No Surrender

by Kevin J. Anderson

  With a sudden burst of energy and an outcry of rage, Arviq lunged up from his bed, reaching out with clawlike hands, his face full of fury. Even without armor or weapons, any soldier knew how to kill with his bare hands. Somehow he found the energy to lash out, to propel himself into a combat frame of mind.

  The woman staggered back from the infirmary beds, startled. Barto saw shadows, more people moving behind observation windows, automatic devices activating. There was another flash of white light, and again he lost consciousness.

  ***

  When Barto awoke once more, he was alone in a room, clad in soft pajamas with more slick sheets wrapped around him. He found his bed too pliant, too yielding, as if it meant to be comfortable with a vengeance.

  The gentle sound of running water trickled from speakers embedded in the wall. The white-noise had a soothing effect, the opposite of the perpetual, pressuring commands that had droned into his ears from helmet speakers. Now, the image of a soporific, bubbling brook made him want to lie motionless in a stupor.

  He no longer even seemed alive.

  This room was smaller, the walls painted pastel colors instead of clean white. The illumination was muted and warm, like sunlight through amber. It made his head fuzzy.

  Stiffly, Barto rolled over and found that Arviq wasn’t with him this time. His comrade had been taken elsewhere. Was this some sort of insidious Enemy plan? Divide and conquer, separate the squad members.

  Had he fallen into some new kind of warfare that went beyond violence and destruction to this personality-destroying brainwashing technique? Barto snarled and tried to find a way to escape—a captured soldier’s duty was to escape at all costs.

  He didn’t hear a door open, felt no movement of the air—but suddenly the beautiful woman stood there with him, setting a platter down on a ledge formed out of the substance of the wall. She leaned over his bed, her entire body smelling of gentle flowers and perfumes. She smiled down at him, parting soft lips to reveal even, white teeth. Barto started, ready to fight with hand-to-hand techniques even without his armor or his weapons—but she made no threatening move.

  “My name is Juliette,” she said, then waited as if he was supposed to recognize some significance to the name.

  He answered as he had been drilled. “Barto. Corporal. E21TFDN.” He rolled off the serial number in a singsong chant, “Eetoowun teeyeff deeyenn.” He had spoken it more than any other word in his lifetime. Then he formed his mouth into a grim line. That was all he had been trained to say. The Enemy rarely, if ever, took prisoners. Everyone died on the battlefield.

  “I brought food for you ... Barto.” Juliette picked up a steaming, spicy-smelling bowl from the tray on the ledge. It contained some kind of broth laced with vegetables, even a little meat.

  Though he could withstand long periods of fasting, Barto realized how hungry he was. He’d been trained to shut off the hunger pangs and nerve twinges in his digestive system. But he also knew to take nourishment whenever possible, to maintain his strength.

  She extended a spoon, and Barto raised his head to accept a mouthful. The spoon was metal with rounded edges. Even such a crude and innocuous weapon could be used in many different ways as a killing instrument. He could have snatched it from her—but he did not, taking the mouthful instead.

  The flavors exploded around his tongue, and Barto nearly choked. It was too intense, too spiced, too fresh—experiences his mouth had never had. Back in the barracks, all soldiers ate a common meal, a protein-rich gruel that served as sustenance and nothing else. He’d never before dined on a preparation in which someone had cared about its flavors. He didn’t find it at all pleasant.

  Juliette gave him another mouthful, and he forced himself to eat it. But he did not let down his guard for an instant.

  “The stun-field should have no residual effect on you, Barto,” she said. “You’ll regain your strength in no time.” Her voice sounded odd in his ears, pitched with a higher timbre, musical rather than the implacable instructions that had poured into his ears from the helmet’s speakers.

  “I’m strong enough,” Barto said. “Where is my comrade?”

  “He’s safe and being tended—but we thought it best to separate you.” She took the bowl away, then stood back to appraise him. “I’m curious about you, Barto, Corporal, E21TFDN. I want to be your friend—so let’s just use our first names, all right?” She brushed her hand along his arm, and he recoiled at her touch; it felt like warm feathers tickling across the skin. “Can you stand up? I’d like to take you for a walk to show you where you are.”

