Humans with Free Will (3)
Six guards were mobilized to drag my sister back.
"Huuuugh!!! Graaaah! Grab her right now!! Ugh, this is exhausting...."
To be precise, she'd collapsed in the hallway, panting from exhaustion mid-escape, at which point the head steward, the guards, and the captain of the guard began the pursuit. The captain traced the palace access logs and pinpointed that Selene was heading for the shuttle hangar in the east wing of the palace.
The shuttle hangar. From there, a shuttle could get her from Mars to Ganymede Naval Base in Jupiter orbit in thirty minutes. Ganymede housed the 5th Fleet. In other words, she planned to hijack the fleet and make a run for it.
True to form, my sister's grand-scale scheme to flee her imperial duties inhumanely was ultimately resolved when the six guards "politely" blocked her at the hangar entrance. Considering how delicately one must handle physically stopping an Imperial Navy admiral, those guards deserve medals.
Five minutes later, Selene returned to the office under "escort" by the guards.
Screeeeech!
"Graaaaaah!! You traitors to the Empire! Traitors to humanity! Blasphemers of the throne!!! I'll make you all administrative slaves—!"
The moment the door opened, her eyes fell once more on the hellish pile of documents, and she immediately started screaming. A real scream. The woman who wouldn't flinch at a surprise charge from a Krogan war clan let out a shriek at the sight of paper.
Not "uwaaaah," but something closer to "keeeeeegh"—the most primal, guttural refusal a human throat could produce.
"This isn't work for humans," Selene said.
The steadfast, charismatic poise of the admiral who commanded a 76-kilometer battleship had vanished, replaced by an ordinary person—another me—rejecting entombment on the throne of paperwork.
"You're right," I nodded. "This isn't work for humans."
This isn't human work. This is AI work. Unless you're hunting the long-lost machine god Judah, even a standard AI would overload trying to handle this insane volume alone.
"But someone has to do it." I pulled over a chair and placed it across the desk from mine. Then I personally arranged a stack of military documents in front of her. Pen and seal stamp ready—a perfect setup. The administrative slave's workstation was complete.
"Sit, sis."
"...Leo."
"Sit."
"Fuck.... you little shit. So you were the one who raised me like some earring-shaving Humanity Brethren cultist prick."
"Cut the bullshit and sit down and get to work. Every minute you waste is one less sheet you process, and that cuts into your sleep time."
"Graaaah!!!" (A sound of joy.)
Tears of happiness welled in Selene's eyes.
"D-don't do this! You weren't like this!!"
"Heh? Isn't 'doing your job' just obvious? 'Sitting on the throne of paperwork, handling shit you never thought you'd do in your life.' The ultimate humiliation for you, sis."
"Nooooo!!! "
Sure enough, she'd realized how joyful fulfilling one's imperial duty could be—she was practically saying "no" in royal-speak for "I'll work my ass off nonstop for three months."
Ah, I didn't expect her to be this thrilled. She gets it now, how I feel. In the end, she sat down in joyful, unwilling agony, silence filling the air as she began poring over the documents.
This is sibling love. Beautiful. So beautiful.
About two hours into processing the paperwork, while sis was in the bathroom, I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. Fatigue crashed over me like waves.
That's when two familiar presences appeared in the back of my vision. Bad Me spoke first.
"Leo. Do you even realize what you're doing right now?"
What am I doing?
"You're making sis sit on the paperwork throne and work. The admiral of the Imperial Navy's 5th Fleet—the commander of the galaxy's strongest offensive armada—you're using her as a filing clerk! That's basically slavery."
Bad Me's face showed genuine concern. Bad Me always says the right thing. That's why he's bad.
But then Good Me slithered in.
"Nah! This isn't slavery—it's imperial duty!"
Bad Me frowned.
"Duty? A navy admiral's duty is signing papers?"
"C'mon, think about it. How cushy has sis had it? Cruising the stars with her fleet, blasting cannons, smashing enemy armadas, basking in hero worship. That's her job? Her hobby? She loves it to death. Meanwhile, her little bro's been buried alive in paperwork here."
Bad Me was speechless. Good Me's logic had an oddly persuasive ring.
Good Me jabbed a finger.
"Listen. You gotta make her feel this pain properly. Yeah? She's heading back out to command the fleet across the galaxy soon. Big difference between leaving with this paperwork trauma burned in or not. Anyone who's been through it once gets it: 'Every time I do something on the battlefield, another sheet piles up on my brother's desk.'"
