I can argue and believe convincingly two contradictory opinions and morals, but still be the same person. How absolute or assured am I really of my beliefs if someone can just come into my mind and change it to the complete opposite? They can change it entirely, that I am astounded I ever believed something contrary to what the military wants. Then when I am sober, I remain just as astounded that I ever believed what the military wants. God, am I really myself anymore? And if not, what am I?
VI
Later that night is lecture about the field drugs we have been exposed to, and how much they would affect us. We sit in curved rows inside an auditorium with a few other platoons as an Instructor—a different one than that fucker earlier—goes over the field drugs and their purpose. “It comes down primarily to economics and time men,” he says. An empty rectangular bar being slowly colored in appears behind him on the screen. “This bar is the time we have left till you are shipped out. Eight weeks. Do you know how long it took the Spartans to train a warrior back in the day?”
Isaac whispers to me, “Does it matter? They still lost.”
The Instructor answers his own question, “It took a lifetime. The three hundred Spartans at the hot gates were trained and brutalized their entire lives in ritualistic activities daily to reach their military power and perfection. They reached this through the society they lived in. One entirely wrapped around war. Ours is not. But our society still demands and expects the same level of excellence and fighting prowess of a Spartan, especially since we are up against the Herculeans. And if I haven’t made it obvious, we don’t have lifetimes to turn you into equivalents.”
The screen changes to show the different types of field drugs we’ve been operating with. “Technology however, will bridge this gap. Stimulants, psyche performance drugs have become our answer. They give us the most bang for our buck here at the Defense Department. We’re still trying to pass our budget for this year, and we are already four hundred percent over. We never had to freight eight hundred thousand soldiers across space before.” He chuckles even though the classroom is silent. He regains his matter-of-fact demeanor and goes on, “You are greenhorns, fresh with barely over a month of combat training and most of it useless when it came to fighting an alien military. These drugs will fix that. Buzz, as you all have had extensive time with today, removes any fear and hesitation, it increases attentiveness, and it makes you act as war hardened veterans with unbreakable morals. No battle fatigue, no second guessing or disobeying orders.”
The screen changes once more showing a diagram of an object I’ve never seen before. “This is the new way you’ll all receive your field drugs on Nova Terra. Upper neck distributors. You will undergo the surgery tomorrow. Under Geneva Convention laws, only commanding officers are allowed to administer the field drugs. This way we make sure you don’t shoot up at the wrong time, or too much, or because of addiction, etcetera, etcetera, and etcetera.” He pauses for a moment as the display rotates showing us the ins and outs of the device. “The neck distributors will be installed right above your highest vertebra. A tiny cord from the distributor will pierce and connect into your spine where the drugs will be administered into. The neck distributors will have a tube that goes from the external part of the implant to a chemsack onto your back. The sack is integrated with your ACU.”
The screen turns dark, and the Instructor begins to put his stuff away into a case, and half-heartedly asks, “Any questions?”
Julian, an older guy in my unit, raises his hand and the Instructor calls on him. “When was this passed by the Council?”
“It doesn’t have to be. Executive Order alongside the new War Powers and Protection Act, allows the President and Head of State Chief Commissars to do whatever necessary to prepare the nation’s armed forces in any emergencies. Next question?”
Rommel, some wired young kid, fresh out of high school and intending to have joined the military anyway, raises his hand next. “What’s with us training with these weapons? Most of them are from the Terrible War.”
I could actually answer this but I wonder what the Instructor has to say.
“Good question. But the answer is also in what you asked. Our last war ever, to everyone as you know was the Terrible War. After that event, with nearly half of the world’s population killed or mainly fleeing to the Dolus system for a new beginning once FTL was invented, the recreated UN decided to curb militarization and development entirely. Many of those guns you trained with are actually from the Terrible War. Only recently, since the Peace Protocols implemented by the Security Council have been revoked, have industries begin to reinvent and improve our military. We have a century of catching up to do when it comes to innovating killing. So don’t expect any changes for a while. More questions?”
Vance, a bio major, raises his hand. “So this stuff that we will be pumped with, it’s only temporary? No long term side effects or problems?”
“I would have covered those disclaimers in my presentation if there were.” The Instructor taps his suitcase. “However, now that you mention it, well it’s not really a documented or proven disorder, but the only thing you could maybe encounter is psychological aftershock.”
Multiple hands go up. Aftershock?
The Instructor chuckles, “Now hold on boys. Like I said, it’s not a proven or classified illness or disorder. What this aftershock is…is that you may encounter negative thoughts or attitudes after becoming sober from Buzz or DT use. There is no physical or long term damage at all that you will experience later in life.”
Someone from a platoon over raises his hand, “Why would we have, negative thoughts or whatever, after using them?”