  Barto did not argue with her. Regardless of her intentions, Juliette’s offer would allow him to continue his reconnaissance. She could show him whatever she wished, and he would gather information. Without the helmet visor and its implanted cameras, he would have to observe with his own eyes, and remember details. But it could be done.

  As he swung off the bed, the loose-fitting pajamas felt strange on him, not hard enough, not safe. He walked on the balls of his bare feet, every muscle tense, searching for mysterious threats as Juliette led him out of the room. She took him down underground corridors into even richer light. They passed beautiful images of scenery, forgotten forests and lost mountains ... waterfalls and lakes unlike anything he had ever seen on the battle-scarred combat fields.

  “Who are you people?” Barto said. “What is this place?”

  “We’re civilians. We went underground centuries ago to escape the fighting, while our armies defended us against the invasion.”

  Barto tried to assess the information, to fit it like puzzle pieces into the sparse information in his mind. “My squad is ... part of the defenders? We fight against the invaders?”

  She looked at him with a curious, placid expression. Her pale skin, delicate bone structure, and pointed chin gave her an ethereal, elfin appearance. “No one knows which side is which anymore.”

  Other people, similarly pale-skinned and soft-looking, observed the pair as they walked by. Some smiled, some drew back in fear. Many regarded him with cold, fish-like interest. Juliette seemed to enjoy the attention she received just by being with him.

  Barto scanned his surroundings for a way to escape and return to his squad. But then he remembered that, except for Arviq, all of his comrades were dead, annihilated by the immense gun emplacements that protected this underground shelter. Back at his own HQ, the databases must have already recorded him and his point man as casualties of war.

  Juliette talked as they continued, her voice a pleasant melange of words. She told him of their days of peace and shelter down below, how the survivors had made an entire world down here by excavating tunnel after tunnel. There, the civilians did what she called “the great work of humanity”—composing music, dabbling in art, writing poetry and literature ... though, if they remained isolated down here without experiencing the hard edge of life, Barto didn’t know how they found any material to incorporate into their creations.

  Though she turned at intersections, descended to different levels, walked in circles, Barto never lost his bearings. He imprinted a map of everything they encountered, knowing he might need to use it later. On his own.

  Juliette took him to a greenhouse where the smells nearly stifled him: humid air, the odors of vegetation and mulch, flowers bursting forth like explosions from mortar-fire. Pollinating insects flitted from blossom to blossom, and brilliantly ripe vegetables and fruits made his eyes hurt.

  He heard the drip of irrigation systems, saw colorful birds hopping from plant to plant, and a shiver went up his spine. Everything was so quiet here, so gentle. It made him feel too full of energy, too restless.

  Barto remembered when he’d been forced to recuperate in the HQ infirmary as the hairless chimpanzees tended to him. He had been bored and frustrated ... but with a goal—to heal, so he could go back and fight. He had managed to wait until his body returned to its optimal condition, when he could go out and serve his purpose in life.


  Here, though, these people had a quiet calmness about them, an air or superiority ... with nothing else to do. Juliette seemed to enjoy it, seemed proud of being a civilian.

  Barto had never experienced such vibrant beauty, the smells, the music

  ... the sense of peace. His body rebelled at the thought, but as the hours went by in the beautiful woman’s company, he began to feel his resistance crumbling. This was all new to him.

  As she showed him their underground “paradise”, Barto followed her and listened. Finally, in exasperation, he turned to Juliette and asked, “So there’s no war here?” He couldn’t believe it. Such a concept had never occurred to him. “No battles?”

  “Oh, we have a little.” Juliette smiled, then gestured him forward. “Here, let me show you. Maybe you’ll find it comforting.”

  She led him down smooth passages where the temperature grew cooler, the smell more metallic. They walked down glass-walled hallways until they reached a control center.

