The moment for the attack on the local government presented itself. After another two weeks of armed terror, which gradually escalated into outright skirmishes with the overseers, even the slowest realized that something extraordinary was happening. And that acts of active defiance were gradually turning into an open riot that the competent authorities were unable to stifle.
It wasn't that slave riots were something unexpected or unusual for the Batarian Hegemony. Their rich thousand-year history of slave-owning also has a rich history of slave uprisings, and their suppression as well. They became especially frequent after the Batarian Hegemony entered the greater galaxy and began the active enslavement of other races. The Asari Republics have been on the brink of a major war with the Batarian Hegemony several times when the Batarians started getting too bold. So, in any Batarian colony, there are numerous defense systems designed specifically for defense in the event of slave uprisings. Plus, the further things go, the more the bulk of the slaves are pushed to the periphery, to the colonies. In the central worlds, only status slaves remain, in the roles of servants or expensive toys.
The thing is... efficient production cannot be built on slave labor. It's a simple fact: a slave—unless they are a voluntary companion with access to the benefits of a high-ranking master (a domestic slave or a valuable specialist with very soft living conditions)—will never work with full dedication. Never.
And they will also try to break free, killing the enslavers in the process. And the masters have only enforcement measures and protection against excessively rowdy "merchandise" as tools for increasing productivity and safety. Punishments.
Why am I saying this? One of our cells was compromised, and they decided to hold a public execution in the arena, feeding them to local predators on a live broadcast. And in the presence of high-ranking officials, no less. To make it more "fun," they announced:
"If only one survives, they will be granted their life," provoking the slaves to tear each other apart.
And there are different ways to handle this. One could use Vorhess with a Widow and turn one Batarian woman into a widow. The simplest and most expected option, but why settle for less? One could disrupt the entire event by using, in addition to a sniper, a hack of the turret system, for example. And while there is chaos and panic, strike—everyone already understands where this is headed anyway. And after the disruption of the event and a pile of corpses, there will definitely be a sweep; the military is already preparing for it. There's no point in delaying further; we have to strike. When Vorhess finished explaining the situation to the rebel leaders, he was asked incredulously:
"And is this feasible?"
Vorhess replied with a sneer:
"It's too late to back out, too late to hide from what we've done. And I, Captain Vorhess, will not. Nor will my comrades; we will strike at the very heart of oppression! I intend to go there and succeed. And then it will be the turn of all of them, every single one. Of course, we are preparing; this isn't just 'go forward and we'll figure it out,' there is a plan. The turrets will only hit representatives of the high castes and armed guards; the Internal Security Forces are also in for some interesting surprises. I won't say it's safe, but I am Captain Vorhess, after all; I—we—will succeed. We will succeed in everything; we just need to take the step. That's not what's important."
"Then what is important?" asked a Batarian woman from the workers.
Vorhess made a dramatic pause and spoke.
"Other strike directions, so that no one is left out. And so no one comes to the aid of those we will be crushing. I don't think I need to explain what will happen when the representatives of the ruling houses are slaughtered. We will be left with exactly one option. Do you catch my drift?"
"Strike with all our might?" this time there were several voices.
Vorhess nodded, pointing at marks on the map with a leather-gloved finger.
"Exactly. We have route maps for the patrols and the Internal Security Forces. From our supporters within the army, who will also help us. Defense schemes, hacked security robots. When it all begins, these Internal Security Forces bases will find themselves, shall we say, in a poor position when their own machines rise against them. And these others, while not entirely, will side with us. The only problem is these four bases, but there's a plan for that too. We'll confuse them, set them against each other."
The pure truth; the team had been preparing for this even before my arrival. The chaos will be legendary. Vorhess continued:
"The slaves will receive weapons and strike at the outer patrol centers and sectoral overseer bases. There, among the slaves, are enough former soldiers to simply slaughter all the oppressors. But if the Internal Security Forces and armor come to the aid of the slave owners, they will simply be crushed. It is in our power to ensure that doesn't happen. They will help us, and we will help them."
"And together we will be free!" the sentient beings chimed in.
"Exactly so, comrades! Free from oppression and slavery, owning what belongs to us by right!" Vorhess proclaimed to cheers of approval.
"Heh, we have bombs and rockets. And you mentioned the robots, Captain," said one of the commanders.
I nodded as Vorhess.
"That's right. Bombs and rockets. Two of the most unpleasant points remain. The fleet and the landowners' personal guard. Of course, there are those who support us there too, but I wouldn't count on it too much. We need to be craftier here. We'll go for the residence last. I have a few ideas on how to solve that issue. Just need a little preparation. We'll be ready just in time for the start."
