Work Text:
Picture this scene: An orderly city of steel and concrete. A wide square before a towering government building. Were it not for the green hue of the aerostat-hung sky, one would think this were Cradle, but no; this is the city of New Albion, on the world of New Albion. And New Albion is angry. A hundreds-strong throng yells, laments, demands. Before them, a line of masked, uniformed military police, but this time, something is different. For the first time in memory, it is not the mob that fears the wall. Any moment now, something will happen. Something horrible and too soon. Any second now.
There is another way.
A second later, the mob falls silent. Necks crane and voices murmur in confusion. There is something on the vid-screens. Not the stern face of Great Leader. Not the fake smiles of the newscasts. Something new. A woman, with an unfamiliar look, in an unfamiliar uniform, against a strange flag. She speaks, with a soft voice. She promises. She seems to stare each and every one there in the eye. And she speaks.
There is another way.
A minute later, for the first time in history, the screens go dark. But the moment is gone. The explosion of violence is defused, muted. And just in time - behind the wall of police, a figure like one of them but towering and massive. The pilot of the armored police mech gets on the speakers, orders the mob to disperse. They do not. He asks for orders. They do not come.
There is another way.
An hour later, the impasse continues. The pilot had made demands; he had asked for orders and was met with silence. The screens flickered on time and again, each time replaced by the woman even faster than they were brought down again. Finally, unable to get through the jamming, somebody uses the simple solution. A simple order, shouted through a megaphone. The police mech levels its massive gun at the now terrified crowd… and hesitates. The pilot thinks of the woman. As the military police scramble to fire, as the crowd thins enough that there is no point, he stands there. And he thinks.
There is another way.
A day later, these same screens show the pilot’s court-martial. A hundred times, a dozen angry, authoritarian voices repeat just one question: Why didn’t you fire, Soldier 7285? Why didn’t you fire? He has no answer for them. His silence infuriates them. Their questioning becomes more insistent, more deranged. Whatever confession they wanted, whatever moral victory they wished for, whatever spectacle of control they wanted to put on, they do not get it. The transmission is abruptly ended, the pilot sentenced to hard labor, one more embarrassment to sweep under the rug.
There is another way.
A week later, there is a riot in the labor camp. The “terrorists” incited it to rescue one of their agents, and a few others to confuse investigations. It almost doesn’t work - one prisoner stands in the way, a man the world turned against but still loyal to it. It is to that loyalty that the terrorists appeal when they tell him who they are, and what they are after, and who with. They want him to join them. He thinks back to the woman, and readily accepts
There is another way.
A month later, Great Leader dies, a sad, paranoid husk of a man locked in his fortress-palace, surrounded by sycophants and traitors. His plots and machinations have fallen down around him, his power steadily worn down and broken by the terrorist forces, backed and helped by deserters from his own pride and joy, the armored police. A surgical strike, a victory achieved with the absolute minimum of civilian casualties. They march on the capital now, champions of the people. Nobody calls them terrorists any more - the populace greets the Union DoJ/HR strike force with open arms.
There is another way.
A year later, a man walks the streets, and stops dead as he sees an armored mannequin of everything he stood for burnt in effigy. It is Liberation Day, the first one ever, and the sight sickens him. He doesn’t belong in this new world, this new New Albion. He never did. Everywhere he looks he sees what he was conditioned to hate, to repress. He sees the deals and the price of this freedom, and the lies. Even the woman was a lie, carefully crafted to appeal to emotion, as artificial as the nonhuman mind that created her. He cannot stay here, he realizes, and out of love for his home, he abandons it. He finds offworld work and transportation before the day is done.
There is another way.
A decade later, he steps off a ship into one of Hell’s Gate hangars. It was not his destination, but before he can ask why the change or even think about arranging transportation to Impact Plaza, the alarms sound. Pirate attack. That’s when his instincts and training takes over. He orders people to stay calm, escorts them to safety, somewhere to hide. Then he spots an unused mech, run-down and awaiting repairs but usable. It is not what he’s used to. It is not a war machine. It’ll do.
There is another way.
You know the rest. You were there for it. You've fought together ever since.