  Battle-plans. Tactical maps. Troop movement displays.

  “This is how we maintain our edge, Barto, and our window on the outside world.” Juliette’s people sat at stations in front of the shifting screens, their fingers raised across control panels. Terrain grids spread out in front of them in bristling colors.

  High-resolution panels showed other soldiers, people in familiar armor and helmets, jittery point-of-view images transmitted from visor cameras. Civilian men and women leaned over, punching in commands and speaking into microphones.

  “Move left. Open fire.”

  Another man with a deep voice droned, “Kill the Enemy. Kill the Enemy. Kill the Enemy.” He sounded bored. The others looked very relaxed in their positions.

  Barto stared with shock as he realized that these were the voices he’d heard in his helmet all his life: directing him, helping him plan his attack. These were his ultimate commanders in the war.

  Astonished, Barto looked over to see Arviq also standing inside the control room, chaperoned by a civilian man, also dressed in a loose jumpsuit. His point man’s chaperone demonstrated the workings of the controls. Arviq’s eyes were wide as he watched the battle.

  Sensing the new arrivals, Arviq looked up to see Barto. Their eyes met, and hot understanding flashed between them. This was the ultimate headquarters of their army. Arviq reeled from the revelation, but Barto felt a nagging question in the back of his mind. He wondered if other civilians in this control room might be directing the Enemy troops in a similar fashion.

  Safe in their protected bunkers, these isolated civilians played the deadly war like a game, an exercise. They’d lived here for so long, so comfortably, they seemed uninterested in winning the conflict or ending the crisis ... merely in maintaining what they already had.

  “So you see, Barto,” Juliette said, touching his arm again; this time he did not withdraw so quickly, “we understand what you go through. We’re familiar with the war, we’re there with you inside your head during even the most terrible missions. We know how difficult it is for the soldiers.” She smiled. “That’s why I’m very glad to offer you asylum here. Stay with us.” Now she sounded coy. “I’d be ... very interested in getting to know you better.”

  Arviq glowered, out of his element. The chaperone next to him nodded toward Juliette, and she said, “You see, Gunnar is also taking good care of your comrade. Stay here. Consider it well-deserved R&R.”

  Barto looked around, saw the controllers, heard the familiar command voices. He answered gruffly, “I’m a soldier. I follow orders.” Even if it meant he must stop fighting for a while.

  ***

  Once the two prisoners had resigned themselves to their situation, they were allowed to speak with each other, though neither Barto nor Arviq had ever had much use for conversation. For a week they had made no violent gestures and learned to “behave themselves”—as Juliette described it. As a reward, Barto and Arviq were allowed to sit next to each other in the dining hall.

  The room was a large chamber with plush seats and long tables. Lights sparkled from prisms overhead, and the air was redolent with the rich smells of exotic dishes. Various salads and broiled fishes and interesting soups were spread before them. The hall echoed with a murmur of voices.

  In his training sessions, Barto learned about the horrors of being a POW, should such a fate ever befall him. But he was now confused, not sure which orders to follow, what was the proper course of action. Juliette had insisted he was their honored guest, not a prisoner. Should he still try to escape? These civilians had given him food and shelter, and a soft bed, though he desperately wanted his narrow basket-bunk back. He longed for the decisive voice in his ears that commanded him to do his duty—but Barto no longer knew exactly what his duty was.

  Arviq looked at his plate and poked at the gaudy, frilly dishes that had been served to him. Other soft-skinned civilians walked by, staring at them, whispering to each other. One reached out to touch Arviq on the shoulder, as if on a dare; the soldier lashed out like a python, and the two observers scampered away giggling, as if titillated by the thrill they’d just received.

  Barto felt as if he and his point man were on display, specimens for a zoo ... or humiliated members of a captured Enemy force, dragged before the public as trophies. Shrouded in silence, Arviq seemed to be doing a slow burn as he sat staring at his food, glaring at the other people.