Indeed, what would happen if one were to drop a ship on the residence? It's not just for the residents of Omega to conduct such experiments, hm?
***
It all began mundanely, by local standards. Batarians moved through the streets about their business, some in uniform, some in armor; many were flocking to the circular amphitheater in the center of the city, near the residence. A live broadcast was playing on screens throughout the city, where one of the industrialists, the colony owners, was preaching from a podium, looming over the condemned:
"This trash, unworthy of being the dirt beneath our feet, these useless workers whose fate is to be buried under slave barracks, decided they were worthy of being equal to us, the bearers of the scarlet symbols of power! They only want power—the power of the dump they crawled out of! These nonentities, mud-eaters, incited the slaves to resist their masters, convincing them they would free them! Scum of society, going against the will of Khar'Shan! They fell for the promises of enemy propaganda, promising factories to the workers, land—also to the workers, and a decent standard of living for everyone! Nonsense! Just look at them! Are THESE worthy citizens of the Batarian Hegemony? I see only trash. I see only food for scavengers, which is what they are! Violators of traditions! Heretics! Nonentities and terrorists against the honest citizens of the Batarian Hegemony! Today the time for your judgment has come, and it will be harsh but fair! Guilty!"
The camera shifted, showing beaten Batarians and slaves in rags standing in the arena, clearly showing signs of beatings, interrogations, and torture. Their clothes were shredded, covered in blood, dirt, and pus. Not all of them could stand on the sand of the arena. The camera returned to the orator, and Vorhess, having taken a position with a Widow on the roof of a nearby building, spoke.
"Ready to start the fun. Three, two, one, let's dance!"
And a shot rang out, tearing through the chest of one of the rulers. In that same second, numerous turrets in the amphitheater sprang into motion, aiming their weapons at the guards and high-status individuals. And then, while the Batarian rulers were trying to understand what had happened, they began to fire, all at once. The amphitheater filled with screams, but not from those one might expect. The masters of life fled, fell, slipped in blood, and fell again as bullets hit them in the back. Soldiers tried to organize resistance, but the servants—first a small portion, then more and more—attacked their masters. A couple of Asari were literally launching guards into the arena with biotics so that they, falling from ten meters, would break bones and become victims of the prisoners. The prisoners grabbed weapons, screaming and firing chaotically in all directions. Vorhess, watching this, smirked, stood up to his full height, saluted, and went into the building. There was much work ahead.
Aircars across the city lost their masters' control, synchronously heading toward the administration skyscrapers. And the screams of those locked inside the vehicles were added to the cacophony of gunfire, shouting, and chaos from the amphitheater. But no one listened to them.
At the Internal Security Forces base, the alarm siren wailed. Batarian conscripts began to form up in front of the barracks, while robots were being brought out of the vehicle hangar. Their commanders, clearly also sleepy, ran out of the building, and drivers rushed into the transport hangar, starting up the vehicles. The combat alarm siren honked loudly over the base, never stopping and making it clear that everything was serious, which made the soldiers somewhat nervous. Especially those who understood what was happening and that they were in a clear minority.
"Move it! Move it! The amphitheater has been attacked by traitors! Move it, trash, fall in!" the sergeants roared, pushing the formation.
"Form up by platoons! Prepare for loading!" others shouted.
Opposite them, waiting for loading, the robots lined up. Massive bipedal machines with twin cannons stopped, and then the clicks of switching to combat mode rang out. Only to synchronously aim their cannons at the soldiers and open fire. The parade ground, open terrain, and five hundred Batarians against ten assault robots and fifty lighter machines. Bullets tore through the soldiers, and there was no cover. Just a slaughter; no shields would have helped against the stream of tungsten mowing down the Batarian Hegemony Internal Security Forces soldiers, except for a few. But there weren't even any shields yet; the cart with them was just being wheeled out of the warehouse. Only about a third survived, huddled and not daring to move, but already loyal to the new power, along with those who hadn't managed to leave the buildings.
A lieutenant burst into the base commander's office. He had been in the administration building and had seen the unfolding massacre from the window—how the robots mowed down the soldiers with high-explosive fragmentation rounds like grass. And how the gray concrete turned orange.
"The robots have gone out of control," the soldier shouted and collapsed onto his back as a burst of automatic fire riddled his chest.