"...And?"
"So next time she deploys, she'll generate a little less paperwork. Shorter reports, fewer pointless procedures, handle what she can herself instead of kicking it upstairs to the emperor. We're implanting paperwork PTSD. It's a meaningful day—education, pure education."
Bad Me crossed his arms.
"...Something feels off."
"What's off?"
"Your logic always sounds solid, but the results never match. Empower the Senate? More papers. Give a speech? Even more. This time—"
"Pfft, ignore that crap!" Good Me waved it off. "Humans hate reliving trauma. Once she tastes true paperwork hell, she'll think twice every time she generates more. This one's a sure thing!!"
"Sure?"
"Damn right. Human instinct. Touch something hot once, never again. That's learning, evolution, survival. Sis is human too. Let her burn her hands enough on these hot papers, and she'll never touch them again."
Bad Me fell silent, then slowly nodded.
"...You do have a point."
"A point? It's gospel truth."
Good Me won again. I could open my eyes.
"Mm.... Fine."
"Haa...." Selene, back from the bathroom, slumped into her chair with a sigh. She'd demolished a third of the military stack, but two-thirds remained.
Buoyed by Good Me's words, I steeled myself. Push her harder. That's how the trauma sticks—no more bullshit.
"Sis."
"What, you worthless Australopithecus husk?"
"Can you look at these too?"
I slid over the stack of "national security administrative documents" next to the military ones. Technically not military, but I could argue they were related. Defense budget proposals, munitions procurement contracts, defense industry audit reports, that sort of thing.
"...?"
Selene's eyes narrowed.
"These aren't military docs."
"National security, right? Military in the broad sense."
"Broad sense? These are procurement contracts—how am I supposed to—"
"You're the one who actually uses the gear, so you know better than anyone. I'm stuck here on the paperwork throne spouting armchair theories. Doesn't it make sense for someone with field experience to judge if these terms are reasonable?"
Irrefutable logic.
"Th—that, uh...."
Selene opened her mouth, then shut it.
"Fine...."
Thirty minutes later, I slid over the "interstellar logistics documents."
"Fleets use logistics routes when they move, so broadly—"
"Enough with the 'broadly' already."
"It's related."
She took the papers. An hour after that, the "hetero-species military diplomacy docs."
"You fought those species on the frontier, so—"
"......Fucking hell—"
She took them anyway. Just like Good Me said, this was education. Teaching sis the agony of admin would be profoundly meaningful.
Nice. Good Me's the best. So smart.
[Three Days Later]
Dark circles were finally forming under Selene's eyes, matching mine—a uniform Astraea family trait, blood will tell. A glorious reality of fourteen hours a day buried in paper. Together, we processed about 150 documents daily—nearly double my solo rate—but production kept pace, so the pile held steady in Sisyphean equilibrium.
I smiled at the balance. And with every word I spoke, her responses grew shorter.
On the morning of the fateful fourth day, Selene said, "Gonna step out for a bit."
"Where to?"
"Fleet inspection. Gotta check the berthing status."
"Hm...."
Reasonable. An admiral verifying her fleet's condition was standard duty. I nodded and let her go.
[Ganymede Naval Base — Jupiter Orbit]
The massive naval base at Ganymede, home to the 5th Fleet's 6,000 ships at anchor. When Admiral Selene Astraea entered the ready room of her flagship Valkyrie, her adjutant, Major Lennart Korvel, greeted her with a salute.
A navy officer who'd served as her adjutant for seven years at age 35—calm, logical, the man who translated Selene's impulsive tactics into executable orders. Known in the 5th Fleet as "the admiral's interpreter," a highly capable officer.
Before she could sit, Selene spoke.
"Korvel."
"Yes, Admiral."
"How long for resupply and departure combined?"
Korvel's eyes flickered faintly. It'd only been five days since arrival—talk of departure was abnormal, but he was used to his admiral's eccentric questions.
"On standard schedule, about three months. Including ship repairs, resupply, and crew rotation leave."
"Shorten to one month."
"......Pardon?"
"No, wait—three weeks. Three weeks, no exceptions."
Korvel's expression twisted briefly, then smoothed.
"That's physically impossible, Admiral. Repairing 200 damaged ships alone takes at least two months, and the leave schedule for 760,000 crew is already—"
"Your admiral's about to die!!"
