rossi | 2. Any Means Possible

People in the street were chanting as the night settled.

The sound was deep, sonorous, rising and falling like the tide, choreographed only by tradition and the rising of the red star the Raagaq called the Eye of God.

Jim Moore shivered slightly in the cold air, pulling the collar of his coat up higher and turtling into the warm fur. The group in front of him didn't seem to notice the cold, the thick hair covering their bodies providing plenty of insulation. One set of powerful arms stretched up towards the heavens, while the lower set pointed sharp claws down at the frozen ground beneath their feet, all the while the chant undulating from barrel chests. Every evening, without fail, regardless of location, weather or circumstance. In his travels, Jim had heard tales of Raagaq pausing in the middle of battles to chant, sacrificing sure victory as their foes took the opportunity to regroup and retreat; of Raagaq prisoners chanting even in the midst of interrogation. Every warrior, every civilian, every night, the chant.

"So, what does it mean?" Jim asked his guide. Misako Hiyumi was tiny in comparison to the Raagaq across from them, almost buried beneath her furs, but she was the only known human since the war began to be allowed on the Raagaq homeworld, the only one to have grasped their language, their culture, the only one to have gained their trust. It had taken some time to find her, longer to gain access to the small Raagaq colony moon, and even longer to get her to even acknowledge his presence, but Jim had one thing going for him - he was a natural born listener and sooner or later, everyone talked to him. Perhaps it was the young, country-boy complexion, his eager interest in everything. Whatever it was, it had made his chosen field of journalism much easier.

Misako glanced across at him, her expression almost suspicious. She had cause to be - rather than give the military the notes she'd amassed during a lifetime with the Raagaq, she'd destroyed them. The only remnants of her life's work was what remained in her memory and it was more than enough for the military to keep hounding her.

"It's their history," she said at last, almost curtly. "Their identity. Spanning three million cycles, the Raagaq have made the same chant, every night, a litany to their god to assure him of their faith. Without it, they are nothing."

"Three million years? They've been doing it that long?" The human race had been in existence for only barely that long, let alone coherent language and belief systems.

"The Raagaq are an ancient race, Mr. Moore. Ancient and proud. They do not suffer insects like us lightly and for the insult we have inflicted on them, they will see us wiped from the face of existence." Her voice was harsh and unequivocal.

"But what happened on Primus 3 was an accident. The exploration crew..."

"What happened on Primus 3 was an abomination, Mr. Moore. One hundred Raagaq women and children slaughtered like animals, simply because they did not look like us." Her dark eyes were like chips of jet, cold and hard. "Actions have consequences, Mr. Moore, and you reap what you sow. We sowed the seeds of this war and the human race will die as it has lived, violently. And when it is over, I shall be the last to die - the Raagaq High Council shall see to it themselves. It is a great honour."

The shiver that gripped the young man then had nothing to do with the temperature, but he remained silent.

***

"They will see you now."

Jim glanced up at the young blonde aide, nearly dropping his binder. "O-okay," he said, flushing as his voice cracked like a school boy's. Standing, he straightened his tie and adjusted his jacket, taking several breaths before letting the aide open the door for him. She gave him a sympathetic smile.

"Mr. James Moore," she announced crisply, saluting those seated around the table inside.

"Excellent, Private. Mr. Moore, come in. This won't take a moment. Great work, this report of yours, great work."

"Uh, thank you, sir." Jim entered, blinking in the dimmer light. Faces were hard to distinguish, but he'd never seen so many medals outside a military history museum. The Top Brass was a literal term, apparently. "I'm afraid I'm a bit confused about why I was called here," he admitted.

One of the men - they were almost entirely all men, all older, all high level military, the leaders of the Earth's defence against the Raagaq - chuckled, although the expression didn't meet his face. "Of course you are, son," he replied, his accent thickly Texan. "You're our top secret weapon, the one that's going to win this war for us. Or rather, this here little report of yours." He held up a copy of the magazine Jim worked for, open at his story about the Raagaq.

Jim frowned. "I'm afraid I still don't understand, sir. That story... there's no military value in it. That's the only reason I was allowed to visit with Dr. Hiyumi, why I was allowed to leave after writing it."

A rumble of laughter from around the table. "Son, maybe we're a little better at telling what's military and what ain't." The Texan general spoke again. "This report of yours gave us vital information on how to win this war. And those four-armed furry freaks were too stupid to realise it."

Jim frowned. "Sir?"

"The chant, Mr. Moore." This man was thinner and shorter than the Texan, his accent impeccably British but his chest no less decorated. "Your information on the Raagaq chant was exactly what we needed."

"'The chant is the Ragaaq history. No, more than that, it is their identity, their connection with the universe and their place in it. If it is silenced, if it fails for even one night, they would be nothing in the eyes of God...'" The third general, this one hard to see in the light and his voice even harder to identify regionally, lay down the magazine he'd quoted from. "To defeat the Raagaq, to save the human race from annihilation, we need simply to silence their chant, yes?"

"But..." Jim couldn't think what to say. His mind was whirling.

"We only need to mute them," explained the Texan. "Make it so they can't make a sound. The science boys are already working on a gas that'll anaesthetise the Raagaq vocal chords. It doesn't even have to be permanent, right? One night'll do fine."

"But you can't!" Jim burst out. "That would be... well, it's genocide!"

"Only if we kill them, Mr. Moore, and we aren't. We're only silencing them for a night. Not a single hair on their bodies will be harmed." The English general's reply was implacable. "It's not our problem what happens afterwards."

"But it's three million years! Three million years of culture, of history! The chant... it's more than just a song, it's what keeps them alive!"

"And this is what will keep the human race alive, Mr. Moore." All signs of jocularity had dropped from the Texan's voice. "This is war and it's our job to make sure we win. By any means possible." He gestured and suddenly there were MPs each side of Jim, gripping his upper arms. "You'll understand in time, son."