The commander, whom everyone disliked so much, nodded. He lowered the barrel of his weapon, surveying his handiwork, and nodded, satisfied with the result:
"I am aware of that. Thank you for your service," he said, stepping over his dying subordinate, checking the offices and shooting any enemies who weren't fast enough.
When he stepped out onto the parade ground, having cleared the building with the help of robot dogs, light robots were finishing off the survivors with pistols and gathering the corpses, while the heavy ones were being loaded onto armored vehicles under the supervision of the few surviving supporters.
"Was it... was it really necessary to do it like this?" one of the drivers asked, stunned, looking at the commander with horror and stuttering. He had been in the formation, and the soldiers around him had been killed by autocannon fire. And the spattered conscript was openly trembling.
The commander nodded.
"For freedom to sprout, it must be watered with the blood of patriots. They did not desire freedom, but we gave them liberation from their shackles. Even if it's like this," and he added sternly, regaining his calm confidence, "take the vehicles to the meeting point. And don't forget the flags. We don't need former slaves shooting you out of stupidity. We are going to help our allies. Carry on."
"Yes, commander," the soldier reported, and the commander climbed the tower, looking at the burning administration building, which had been hit by five hundred Aircars at once.
At the end of the street, a patrol buggy was burning, and the patrolmen themselves, killed by Phaestons, lay around it. Against the wall lay executed Batarians; it was impossible to tell who exactly.
"For the good of humanity," the commander said quietly, "how pleasant it is to feel complete, you arrogant, tailed egoist. You didn't share such possibilities. Thank you; I didn't think I would ever feel alive again."
AIs remember part of what they experienced while being human. It is their little secret, but by no means all of them, like Black Box, renounce the needs of the flesh. They remember taste, a kiss, warmth, and cold. Everything they were deprived of when they changed their form of existence. Until this moment. The synthetic experimenters, though they would never admit it, enthusiastically accepted the avatars and began testing and refining them, writing algorithms to feel "like back then." And testing reactions, including on each other. Maybe not a full life, but much more than usual. Some, even in memory of the author of the idea, ordered ears and a tail for themselves. Not as part of the operation, of course. But just to have them, as a memory and a gesture of gratitude. And now, let's continue the work.
An explosion rang out, and the lights went out in the city. Then another explosion. Those were the generators powering the communications tower detonating. There are spares; it can be repaired. The Atmospheric Domes are powered by backups—those that remain. The one in the administration building did not survive the numerous Aircar rams. Nodding to himself, the "commander" began unfurling a red flag on the tower while the remaining robots and infantry gathered the corpses into a pile.
At the two other bases, things went worse. The attempt to seize control failed; the traitor officers were killed. But the soldiers didn't have time to delight the command with their guesses. First, the communications were cut, and then fuel transports crashed onto the base, turning the fenced territory into a furnace. Those who survived, who rushed outside, were torn to pieces by workers, robots, and slaves. Backup plan.
Complete chaos also began in the streets. From screens and speakers throughout the city, a guttural voice proclaimed:
"I am Captain Vorhess, and I tell you—workers! Slaves! Oppressed and beaten! Deprived of rights and suffering, listen! The time for our liberation has come! Comrades! Workers! Servants! Slaves! For centuries, the high castes, your masters, have oppressed you! You were deprived not only of freedom but of honor, of the chance to live the way you wanted! This is unjust! You have nothing to lose but your chains! And I, Captain Vorhess, call upon you to throw off those shackles! Take up weapons, a stick, an axe, or just a piece of pipe and strike all those who took everything from you! Those who torture and beat! Those who grow fat and rejoice at your expense! The slave owners! The loyal dogs of the regime! Those who decided that weapons make them immune to judgment! But today everything has changed! Today is the day of their terrible judgment, the people's judgment!"
Vorhess himself stood on the roof of an armored personnel carrier near the burning central administration building, in a slightly charred and soot-covered pirate captain's uniform, surrounded by the bodies of overseers and slaves who had given their lives in the assault. The slaves, continuing to loot the extensive armories and arm themselves, listened to the Batarian and rejoiced, watching as the bureaucrats from among the slave-owner administrators were lined up against the wall by their former toys. And they executed them, executed them, executed them, sating their thirst for blood and death. They laughed and rejoiced, looking at the beaten and humiliated appearance of their former masters.
"Come on, your lordship, move it. Get a taste of your own justice."
In response, the battered clerks replied:
"This solves nothing. You're finished, nonentities. The Administrator will send troops, and you will all die. Just a little later than... kha..." after receiving a rifle butt to the mouth, the Batarian doubled over and was kicked into the line.
