“The orange chemical is inherently lethal,” Nessah announced to the rest of the Tribunal. Her eyes scanned her data slate, reviewing once more Roke’s conclusions. The heavy experimentation that had been carried out to test Roke’s theories utterly sickened her, but in the end, she was glad for it. Without consenting to such horrific experimentation on their enemies, they would still be grasping at straws on how to beat them.

  Nessah came to a grim realization. Roke’s new understanding of the orange chemical was going to be their key to not just beating the gru’ul, but to winning the war. And yet, though they would condemn their enemies to a fate where death was the only way out, she could hardly bring herself to care anymore.

  Hundreds of millions were dead, and that number was steadily approaching a billion. Her people’s bodies rotted in the streets — beaten, broken and defiled. Her soldiers were taking increasing casualties to save those they could but nowhere was truly safe anymore. The only remotely safe place was the main base, which was so heavily defended that not even the gru’ul dared to attack it.

  Her gut churned. Never in history had there been a war with such a high death toll. Mass graves were set up, but there weren’t enough of them to properly dispose all of the bodies. Nessah feared that if the war continued much longer, there wouldn’t be enough people to rebuild society afterwards.

  “That makes no sense,” Cirrus said. “We’ve started receiving reports of people surviving the orange chemical. That proves the chemical isn’t inherently lethal.” She frowned as she brought up the recent, conflicting combat reports. Roke must have made a mistake in his research.

  “Perhaps,” Maraz interjected, “the orange chemical is inherently lethal to the gru’ul, but not to a’vaare?” He eyed the medical reports hospitals had taken of the survivors. “Our hospital staff has reported trace amounts of the orange chemical in their patients’ bloodstreams after intensive testing. Although they’re under strict orders not to disclose their findings, they have reported decreasing concentrations of the chemical in more recent patients.”

  “Why would the concentration be decreasing?” Cirrus asked. “The gru’ul were using the chemical to make an example out of our citizens.” The oddity perplexed her. She scoured the same reports Maraz was looking at, trying to find clues, but didn’t notice anything immediate.

  “Because they’re running out of it,” Darros said, speaking up. “Ever since the planetary shields came back online several weeks ago, the gru’ul have been unable to send more troops planet-side. Naturally, that includes supplies. I would presume that disposable soldiers would not have access to the highly specialized equipment necessary to synthesize the chemical.”

  “You think they’re diluting what they have left of the orange chemical?” Maraz asked.

  “Yes,” Darros replied. “The orange chemical was never meant to be inherently lethal. The gru’ul have told us that pain will make us obey. If we died when exposed to the chemical, we wouldn’t be able to obey, now would we?”

  “Maybe they meant that the example of pain would make others obey,” Maraz proposed.

  “Doubtful,” Darros said, shaking his head. “The gru’ul developed two chemicals but never used the purple one on us. Only on Adrian. We even have it on record that they deemed that one to be too lethal and created the orange one instead.”

  “Wouldn’t Adrian be dead then, after all the times the purple chemical was tested on him?” Cirrus said.

  “He did die,” Darros said calmly. “Gru’ul research logs refer to him as having expired and that reanimation procedures were taken to bring him back. Adrian was probably clinically dead, but since he was surrounded by such advanced technology, the gru’ul must have been able to revive him.”

  “Expired is a rather strong word,” Maraz mused. “If what you say is true, then as long as our shields stay strong, our people will no longer die such horrible deaths.”

  “Even if the survive, they’ll still have been exposed to the worst pain imaginable,” Darros said darkly. Inwardly, he fumed. Had they known about Kaius’ research sooner, there might have been a way to neutralize the orange chemical’s effects.

  “Which is still too much, apparently,” Orryn said. Everyone looked at her as she spoke. “Every report we have of survivors is dated after the planetary shields came back online, which corroborates with Darros’ theory,” she explained. “The only problem is that every single survivor has committed suicide the moment they were lucid enough to do so.” She looked at the rather gruesome pictures the hospital staff had included in their reports. “It’s almost as though they didn’t care how they died, given how painful some of their deaths must have been.”

  The atmosphere turned heavy as everyone’s attentions was brought to the morbid detail that Orryn pointed out. Sure enough, every report they had indicated the patient’s death. All self-inflicted. Nessah took a deep breath. “The ones that last the longest were those exposed to the smallest dose,” she said. “And it’s only the most recent reports that show that. I believe Darros is correct. Roke’s theories are valid if we consider the chemical being inherently lethal to the gru’ul, regardless of dose.”