Selene slammed the desk, rattling the cups in the ready room.
"I gotta run, Korvel. Far away to the galaxy's edge!! Anywhere!!!"
Korvel asked calmly.
"Where to, exactly?"
"Anywhere! Krogan space, Sylphid void, outside the galaxy—doesn't matter! As long as the paperwork can't reach me!!"
"...Is this related to assisting His Majesty with administrative duties?"
"How'd you know?"
"Palace Guard unofficial channel reports: 'His Majesty and Her Highness locked in total war with paperwork in the office.'"
Selene sighed at the ceiling.
"Korvel. I can command 800 battleships to annihilate an enemy fleet. I can do warp-jump broadsides, charge enemy flagships with ship-killing fury. But I can't read shit like 'Review of Civilian Conversion Plan for Frontier Sector Military Bases per Article 7, Supplementary Decree to Civitas Union Bill 23.' That's beyond human limits."
"Understood."
"Then prep for departure!"
"But Admiral."
Korvel said steadily.
"As I mentioned, leave is already approved. Emergency recall would spark mutiny before rebellion—maybe even a no-confidence vote."
"That bad?"
"Indeed. Brutal combat, mediocre rations, longing for family and home scents. First leave in months—they've all gone to see loved ones. Recall now, and your popularity drops below a battlefield Krogan's."
Selene clawed her hair, dignity be damned.
"Damn... any good pretext? Something like 'sorry to interrupt leave, but national emergency—suck it up for the Empire.'"
Korvel pondered, then spoke.
"I have one report, actually."
"What?"
"On the way to Terra, didn't we stop at a frontier planet? Tertius Arm outskirts, munitions factory world. TR-7742-III, aka Forge."
Selene's eyes narrowed slightly, recalling.
"Oh, right. Governor was... Victor Grayburn?"
"Yes. He provided the 5th Fleet considerable conveniences—officers' banquet, civilian labor for repairs, premium supplies."
"Yeah, even scrounged those rare fruits."
Selene snorted.
"Classic corrupt fat-cat move. A frontier governor sucking up to a core fleet like that? Insurance from a guilty conscience. So?"
"The Senate's MEGA Special Committee—Chairman Dominic Habsburg himself inspected the planet."
"Habsburg? That throne-fanatic?"
"Yes. The report's serious."
Korvel handed her a datapad.
"Forge is effectively rejecting His Majesty's MEGA policies. Governor declared 'status quo,' suspending reforms. Habsburg's report calls it a 'reactionary world defying His Majesty's will.'"
Selene's gaze sharpened, desperation fleeing, replaced by calculating predator eyes—like spotting an enemy's weakness on the field.
"...Link it to imperial blasphemy and policy defiance?"
Korvel nodded. He read her mind perfectly.
"Yes. That pretext buys a month, no issues. 'Resolving frontier world's policy refusal and throne's dignity'—legit deployment reason. I'll handle crew persuasion. If it's combat over paperwork, I can make it happen."
A genuine smile bloomed on Selene's face—first real one in four days. Vitality returned to her paperwork-crushed eyes, flames igniting.
"Yes! Perfect!! Pretext, cause, and escape from Terra! From the papers! Korvel, how long for departure prep?"
"Priority repairs nearly done. Main battle group only—not full fleet—two days."
"Do it! Hell yeah!!"
Selene pumped her fist, ecstasy like crushing an enemy armada lighting her face.
Korvel saluted.
"Deployment scale?"
"No Leviathans. Valkyrie's in repairs. Two dreadnoughts, twenty cruisers, thirty destroyers. Rest stay at Ganymede. Overkill for one corrupt governor."
"Understood. Battle group name?"
Selene thought, then grinned.
"'Justice Enforcement Squadron.' Bringing His Majesty's justice, y'know."
Korvel logged it impassively.
Meanwhile, in the Terra palace office. I realized Selene hadn't returned four hours after leaving for "fleet inspection." Then, five hours later, a comm arrived.
"Tch."
I set the comm down and glanced out the window. In Ganymede's direction, fifty-odd 5th Fleet ships formed up, heading for the warp gate.
"....The fuck?"
Just like when she dumped the throne on me.
"She actually pulled off a counterattack?!"
She ran. Again. This time with a legit pretext—legally.
"Goddammit!! Come back here!!!"
Bad Me claimed an untimely victory.