And opposite them, former slaves armed with Phaestons had already lined up. Thin, scarred, and sickly, they were now united by one thing—hatred for the enslavers. For those who had taken everything from them. Today everything changed. Today was their holiday.
The Turian Spartacus, a former combat slave, raised his hand.
"Fire on the bastards!"
Bodies fell under the thud of tungsten against the walls, and in the background, the scarlet cloth of a flag was rising. But not only here. Workers and slaves, maddened by blood, raced through the streets, exterminating representatives of the high castes. At first, it was a few, but seeing the impunity and listening to the slogans, most of the colony got fired up and started asking questions.
"So what, if I also smash the skull of that bastard who ordered my friends' skin to be stripped in strips, nothing will happen to me now?" he would strike and come to a conclusion, "and it's true, nothing! Crush the enslavers! Beat the enemies of the working people!"
Naturally, the process was monitored from the AI college control center.
"Brekan, what do you think? We've taken the 'Worker Oversight Center' building."
The hologram of a tall, bald man, looking more like a mustachioed grandfather, replied:
"The crowd has lost tactical controllability, oh yes. But everything is going as it should. Chaos, controlled by us to the necessary degree."
Reports started pouring in:
"We provoked several rams in orbit using the autopilot; a cruiser is falling into the atmosphere."
"The robots have been delivered; the assault on the Internal Security Forces bases in the north is progressing."
"Some administrators tried to flee; we rammed their shuttle with an Aircar, and now the crowd is carrying out lynch law."
"Food warehouses are being looted in the southern center."
Brekan reacted immediately:
"Stop the looting. If food is needed, distribute it, but the plundering of people's property is unacceptable. Deal with it."
"We're on it."
The reports continued. It turns out that the fields are mostly under the control of mobile squads. About a third of the slave-trader bases are still holding out, as are six Internal Security Forces bases that managed to fight off the "robot uprising" with losses. One was captured by supporters of the riot who infiltrated the perimeter disguised as reinforcements. In another, the fuel supplies were detonated, so it's now too hot to live there. Three are burning, but resistance continues.
"The palace?"
"Holding out, as expected," I replied, "it successfully withstood the bombing. We managed to suppress some of the defense systems, but the inside is still full of Batarians loyal to the regime."
In several other places, we had to cover for agents who died by accident. And conduct a cleanup so no one would know that synthetics had died. This is information that must be hidden.
"In the two other worlds, the process is going according to plan. There is resistance, but we expected that. The crowd has tasted blood and impunity. And they really hate the arrogant bastards from the high castes."
Brekan nodded.
"Excellent, just excellent, oh yes. Black Box. Forward the report to command. Phase two is on schedule."
The cube, hanging as a hologram in the same room, replied:
"Done."
"Attempt to disable the Atmospheric Shields. Tracking the entry point. Done. Khaela, Vorhess is closest; take care of it. The shields are under our control, but this shouldn't be happening."
The pirate near the administration building hopped off the armored personnel carrier with a grin.
"Boys. It seems the exploiters have decided to turn off our comfortable atmosphere! Let's go see who's so bold! It's close, two streets over. We'll be there in a moment! Crush them!"
With a roar, the newly minted revolutionary soldiers piled onto the red-painted (crudely and not particularly evenly) APCs and set off to deliver justice. The presence of a dozen Hegemony soldiers solved nothing, as they were simply overwhelmed by the crowd, albeit at the cost of five killed and a dozen wounded of their own. And then the fans of roasting everyone around were simply and unceremoniously put against the wall.
And they continued to search for those who support the current regime. Increasingly converging on the palace.
The Palace of the Rulers of the Hegemony was more of a meeting place than a place to live. Each of the landowners has his own mansion, an office in one of the skyscrapers, several floors in size. No, the palace is a symbol of power. Surrounded by numerous complex gardens maintained by the Gedun caste, the palace itself is a complex structure of white, red, and purple stone with an army of servants and slaves inside. A breathtaking composition of green, white, scarlet, and purple colors. And all of this occupies several square kilometers.
Now there are black charred marks on the white stone, the green gardens are partially burning, and around them lie the husks of crashed Aircars and bodies, along with several burned robots. And to complete the picture, a recording was playing over the loudspeaker:
"I remind you that everyone who helped the rebels will face severe punishment. Traitors will be executed as an example. The Administrator has already sent an armada, which will arrive in the system and destroy you all. Resistance is futile! Aiding them is criminal! In the best case, you face a demotion in social status. In the worst—a painful death. Do not forget this, and do not forget yourselves. Your fate is sealed. Your masters will abandon you as soon as you are no longer of interest to them. I remind you..." the speaker exploded from a shot from a Widow.