  “Our researcher also made a very interesting discovery,” Darros said. “Exposing the gru’ul to a gaseous form of the chemical appears to be the most efficient method of killing as many as possible with the least amount of it.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Cirrus scoffed, “but still doesn’t help us solve our problem here on Verilia or in space. If we release the orange chemical in our own atmosphere, we risk exposing our entire population to it.” She paused for a moment, reconsidering. “As well as any animal that has the misfortune of being near where it is released,” she added darkly.

  “Do we truly want to risk exposing others to the chemical?” Orryn fretted. Already, she was against weaponizing the orange chemical. If they implemented a plan to use it poorly, it would forever affect Verilia. She wasn’t sure that was a risk she was willing to take. “We’d become the very monsters we hate for doing so.”

  “I’m in agreement with Orryn,” Cirrus responded vehemently. “Releasing the orange chemical in a gaseous state simply carries too much risk. So much could go wrong. I simply won’t take the chance of harming our populace with it. I refuse.”

  Darros nodded. “You’re right,” he said calmly. A plan slowly formed in his mind as he mulled over Cirrus’ words. A predatory smile formed on his face as he came up with an elegant solution. “If we can’t release the chemical in our own atmosphere, what about doing so in theirs?” he proposed.

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  The room exploded as the idea was immediately shot down by almost every Elder.

  “That’s preposterous!” Cirrus exclaimed. “We can’t attack the gru’ul home world. We can barely defend ourselves at the moment!” she shouted. “Already, a reckless plan to rescue Adrian was unilaterally sanctioned,” she said, fixing Nessah an ugly stare. “Our resources are stretched too thin for that to be remotely feasible.”

  “What if,” Darros said, “we don’t need to actually approach the gru’ul’s home world to be successful?”

  Cirrus paused her tirade. “Go on,” she said, motioning for Darros to continue.

  “If we bombard them from space with bombs that would diffuse the chemical upon impact, we could remain a safe distance while attacking them,” Darros said. “The bombs don’t even have to hit the ground, just explode in their atmosphere.”

  “We don’t even know what their planetary defenses are like,” Nessah pointed out. “We can’t send the rest of the fleet on a blind offensive. Cirrus is right. If we abandon Verilia and our fleet is destroyed, we lose.”

  “But you forget,” Darros said, “we already have a scouting team about to drop out of hyperspace that could relay to us their current defenses. As soon as they arrive, we send them new orders to survey the home world and send us as much information as they can before they die.”

  Nessah’s mood soured. “You think they won’t be successful in their rescue mission?” she asked.

  “Let’s face it, probably not,” Darros said with a shrug. “You’re the one who forced us to send them on a suicide mission. At least this way, their deaths can be meaningful.”

  Nessah gnashed her teeth. “Fine,” she said, “we can update their orders when they drop out of hyperspace tomorrow. Do we all agree on going on the offensive to cut the gru’ul off at the source?”

  “That would be genocide!” Orryn rebuked sternly. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. The very fact that they were even entertaining the idea at all sickened her. “If we’re successful, we’re condemning an entire planet to be so toxic that no life will ever flourish there again.”

  “They’re already committing genocide against us!” Darros yelled back. “You think we have time to be nice? That we can afford to let them slink off and come back stronger later?” He couldn’t bring himself to care about the well-being of the gru’ul. Not after they’d brought so much suffering to his people. They deserved what was coming, as far as he was concerned. Knowing they would all die in extreme agony brought Darros a twisted pleasure born from what his faction faced.

  “I understand that but—” Orryn started, only to be cut off before she could finish.

  “A billion dead!” Darros exploded. “One. Billion.” He stared Orryn dead in the eyes. “That’s,” he said, his voice cracking, “unthinkable. We’re nothing to them. That’s not even counting the untold casualties of wiping out the entire Rukkan faction. Do you think I care about their well-being? Those things are monsters, and they need to be stopped.” He paused, catching his breath. “Every last one of them deserves to be wiped from existence for their sins.”

  “Do you truly want us to be monsters? Do you want to be like them?” Orryn asked pointedly.

  “My family is gone!” Darros said, his voice thick with emotion. “Yours is next. The gru’ul won’t stop until every last one of us are dead. The want us to suffer. Want us to hurt. They absolutely deserve what they have coming for them. The entirety of their race is tasked with carrying out the Mandate. They won’t magically change their minds because we repelled them during this war. They’re only going to come back angrier and stronger than ever. This isn’t about being nice. It’s no longer about playing by the rules. It’s about ensuring our entire species’ survival.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Orryn said, but her words sounded hollow, even to her. “There must be some other way to win. One that doesn’t involve genocide. One that doesn’t involve this awful chemical.”

