention.
"I will do so. But the church does not report to me; I can only pass the word along."
The leader agreed easily.
"True. Call my deputy; let him handle it. Dismissed. And next time, I wish to hear about results and successes. Incompetence entails punishment."
"Yes, sir!" and the officer exited, ending the recording, which in an edited form would reach the rebels.
Separately, revolutionary literature and propaganda leaflets are being distributed. It so happens that the lower castes are often not connected to the Extranet at all. Under normal conditions, they receive information only from authorized sources. But they are literate enough to read flyers and newspapers. So, is anything else needed?
The Pravda Newspaper tells stories of how the world lives outside the Batarian Hegemony, about how life can be different. About how only you yourself can take up arms and defend your right to life and freedom. About how there are only thousands of overseers, while the Internal Security Forces already consist of workers and conscripts just like them. And one only needs to make them understand through their loved ones that they have no need to fight their own. After all, they have a common enemy: the high castes!
It works with varying success; the church and leadership interfere. They try to agitate the soldiers with bonuses and the divine wisdom of the rulers. But for this very reason, the number of training sessions and drills was increased, justified by a high command order:
"The rulers are dissatisfied that we are losing overseers. And the meat senses this; it's spreading, turning feral. They are starting to get bold. Furthermore, we have already lost several vehicles, and our patrons are unhappy with the sudden expenses. By supreme order, it has been decided to recruit more Internal Security Forces squads and intensify their training. Also, conduct more punitive operations to stabilize the situation and show the rabble their place. Questions? Dismissed."
In response to several dozen particularly unsightly executions, instead of a decrease in slave activity, they began to resist even more vigorously. Clashes even broke out, suppressed by the overseers with extreme cruelty. And they didn't particularly distinguish between workers or slaves. Is it any wonder that the workers burned down a food export warehouse? Is it any wonder how furious the landowners were upon learning of the incident? The Council summoned the Batarian commanders and reprimanded them.
"Solve the problem! Immediately! Our patrons from Khar'Shan have expressed irritation at the delays and losses of goods! They have framed their position as if we are unable to keep the slaves in check. Find out the cause, who is behind this, who is helping them! Find the leaders, find those sponsoring them! Find them and teach them a lesson immediately! This filth is incapable of organizing such a thing on its own! If inspectors from The Administrator arrive here, you will be the first on the torture table, nonentities!"
It would all be fine, but many working against the puppets—even if some have already fallen under suspicion—are working against this system. The communications system and Atmospheric Domes have been taken under control. When it all begins, it is the masters who will learn the meaning of sixty-degree heat and one hundred percent humidity. Power plants and the slave control center will experience problems. The Internal Security Forces are also in for an unpleasant surprise. Not to mention that some of them clearly won't want to fight their relatives, as they are conscripts from the same worker castes.
One big problem is the fleet in orbit. It is not very accessible for agitation. We won't be able to quickly disable the ships or persuade the patrol crews, as they almost never appear on the territory of the colonies except in a few places. Unlike the local Internal Security Forces, who are needed more for suppressing slave revolts and cleaning up the aftermath, those up there are professionals.
So the infrastructure will have to be dealt with directly, by force. Some ships can be disabled by hacking the autopilot and crashing them into the planet or ramming each other, but one shouldn't rely solely on that. However, one can rely on the fact that the poor military men will be afraid of causing too much destruction to the buildings of the wealthy—they will be held accountable for that later. Just as one can rely on the mercenaries, who also don't particularly like the Batarians. Competitors.
In the meantime, preparation should continue.
"You know, I was thinking," I remarked to the other AIs, "we're like a hydra. One body, many hands, many heads. Cut off one and nothing changes; a new one grows. We can assemble as many spare bodies as needed. There are plenty of spares in a container in the jungle, and we can bring in even more."
The AI colleague snorted.
"'Hydra' sounds like a villainous organization from science fiction. No, Khaela, we are not using that name. Let's be serious, really. We are an intelligence unit that was honored to conduct this operation. And our task is not to screw it up, not to come up with silly, pretentious names."
Fine, then. Though it would have been funny. This wouldn't have worked with the Forerunners; they are advanced enough to detect such sabotage. But the local races aren't even close to that level. I'm not sure about The Covenant; I'd need to look at the full set of sensors available to them. But it's turning out interesting.
"Soon these worlds will ignite, oh yes. And then more and more, so that the Batarian Hegemony is kept too busy. Oh yes."
Yes, my colleagues have settled in quite well here. They've adopted my methods. It just needs a little more time to bring the situation to a boiling point, to turn the conflict from dissatisfaction into an outright civil war, when the enemies discover that the foe is much stronger and better prepared than they are used to thinking. And I didn't even invent this. It's just how the human ONI works.
***
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