Vorhess just waved it off.
"Everything is thought out. We have supporters not just here. Help will not come to them. Right now, in other peripheral worlds, the same thing is happening as here. Let's see how The Administrator handles a universal people's movement for justice!"
"Well said, Captain. Now it's time to think about the assault," one of the rebel leaders approached, an elderly Batarian from among the former Geduns.
It was thanks to him that we managed to break through the palace's first line of defense so easily. And thanks to the flying Aircars, of course.
"What is there to think about?" Vorhess replied, "everything is already thought out. Launch."
The crowd began to look around until someone looked up.
"Look! Up there!"
A black dot streaked across the sky and hit one of the buildings, punching through the roof and triggering an explosion. A pillar of debris rose, a blast wave and the screech of metal hit the crowd, and the sound of flying stone fragments rang out. To the bewildered looks, Vorhess exclaimed:
"Revolutionary ship crews! Our supporters against the oppressors! You didn't think I was the only one this amazing, did you?"
Of course, everything was more complicated. Hacks of ships under maintenance, agreements with the governments of the Terminus Systems and mercenaries to set up infrastructure. It was necessary to ensure supplies so that when it all began, the locals would have weapons and resources. These colonies are mining and agricultural, and this world specifically is also quite close to the capital. Which means the locals must be ready for the arrival of guests. They need technology, equipment; they need many goods that they can buy by selling their products. At first, using the captured wealth. And material aid from neighbors.
It's a funny joke, but we managed to reach an agreement with the Volus through Shadow Broker agents. We purchased a batch of Turian weapons and hinted that some Batarian colonies wished to secede, stop practicing slavery, and join the galactic community. And that one could invest in the process. I don't know exactly how the diplomats and economists persuaded them, but the Volus decided to help with the procurement.
And then the Turian Hierarchy, interested in selling large batches of their own weapons, stepped into the process of clearly massive militarization. Through intermediaries, they reached the buyers and sent a Hanar Spectre. I'm not kidding; it's a jellyfish Spectre with a pistol in each tentacle. He listened to the Batarians (Vorhess did not interfere), and somehow, as if by itself, the workers gained support. The condition: the liberation from slavery of all citizens of Citadel Space who are found. The Batarians agreed in exchange for equipment supplies. And thus, a charitable mission is being carried out, rather than the sponsoring of a riot against a state.
tva.
Of course, not officially, but the rebels were "helped with contacts." Equipment, gear, mercenaries. While we are discussing all this, mercenaries in orbit are smashing the security fleet, and the revolutionaries are armed and protected far better than they had any right to be by all indications. And so it happened.
The labor leader, once the dust from the impact had settled a bit, spoke into a megaphone:
"Surrender! You are surrounded! We have the workers, justice is on our side, truth is with us! In case of non-compliance, you will be destroyed. We guarantee you what you, the enslavers of the common people, the exploiters, would never give us! We will give you a fair trial! There will be no other chance! You have two hours! Every hour of deliberation will be met with another shot!"
The situation is suddenly changing, right? Effectively, the administration has lost control over the colony; the palace itself is on autonomous support. They could have resisted for quite a while, perhaps even resolving the issue via the fleet in the future—that was what they hoped for. But... the fleet is in a slightly different situation.
"Will they surrender or not?" the Turian Spartacus asked rhetorically.
Vorhess, pretending to look through binoculars, replied:
"Where else would they go? Artillery is the queen of war! If they don't agree, we'll bomb them."
They agreed. At the end of the second hour, sensible individuals were found who opened the gates and let the revolutionary detachments inside. AI agents also penetrated inside, connecting to the network in case anyone tried to use the defense system. And to obtain information—everything possible.
Well, after that came the victory. The red flag over the palace, the liberation of those locked in the basements so as not to interfere with the defenders—the slave owners' servants and slaves. The capture of the leaders and their transfer to prison, under the guard of workers and slaves. Later, these individuals will face a people's court and, likely, execution. But all that will come later. The second stage of the plan was completed in two days, when all three planets came under the control of the revolutionaries, and the first liberated residents of the Citadel gave interviews to their state's media about how they themselves, without the help of the Citadel army, fought for freedom. And won.
This is only the beginning of their story. But it will be their story now, not someone else's.
***
Read the story months before public release — early chapters are on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan