The Symposium

Author's Note: This story is set in Spring 1968, within the dystopian alternate history of Dimension Delta Zeta 17-46. It bridges prior tales like The Serpent in the Garden (Summer 1964) and Operation Deep Freeze (Winter 1967), while foreshadowing Operation Rug-Pull (Autumn 1968) and the Project Liberty Veil (January 1969). Themes of ethics, coercion, and reform are drawn from the North American Federal Republic's (NAFR) militarized society, where metahumans like Samantha Grey (HR-713) are bound by Geas spells, and scientific geniuses like Dr. Vivian Thorne operate in isolated brilliance.

The Asset and the Analyst

The armored transport rattled up the mountain road, its tires crunching over a gravel road framed by the glint of razor wire. For Dr. Vivian Thorne, the arrival at Echo Ridge was for a pivotal gathering, but the facility’s oppressive security felt less like a precaution and more like a cage. In the Republic, even intellectual pursuits came with chains. This wasn't just a scientific conference -- it was hosting secret briefings for Sector-14's secret war against the British Empire.

Beside her sat Major Rex Corbin (Retired), her ever-present protector, his Browning M1871 pistol holstered at his side. In the back, Vivian's children -- Caleb, 11, with his wide-eyed curiosity, and Zara, 10, her adopted daughter with a resilient spark -- chattered excitedly about the "secret spy base." Having her children accompany her was a perk granted to top-flight researched such as herself; a deep and reassuring comfort, and being honest with herself, the kids were already immersed in secrets. Vivian smiled faintly, and her mind turned to the symposium's agenda: quantum reactors, metahuman ethics, and the looming shadow of the British Empire's Tehran centrifuge project.

As they stepped into the vestibule, the air hummed with the low buzz of security scanners. Their Omega-level clearance badges -- rare even among NAFR elites -- gleamed under the harsh lights. Vivian adjusted her lab coat, feeling the weight of her role as an Apex Researcher, inventor of the Deep Radar Mk II.

Across the room, a figure caught her eye: Samantha Grey, HR-713, the half-infernal metahuman she'd met twice before -- once during the British infiltration of her Caribbean island home and laboratory, and again amid the frozen horrors of Zebra Station high on the Zoo Line. Samantha's curled ram horns, bat wings, and tail were unmistakable, but her dark red eyes held a guarded warmth today as she approached and greeted the family.

"Dr. Thorne," Samantha said, with a formal nod. Her voice was flat, disciplined by decades of service, yet oddly gentle. "Major Corbin. And the family. It's... refreshing to see you in a non-emergency setting. Finally."

Vivian nodded, "Miss Grey. The pleasure's mutual."

Samantha's tail flicked subtly -- a rare tell of emotion. She glanced at the children's badges, and eyebrow raising slightly, impressed, then offered a small smile. "It's been too long. Would you all join me at dinner tonight? Officer's Club, my formal invitation."

Caleb grinned. "Do they have pie? Mom says pie's the best part of spy bases!"

"I like pie, too," Samantha smiled.

As the Thorne family moved on, the children's excited chatter echoed, a brief light in the facility's stern atmosphere. A pang struck Vivian -- this was no vacation; threats loomed, and Samantha's, and the other special agents', presences hinted at deeper stakes. Yet, the invitation lingered, a thread pulling them toward unexpected connections.

The Quantum Centrifuges

The morning's formalities gave way to the symposium's core sessions, where the geopolitical realities of the Republic's endless conflicts came into sharp, unforgiving focus.

The Reactor Panel Auditorium was a cavern of steel and screens, packed with Sector-14 officers, scientists, and a handful of metahumans like Samantha. Vivian took her turn at the podium, her Deep Radar's most recent data projected behind her: intricate overlays of neutron flux and centrifuge harmonics from orbital scans of Tehran's quantum reactor complex.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Vivian began, her voice precise and measured, "the Empire's Tehran facility isn't just a power plant -- it's a weapons forge. Utilizing advanced quantum centrifugation, they're enriching exotic isotopes like stabilized barytronium-297 and other hyper-dense actinides. These aren't for mere fission or fusion bombs; they're engineering gigaton-yield devices that fuse quantum-entangled particles, creating chain reactions capable of warping spacetime itself. A single detonation could generate micro-singularities, persisting long enough to be cast along trajectories for collapsing orbital stations in an instant."

A nuclear weapons expert followed, expanding on the threats with grim detail. "Imperials with these bombs? We've been running the scenarios. We'd face strikes across multiple theaters. In high orbitals, our satellite networks -- vital for command and control -- could be shredded by cascading EMP waves amplified through entangled singularities. At Lagrange points, where we contest resource relays, a quantum warhead could destabilize gravitational equilibria of the constructions there, or even sending asteroids tumbling into our lunar base. On the Moon's surface, detonation sites would become wastelands of irradiated regolith, cutting off helium-3 mining operations. And in the asteroid belt, these weapons would escalate to total annihilation, denying us critical rare-earth elements and especially Xenon needed for Ultrazine fuel production."

Panelists nodded gravely, the room thick with tension. Director Charles T. Bronson, head of Sector-14, leaned forward. "It's clear we'll have to take the facility out. Metahuman assets may be required. Special Task Groups could infiltrate, sabotage the centrifuges before they produce weapon-grade material. Conventional forces won't suffice against Imperial defenses—quantum shields that phase through kinetic impacts. Done quietly, we could make it look like an accident."

Samantha, seated in the back row, stiffened. The word "assets" stung, a reminder of her role in such high-stakes operations. Vivian noticed, empathy pulling her attention from the hard science. The discussion underscored their precarious position: technological parity was slipping, and space -- the high frontier of conflict between Republic and Empire -- hung in the balance.

As the panel adjourned, the weight of these revelations carried into the afternoon, where ethical dilemmas mirrored the strategic ones, forcing a confrontation with the human cost of their defenses.

Ethics of Compulsion

The Strategic Ethics Panel amphitheater was a sterile, hushed space of polished metal and low light. Screens in the front flickered with technical data and threat assessments. While Rex remained at the back, a silent pillar of observation, Vivian was offered a seat up front among a few other invited outside scientists and VIP's. On the stage there was a draped table with speakers seated behind it, including Director Bronson. Across the room, several of their special agents in dress uniforms were present -- notably, Samantha Grey was present, a small, still figure at the far end of the room, her horns catching the dim light.

Vivian's gaze drifted down to the information pad she'd been given. Dossiers of each of the agents was present, and she quickly found Samantha's. She had a designation: HR-713. It wasn't a military rank. It was a serial number. She watched as Samantha shifted her position, a slight, almost imperceptible tremor in her hand as she reached for a glass of water. A subtle physiological anomaly, a micro-flinch that her scientific mind cataloged instantly. Vivian’s attention snagged on a small, annotated note on the page beside Samantha’s data: "Geas-C3 (Heartstone). Inititated: 1904. Curently Active. Compliance Index: 97.1%."

Vivian felt a cold knot form in her stomach. "Geas." The term wasn't familiar, but a tap and a slide, and the definition came up. It was an arcane term for a magical compulsion, a binding spell. She glanced at the dossier again, focusing on the numbers. The was not just a measure of effectiveness, it was obedience; it was control. Shock almost overwhelmed her.

The panel began; Director Bronson took the podium, and introduced the topic. "Ladies, gentlemen. For this session, we are at Top Secret and Codeword 'Kappa', with compartment 'Liberty Veil'. Thank you for coming. This session is dedicated to an ethical and moral quandry we in Sector-14 have been wrestling with; the compulsory service status of a number of our special agents, and we chose this opportunity to seek select outside views on the topic ..."

As he continued, going over the history of this program, the nature of the magical binds on seven of their agents, including Samantha Grey, the woman who'd saved her family twice now, pins and needles traced up her arms, almost paralyzing her. She shook it off, and raise a hand to be recognized. "Yes, Dr. Thorne?"

Struggling against the crack in her voice, she asked her question. "This compliance index," she began, glancing back down the the stack of dossiers," ... and the Geas designation. What is protocol for measurement, and is it voluntary or enforced against mission and operating parameters?"

The Director pointed to another man, Dr. Hayes, at the speaker's table, who answered. "Protocol is bi-monthly stress testing of assets in a variety of compulsion excercises designed to run the limits of Special Activity Code section 8-17. In other words, we direct them to take actions we believe they would not do except for their compulsions in a double-blind testing environment intermixed with ..." Details of testing scenarios went on, and a sidelong glance from Vivian to Samantha chilled her. She was sitting ram-rod straight, wings tightly folded up, and her head and horns quivering in place, as she forced herself to stay calm. It wasn't fatigue, or ordinary stress, it was her straining, words, sharp ones Samantha wanted to say but could not, not against this compulsion, even now.

Dr. Hayes continued his explanation, his words tasting like ash as she heard them. She looked from Samantha’s clenched hands to the speakers' nonchalant demeanor. They were inured to it. This wasn't a strategic safeguard. It was a ledger of souls, and Samantha Grey -- the brilliant, fierce woman who had saved her family -- was just an entry. A tool. A slave.

Dr. Hayes lectured coolly, his tone detached yet probing: "Geas coercion ensures compliance, but data shows 7–15% efficiency loss from limbic stress. It guarantees loyalty in a world where defection could hand Imperials our most potent weapons. Without it, metahumans might succumb to ideological subversion or personal vendettas, unraveling operations like those in Tehran. Ethically, it's a utilitarian necessity -- sacrificing individual autonomy for the greater good of the Republic. We mandate conscription of young people for the armed forces; but this goes beyond that. Morally, it is my position that it erodes the soul; compelled service breeds resentment, and has me questioning whether we're any better than the Imperials' serfdom." With that, a low murmur went across the room. The threat of enslavement being applied to them by future victorious Imperial masters motivated their long struggle.

Colonel Wells interjected, his voice hardened by years in the field: "The downsides are clear: reduced initiative means assets hesitate in fluid battles, costing lives. Morally, of course it's a stain -- treating sentients as tools goes against the ideals we fight for. But there's a reality inthe field that can't be ignored -- without these Geases, how do we counter high stakes emerging threats like Imperials' quantum bombs? Or a hundred other crucial special operations we've had them do since the Great War? Reform to voluntary service, that's risky! Gains in morale could offset losses, but it also means admitting past wrongs. Are we prepared for that vulnerability? If the Metahuman secret gets out, there could be domestic unrest, even violence. People think magic was cleansed seventy years ago. The 'Liberty Veil' proposal is dangerous."

Samantha sat rigid, her wings folded tight, tail still. Even though they recognized the exstence of the ethical issues they were up to their necks in, they still disscussed "assets" in third-person, as if they weren't there. Across the room, Samantha still fought for calm, the tell-tales Vivian could now easily see. The detached scientist in her saw data; the mother saw a woman breaking. The debate lingered in the air, a mirror to the Republic's soul: progress through control, or freedom at a cost? How many rights justified a wrong? She had no idea the lengths the Republic went to ensure these Metahumans' were loyal and obedient, she had just assumed they were patriots, like her, like Rex, like she hoped her own children to be. Now that she knew -- the Colonel was right, it was a stain. Not just on her, or Sector 14, but on the soul of the Republic itself.

The session's end left unresolved tensions simmering, drawing Vivian toward a personal reckoning in the quiet spaces beyond the amphitheater.

Interlude

The afternoon brough a respite in a lounge -- though it smelled of burnt coffee and ozone from nearby labs. Samantha stood alone, staring at a window overlooking the misty peaks, a cup in her hand, still full and going cold. Vivian approached, her heels clicking softly.

"Miss Grey," Vivian said gently. "That panel... it had to be difficult. Efficiency losses, operational tempos, readiness levels. As if it weren't about people -- the other agents, and you."

Samantha turned, eyes guarded but flickering with unspoken depth. "It's reality, Doctor. I've been bound for sixty-four years now. It is difficult, I admit. Sometimes, I want to scream, or just cry. But the alternative for me was worse. When they first came to me to apply the spell, I thought they were going to execute me -- cleanse me. And yet, here I am, still alive. It does keep the Republic safe; Colonel Wells is right, we've quietly done some amazing things." She looked down at her cold coffee. "Ethically, I suppose it's defensible in war -- better one coerced than millions dead. But it hurts when that one has to be you. Some days, I wonder what's left of me, am I a person at all anymore? Have I ever been one since ... since I became this thing I am. I try not to dwell on it; it's better to worry about things I can change, not those I can't. What wisdom God grants me, allows at least that."

Vivian reflected a moment. "We met in crises before. Here, no emergencies. How we've been treating you and the other special agents -- it's just not right. I feel like it's a betrayal of our founding ideals. Tell me -- what holds you together amidst it all? Are you a believer?"

"I am. I was raised Catholic, when I was just a little girl, not even Zara's age. It's difficult, but I have kept to it. It's difficult when there are so few in the Church who'll deal with me. I am a congregation of one."

A deeper discussion unfolded: Samantha spoke of her infernal side clashing with her faith, the military discipline that kept her sane, and the moral quandary of chosen obedience versus true freedom -- if she was freed, she would still have to serve. Would being a conscript be better than a slave? Maybe, maybe not. She did not know. Then Vivian shared her loss -- her husband Damien's death in the October War, adopting Zara out of that grief -- and how her science, meant for progress, often sometimes felt like climbing onto a giant machine she couldn't steer or stop. Their morals aligned: science for enlightenment, empathy over expediency, but also Republic over Empire. A tentative bond formed, deepening their connection from rescuer-rescued to equals, though Samantha's frustration at her chains simmered beneath.

This intimate exchange brought reflection, and Vivian sought counsel from her steadfast guardian.

In their quarters, Vivian paced while Rex cleaned his Browning, speaking without looking up. "Samantha's no different from any trooper who's seen too much. Geas or not, she's got a soul. We've seen it twice now -- she saved us without hesitation, that was being forced, she did that because it was right, like any true soldier. Compelling her service feels like a tactical choice, getting reliability in chaos. But strategically? You can't deny lower echelons their initiative, it makes them inflexible and unable to handle the fog of war. It's slavery dressed as duty. It won't end well; one day, it'll snap, it'll get people killed, and it'll fail the mission, the Republic. And morally, I hate it. It makes us no better than them. If that's the price, we might as well all put on serf collars and call the Imps in to take us."

Vivian nodded slowly, turning over his words, her scientists' mind collating data about asset-stress lowering efficiency, compulsion scores declining over the years, and yet, there were voluntary acts -- like a decision Samantha made to save a Polish village back in the Great War. The Great War! -- that was a lifetime ago. She, and some of the others had been basically slaves for over half a century. The mind reeled at it all. And there she was, still making choices, good ones, whenever the tiniest crack of the Geas allowed her. "Rex, she's proof. This weakens us all -- ethically, it's unsustainable; morally, it corrupts us too."

Rex nodded. "I think your mind is made up. If you want to push this, you should."

Vivian's resolve hardened.

Dinner and a Moment

The Officer's Club glowed with candlelight, a rare warmth in the sterile facility, its wood-paneled walls adorned with faded Republic banners. The Thorne family settled at a corner table with Samantha, the air filled with the clink of silverware and murmurs of off-duty Sector-14 officers and other conference attendees. Caleb and Zara's innocent curiosity, hardly sated by their guided tours of the facility earlier, immediately disarmed the atmosphere, their questions tumbling out like playful sparks.

"Can you really teleport anywhere?" Caleb asked, eyes wide as he poked at his pie. "Like, to the Moon? Can you light on fire?"

Samantha chuckled softly, a sound rare enough to surprise even her. She demonstrated with a harmless flicker of flame in her palm, shaping it into a tiny, dancing figure. "Not quite to the Moon -- yet. But far enough to outrun trouble." Zara leaned in, fascinated. "Does it hurt? The fire, I mean. Or the... wings?"

The metahuman's expression softened, her bat wings twitching slightly as if in memory. "No, Zara. It's part of me -- like your curiosity is part of you." Rex, ever the grounded presence, chimed in with a wry grin. "Miss Grey here's tougher than any Marine I've served with." He raised his glass in a casual toast, his soldierly validation bridging the gap between them.