“When under stimulants, Buzz especially, you are under a different mindset, a warrior’s mindset have you. What your ancestors encountered way back in war, not the Terrible War in the early teens but in the smaller wars right before it, was something called PTSD. I am sure you all know a little about it, but I also wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t either. It hasn’t really been talked about because soldiers in the Terrible War were given medication immediately after their tours ended to make sure they wouldn’t go through it. The last big conflict where it was experienced was the in Arab Levant wars earlier in the beginning of the twenty first century. Formally known as the War on Terror in your history books.
“PTSD, or post-traumatic stress disorder, is where soldiers are incapable of dealing with former experiences during their live combat tours once back home. We have no need to get involved into the nitty gritty details of it though, as it is practically irrelevant to us at the moment. What I brought it up for in the first place, is that there is a possibility you will experience negative responses to what you did on the field while under these performance drugs, but after you are sober and off the field. Thus aftershock. We don’t expect it to be anywhere as bad as PTSD of old. In fact, if things pan out correctly, these drugs should prevent the chances of PTSD in the first place, because you’ll be mentally protected from experiencing traumatic events during combat thanks to them. So hopefully you’ll have no need to take post-combat medication when you return back to Earth as well.”
He tightens the straps on his case and slides it off the table to his side. “Well I hope that answers a lot of your thoughts about Stims. Good luck men, all of you will be placed in a history book one day, and I mean that. Your task is monumental but the reward, protecting humanity against those Herc bastards, will leave you famous and adored by every generation to come. You can count on that.”
We leave to break for the night. Most of us rest in the bunks again. We’re all quiet for a while, only Alex munching on jerky echoes throughout the room. I bet most of them are thinking about the surgery tomorrow.
Isaac starts the conversation. “This is bullshit.”
“The implants?” I say.
“Yeah bud. Just controlling our mind however they want,” he says.
“I don’t know. I think it’s a good
thing,” says Vance. “We are going to be terrified fighting them. It’s fucking aliens. The drugs will get rid of that. We know that, due to training with them.”
“That’s the problem,” says Isaac. “Peter over here—shit we dormed together—can be turned into my enemy in seconds. Just by saying he’s a Herc lover or some other bogus crap. Doesn’t that scare you, how easily they can change us, on the drop of a dime?”
Julian speaks, “I’ve been troubled about it too. I wanted to fight for my country, but not like this.”
“Like what?” Sergeant Blake leans against the doorway. We fidget about awkwardly, not knowing what to say.
Ray, a fully tattooed man from Florida, answers for us, “Buzz, sir.”
“Oh,” Blake rubs his forearms, “it’s something isn’t it?”
We don’t know if we’re supposed to reply so causally to our NCO.
“Trust me, what those Herculeans are, they aren’t some pushover insurgents. Hell, not even some other conventional army from Earth. I don’t need to tell you twice they’re not human. And they won’t take prisoners—reports are confirming that. They won’t second guess the value of your life out on the field. Look what they did to Gemina, cooked an entire planet. For all we know, these could be their best warriors. Trained for their entire lives to fight. And here’s us, a bunch of drafts. Most of us having never fired a gun till we came here. You’ll come to rely on those drugs. You’ll come to appreciate them for the boost they give you. To make you fearless.”
Blake turns to leave, “Get some sleep. If you thought that primary training was hard, wait till those implants are in and we train at full combat capacity for the next month to get you in real fighting order.” He exits, and we are left to ourselves again.
Isaac and I leave to rest in the wreck room, watching the news together. “Soon boy, you’ll be on that TV,” says Isaac, pretending to mimic our Instructor from earlier.
“Probably in a casket coming home,” I say. Part of his old attitude was coming back. Albeit mixed in with his new fuck-it-all mentality. “But at least you won’t die shitting yourself.”
“I’d rather be scared than lose my identity.”
Maybe. “I was told by my favorite professor, to not lose who I was when they drafted me. Never did I think they could actually take that away too.”
“Who told you that?” says Isaac.
“Mr. Martin.”
“Ah, I was going to take one of his classes next semester, but I found a better one.”
“What was that?”
“You’re thick. This place, Einstein. Now I’m taking a class on how to bend over for the Party.”
“The Party also paid for your college.”
“They also must want to pay for my funeral.”
The newsman recites the latest events on Nova Terra, “The Confederate City States have agreed to a joint military alliance to combat the Herculeans who have successfully landed on Russian defended territories in the Eastern Hemisphere. Russia is paying the Confederates and promises to ship weapons to help intervene in the crisis unfolding. Russia, just like the rest of the United Nations, is unable to send boots on the ground till the entire newly formed Coalition is at full capacity. This is to insure cohesion and effectiveness of our global forces once they arrive…”
“Want to go outside and have a smoke?” says Isaac.
“I don’t smoke.” He knows that, must be acting smart again.
“Still?”
“Yes still. I don’t smoke; it’s not good for you.” Seriously.
“Do you realize where you are Peter?”
“Yeah, the wreck room.”
“There you are, being cute again. I take back saying you were thick. Really though, we are about to be shipped out to our death. Whatever is in these ancients,” he waves the tin box around in front of my face, “will have no time to take effect on your body. You’ll be six feet under first.”