  Barto tried to calm himself. His own emotions seemed so much flatter since he’d been brought underground, his mind dulled—as if the adrenaline pump, endorphin enhancers, even his root survival instincts had been neutralized. Listening to the muted drone of conversation and music around them, he thought back longingly to the cacophony in the mess hall at his old barracks.

  He remembered the clatter of metal trays, the crash of armorplates as soldiers jostled each other. With wordless camaraderie, the squad members sat on hard benches, grabbed their utensils, and gobbled their tasteless food. Together, they recharged their batteries and stoked the fires that they would need for combat in their next mission.

  While none of the soldiers knew each other very well, each knew his place in life, his purpose ... and his Enemy. These underground civilians had nothing to compare with that.

  Juliette sauntered up to them, her elfin features positively glowing, as if Barto’s presence had increased her own standing among her people. She walked with her tall friend, Gunnar, who had spent days escorting Arviq. She looked down at the food on Barto’s plate, and clucked in a mock scolding tone that he should eat more.

  Barto felt a strange sensation in his stomach and heart, as if he were basking in the sunlight of her presence. How could Juliette make him feel proud that she had chosen him for her special attentions? He had never been singled out for anything before.

  On the days when Juliette brought him to the breakfast hall, Barto was glad to see her, eager to hear her voice, just to look upon her face. As his senses had become accustomed to his environment, his tongue relished the taste of fresh fruits and breads. The flower scents in the air smelled sweet, and he didn’t flinch when Juliette touched him this time, taking him by the elbow. He liked the softness of her fingertips, the way they moved up and down his arm. He felt that he wanted to be even closer to her, to allow her into the walled fortress of himself.

  “Do you like it with us here?” Juliette said with a hopeful, even plaintive, lilt to her voice. Ignoring Arviq, she touched the lumpy intaglio of scars on his forearm, tracing patterns and imagining his terrible wounds, as if she had never seen such marks before. “I’d like for you to stay with us, Barto ... with me.” She reached across the table to clasp his hand, and he felt the urge to withdraw. What was she doing?

  Gunnar’s narrow face seemed drawn and concerned. He shook his head gravely. “You know how he’s been trained. You know what this man has been through. He’s not a toy for you, Juliette.”

  “I know exactly what he is,” she answered. They both talked as if Barto wasn’t even there. �
�And that doesn’t change my wishes one bit.”

  With intent, flicking eyes, Barto followed the conversation, the conflict. If Juliette wanted him to stay here—and he vehemently wished that she did

  — then he would stay.

  He’d seen the control chambers, the computer screens. He knew that these were the ultimate commanders of the war, the people who issued the instructions through his helmet speakers. His job had been to defend these civilians, to protect them ... and if Juliette should happen to give him leave to stop the fighting and stay here, with her, then he would follow orders.

  Moving around behind him at the dining table, Juliette held out a large purple flower, its petals like a soft starburst. With particular care, she slid it into the close-cropped dark hair behind his right ear. Then she clapped at her audacity and at the spectacle she had made. He flushed.

  Barto did not remove the flower, knowing it was somehow special to Juliette. The other civilians in the dining hall spoke to each other, pleased and entertained. Then Juliette danced away with tall Gunnar beside her, leaving the two soldiers to continue eating under the scrutiny of the curious observers.

  Arviq looked across the table at him, scowling at his comrade’s behavior. He narrowed his flinty eyes at the flower in Barto’s hair. “You look like a fool,” he growled, and snatched it away.

  ***

  Back in his too-peaceful quarters with the door sealed and locked from the outside, he lay on his too-comfortable bed and then finally curled up on the hard floor. He would sleep better that way. ...

  He dreamed of other times, when there hadn’t been so much peace, when he had felt alive and useful and necessary. Where he had known his place in the world.

  After one particularly furious foray, he, Arviq, and five other squad members crept ahead, continuing to approach the blasted Enemy territory even after the main conflict was over. They followed trails of blood and footprints, drag marks left by the bloodhounds that had come to retrieve the bodies of Enemy soldiers.