  “You’re probably right,” Darros acknowledged. “But even if we find another way, it won’t change the fact that the gru’ul need to go. We’d still be committing genocide. Dead is dead, as you said.”

  “True,” Orryn replied, glad that Darros was seeing reason. “I’m certain we can find a better, more peaceful way. One where we can all coexist.”

  “No,” Darros said grimly. “Coexistence is impossible. Not after what we’ve learned. I want them to suffer before they die. If only so that they can learn the true meaning of pain born from the very thing they so painstakingly created.” He looked around the room and saw unrestrained anger and sorrow on the other Elders’ faces. He wasn’t the only one who’d lost somebody during the war. He turned to face Nessah. “I want to call a vote,” he said. “I propose that if the scouts report favorable conditions, we bomb the gru’ul home world so thoroughly with the orange chemical that they won’t ever recover from it. I propose we commit genocide, for it is the only language the gru’ul will understand.”

  Nessah remained silent, weighing what she’d heard so far during the discussion. Since Darros had officially proposed a vote on a vital topic, she couldn’t prevent it from being brought before the other Elders. “Very well,” she said reluctantly. She dearly hoped it wouldn’t come to a tie where she would need to be the deciding factor. “We shall vote on whether to commit genocide with the orange chemical. Those for it, vote now. Think carefully before you do so, for there will be no coming back from this if we do.”

  Darros immediately voted for his own proposal. Seconds stretched into minutes as the rest of the Elders sat in silence, giving the matter their full, undivided attention. Nobody spoke or looked another in the eyes.

  Two orbs appeared above the nameless Elder’s heads. “I find myself in agreement with Darros’ assessment of the situation,” one of them said. “We cannot coexist. Not after what the gru’ul have done to us.” The other Elder nodded.

  Nessah grew nervous the more time passed without any other vote appearing. Eventually, she confirmed with Cirrus, Orryn and Maraz their stances. They all refused to vote, leaving the final decision entirely to her. “We officially have a tie,” she announced. “It falls to me to once again make a decision that will change our faction for the rest of time.” She eyed each Elder and saw the mixture of hope and grim resolution on their faces. “I ask for Orryn and Darros to make their case one last time before I cast my vote.” She gestured for Orryn to speak her mind.

  “We have in our possession the worst chemical weapon to ever exist,” Orryn said with disgust. “Only monsters could have created it, but worse are the ones who accept using it. If we go through with attempting genocide, we’ll have wiped an entire civilization from existence. How could we ever live with ourselves after that?”

  Nessah nodded, then motioned to Darros.

  “First it was our friends,” Darros said. “Then our family. Next it will be us.” He stared Nessah straight in the eyes. “They made us their playthings and tortured our people. A creature that derives pleasure from such suffering doesn’t deserve to exist. The gru’ul are a blight upon the universe and we need to stop them, for if we don’t, countless others will suffer due to our inaction. We have one opportunity to prevent this tragedy from occurring again. I say we take it.”

  Nessah held up her hand, signaling for him to stop. “I have heard both your visions on the topic,” she said. “Cirrus, I understand now why you needed a completely neutral proponent when you appointed me as War Arbiter, and frankly, I hate you for it. You’ve placed upon me a terrible burden, one that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

  “As a person, I despise the choices we’ve made,” she continued. “We knowingly took a terrible chemical weapon and used it on others. We condoned experiments that made us a mockery of everything we once stood for, and now we’ve come to a point where the stakes have become untold suffering for any future race ever to exist.

  “As a person, I am ashamed of us,” she declared. “We do not deserve our positions of power, for we have abused them. As a War Arbiter, however, I cannot put my personal feelings first. Everything we’ve done was ultimately necessary for our continued survival and as the War Tribunal, we must act within that scope, even if it makes us monsters — both to ourselves and to our people. I want us to live to see tomorrow. I want us to have a future that doesn’t include such death and destruction.

  “I’ve made my decision,” Nessah announced. Time stood still. Every Elder in the room waited for the verdict that would alter the course of history. “Let it be known that on this day, we chose violence. For it will be our only salvation,” she said grimly. Her next words sickened her, but she spoke them anyway. “I vote in favour of committing genocide.”