“What if we live?” It sounded hollow even as I said it. But I mean, one never really knows. We could win this. We could come back alive. I have to believe in something.
“Then I’ll pay for your chemo myself.”
With that he leaves to the patio. I join him for company. He has his helmet with him and a yellow marker. “What do you really think about the stims?” he says, “I’ve known you for almost a year. You raised your hand saying you’re a pacifist too. Surely you’re not okay with them like you let up.”
“The real answer man, is that I don’t know. They really did fuck with us, huh?”
“Yeah. I feel guilty, that I could betray myself so easily. They have it down to a science, controlling us and all.”
“I wouldn’t call it that. This is just in the military…”
“Oh yeah, I forgot you’re infatuated with the Party. Want to be their newest bitch.”
“Shut up.” I am not that simple. “I just don’t think our government really has it out for us like you think they do. I mean if they really wanted us gone, they’d just let the Herculeans come here and wipe us out.”
“Or they could just send us over there and let them do the same.”
We sit quietly, letting the cold air ease our hot and sore bodies. Isaac writes something on his helmet, then lights one of his ancients.
“Where did you find those out here, anyway?” I say.
“The military, at least, has good taste when it comes to certain pastimes.”
“Okay, real talk now. If we weren’t about to die, why don’t you just vap? It’s healthier.”
He blows a ring. “We’ve been over this. The taste is way better when it’s burned in its natural form,” he blows another ring, and shoots a smoke stream through it, “and because I couldn’t do that with vapsticks. I gotta have fun with my activities.”
I watch him blow more smoke rings, and then watch as he tries to blow a straight line through multiple rings at once. He grins at me when he gets up to shooting a line through four.
I ask him another question, “What do you think of our unit?”
“We got a big unit, which ones?”
“I don’t know, all of them, start from the top.”
“I’ll start with who I like. Vance is cool, he’s just a geeky nerd our age. Which makes him likable.” I nod in agreement. “Julian is also alright. He’s old, but he’s nice too. He really doesn’t feel like he fits here though, more than all of us.”
“I wonder how he ended up here. He’s older than twenty five, what the draft only goes up to, but not an officer obviously, since he is fresh like us. The only people his age are the ones who made the military a career.”
“A shitty career,” Isaac blows another O, “Ray’s cool too, he’s always on edge though.”
“He keeps talking about his girl back home, sounds like stuff isn’t working out between them.”
“Tough. Next, we got Alex, I like him, he’s quiet, kinda just there. And does he have a jerky addiction? He’s always chewing on it. Then there’s Jonathon, who also never says shit, but a weird kinda quiet, not like Alex.” He moves on to his second ancient. “Now there’s Tommy,” Isaac snorts instantly from laughing, “that fucker spent the whole first day looking for grid squares. But to his credit, he’s a proud son of a bitch who thinks the marines is all that. But at least he’s polite and actually believes it, unlike Vick, god fuck that guy. A-plus douche bag. Acts all tough, like he’s the shit. Next is Kaiden, right? Our Corporal. He’s an ass kisser. Cut out POG material. We’ll probably die out there all young and shit, and he’ll just come back to be a Lifer.”
“We still got Rommel.”
“Oh god, that kid is crazy. Barely over eighteen, and all he can talk about is war and shooting stuff. He’s mom clearly didn’t let him play those shooter games, or maybe she let him play too much. He’ll either save us or get us all killed.”
“Why do you think that?
“Because he is the only one that actually like
s Buzz. It gives him some sorta rage boner. He’ll either be a war hero, or end up dragging us to our death. Probably the latter.” He returns to smoking, and I sink into my lawn chair looking at the stars.
So the conversation ends back at Buzz. It’s still eating away at my mind. At first I felt betrayed, like Isaac does. But looking longer at it, if I were in the Party making these tough decisions, I suppose I would have come to similar conclusions. They need us ready. Ready to stop them from advancing to their next planet of conquest.
But my pacifism, my life philosophy of violence not being the solution was ripped right out of me, and it doesn’t matter how hard I stick to my ideals, they will just change it when the time comes. I don’t know, maybe I am looking at it wrong. I mean, in retrospect, my pacifism was always to humans. I ate meat. I was only peaceful in social convention. These Herculeans are not human, so they also don’t deserve my pacifism anyway, right? And further, they were the ones who showed they don’t want to negotiate, they attacked us first. They killed us first. They are the real monsters. The ones that need to be stopped. Violence be it if it’s the only way.
But god, I still feel off about changing my morals so easily, even if I am doing so because I came upon a new truth that is correcting my old convictions. But the Party obviously knows more than me. They know what humanity needs, what needs to be done. They have always taken care of me, practically raised me. Just because I don’t fully agree with them on one aspect, doesn’t mean I get to be rebellious everywhere else. And as they always say, we must look at the bigger picture. If I don’t fight today, how many peace loving people, how many want-to-be pacifists will I doom, force to fight for me tomorrow then? All because I shied away from my obligations.
Travesty (SolarSide Book 1) Page 6