As the meal progressed, a burgeoning friendship bloomed. Vivian shared stories of her island lab, the children's laughter echoing as they recounted adventures on their island, and in other exotic places they've been to in their mother's travels. Samantha, in turn, offered glimpses of her long life -- tales of frontier days tempered for young ears -- her voice warming with the family's genuine interest. Corbin's easy banter, treating her as an equal rather than an "asset," drew out rare smiles, hints of the woman beneath the Geas.

Yet, beneath the camaraderie, tension simmered in Samantha. Her tail flicked restlessly under the table, a subtle sign of frustration as Caleb's innocent query about "being a hero" stirred deeper shadows. "Heroes choose their paths. I go where I'm told," she replied quietly, her eyes distant. A deepening sadness etched her features, as if her answer had reminded her of chains no one else could see. Vivian's hand brushed Samantha's in quiet solidarity, while Rex's knowing glance acknowledged the unspoken pain.

In a candlelit corner later, as the children played nearby, Vivian and Samantha spoke privately. "That Polish village," Vivian inquired, voice low "What happened?" Samantha asnwered, in a low whisper. "My orders were to raze it -- Jannisaries were staging out of it. But when I got close, I saw all the people there, serfs. I'd been working with the resistance quite a while, and I knew it would cost us much of their trust. Command didn't know. I couldn't do it, but the compulsion to obey was there. I put the idea of getting the enemy to come out and dealing with them another way, and if I repeated it enough times and focused on it, the spell let me do it. We lured them out into our ambush instead, with me fighting my demanding conscience the whole time."

Vivian touched her wrist -- first physical contact, a gesture of emerging trust. "You accomplished the mission, and at a lower cost. That was ... initiative, leadership."

"No one cared."

"That was then, this is now. Your autonomy isn't a risk; it's a strength. We can use that, better for us and for you. Freedom, at least in small ways, like any patriot has."

Rex's casual remark nearby reinforced: "She's family now, Viv. We'll treat her like one, even if no one else does." The evening closed on a note of fragile hope, Samantha's sadness tempered by the warmth of connection, though her internal storm hinted at fractures yet to heal, and Vivian with a determined expression plain to see.

The Pitch

Later, in the Director's Office, deep underground at Echo Ridge, Vivian stood before Bronson and his senior staff, a folder open: old performance reports and mission debreifings, long, decadal, graphs of efficiency ratings, casualty projections, a photo of Samantha in chains in 1902, and another, from today, with the children.

Vivian made her pitch, starting with the strategic weakness of a coerced asset—an argument the military minds in the room could understand. From there, she pivoted with a scientist's ruthless logic to the moral corrosion of the Geas, presenting data on its limbic dulling effect. When they pushed back on logistics, she countered with an avalanche of data, a cold, hard logic they couldn't refute.

They defended the status quo with equal tenacity, their voices a dull, collective roar against her single, clear note. This wasn't a formal briefing; it was a cage match, and Vivian, without a weapon, had used the only one she had: the truth.

At the end, Vivian looked around the office, meeting the eyes of the Sector-14 senior staff. "And finally," she argued, "this isn't just an individual disgrace," she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper that forced them to listen. "It's a stain on the Republic's honor itself. We can acknowledge that it was done, and we can even understand why it seemed right, but we must also see that it was wrong -- then, now, and in the future. We cannot let it stand."

It stung. She was right. The sacred honor of the Republic. Everything they stood for, that set them apart from their foes, that made their fight just and right. A heavy silence followed. Director Bronson finally exhaled as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He glanced at the other staff, who averted their gazes, stared at their clipboards, at the wall, anywhere but at her. "You've convinced me. We will accelerate Liberty Veil; we'll take it to the President-Elect."

Goodbyes

The Thorne's jet whined to life, its engines stirring the dawn mist clinging to the tarmac. Samantha waved a soft, almost imperceptible farewell. Vivian returned a mother's smile, her words a quiet promise. "This isn't goodbye, Samantha. I'm sure we'll be seeing you again, and soon."

As the jet lifted off, climbing into uncertain skies, a low, electronic tremor echoed across the world. Far away, the centrifuges and quantum reactors in Teheran hummed to life, a distant note of the future.