I ignored the annoying alien – he wouldn’t be a problem for much longer – and waved for attention from the duty sergeant. Now, understand that this was not something I’d needed to do before. The compound’s gate security had been their usual thorough selves, but once inside it was normally like walking into a club and being greeted by your pals, who were not only pleased to see you but so bored they would be pleased to see any new face. Unless any officers were present, of course.
This morning the place was in chaos.
There was a commotion going on in one of the side rooms, the parade ground out back was a mayhem of bodies in military uniform pretending to carry out basic marching drills, and the only face I recognized – that of Sergeant Rao – was at the back of the reception area, haranguing three Tallerman recruits hulking over a stack of equipment crates. Rao’s face was taking on an uncharacteristically purple hue, and I could understand why: berating a Tallerman was as pointless as telling a quasar to turn the noise down.
The Tallermans evolved on a world of such hardship that their physique was famously tenacious. Unfortunately, their mental outlook was equally obstinate. When I was stationed on Earth, I’d heard the expression stubborn as a mule. The idiom’s continued everyday existence made it obvious that the Earth people had never dealt with the Tallermans.
“Sergeant!” I said. I didn’t exactly shout, but I used my voice in a way that can cut through background noise the way a kinetic torpedo cuts through the atmosphere. “Do you require assistance?”
Rao looked over at me, and fixed me with his glare. His jaw trembled, and I knew that on the tip of his tongue he had primed and ready to fire some choice phrases of such caustic potential they could cut through hull armor.
I liked Rao. He was a veteran like me, but his face had softened with age, and while the hair on my head and face got the clippers on the rare occasions I remembered that chore, Rao arranged his thinning hair artfully, and had grown a mesmerizingly long mustache that curled at the edges like a Trog’s antennae. He dyed his hair and waxed mustache jet-black, which was all the more noticeable because Rao’s face was such a crumbly, creamy brown, like the dried silt that accumulated at the bottom of the gully surrounding Sijambo Farm.
And if you think Rao looked funny, then I advise you to keep your opinion out of earshot of my fists. Me? I was nagged by my dead comrades, and pretended to be a farmer. Rao went for the comedy mustache option. What can I say? We’ve had difficult lives, and some of us feel the need to cultivate distractions. So sue us.
Uncle Rao, his squad called him behind his back. I don’t really understand why, never having had any uncles personally, but I knew that Rao secretly loved his nickname.
Rao twiddled his mustache conversationally, and seemed to have concluded that shouting at me would serve no purpose, but that a good grumble never did any harm.
“New orders from top brass,” he explained. “Units are to have mixed demographics to reflect the community we serve.”
“You’re kidding!” But I could see from the parade ground mayhem that he wasn’t. Humans, Gliesans, Tallermans, Pavnix, Jotuns, even a Hardit were trying to march in something approaching a disciplined formation. Not only were they different heights, they had different numbers of limbs. It was almost enough to make me feel sorry for the drill sergeants.
A modest pandemonium broke out in the adjoining room. Rao rolled his eyes. “Wait there will you, NJ?”
Keeping one eye on Silky, I edged toward the door, and looked in on the chaos. (Just in case you think I had detachable eyes, I meant that metaphorically. I would call you pedantic, except when you consider I’m a guy who carries his squadmates plugged into his back, I suppose a detachable eye seems small beer.)
The side room’s chaos took the form of new recruits helping themselves to carbines straight out of weapons crates. Needless to say, Sergeant Rao was not amused. He shouted at them to stop and put the weapons back, but they just looked at him in confusion. There were thirty of them, none of them human, and not used to dealing with human sergeants.
Rao used an NCO’s secret backup weapon, rarely observed in the wild. He tried reasoning with them.
“The weapons shouldn’t even be there. Put them back. They should be properly logged in the armory first. You will be allocated your weapon at the appropriate time. Look, I dislike bureaucratic rules even more than you, because I’m the poor bastard who has to implement them. But believe me, the alternative to bureaucracy is worse.”
One of the Tallermans swiveled its head around 180 degrees and blinked at Rao. “Simplicity, Sergeant. The alternative to bureaucracy is simplicity. We need guns. We take guns. Simplicity makes a plan robust, and it is that robustness that my race has relied upon for survival.”
“No, you drellock. You’re confusing simplicity with stupidity. Freely giving out mil-grade weapons to everyone who walks off the street – do you really think that’s a good idea?”
The Tallerman sank its dome-like head inside the natural cupola of muscle that served as its neck. I think it was coming around to Rao’s way of thinking, but I reckoned Rao had spooked it by talking of people walking in from the street. Tallermans were pedantic at such a deeply cognitive level that even after tens of thousands of years of upgrades, translation systems still couldn’t overcome their stubborn refusal to understand what you told them. Did I mention they had a reputation as the most bloody-minded species in the region? I liked that about them. They were my favorite flavor of alien.
What? You thought I hated all aliens? I never said that. I just wanted them to keep their distance from me. I reckoned that was a perfectly rational outlook.
Still, the sergeant had sown doubt into the unruly alien recruits, and when he was reinforced by three human privates, advancing to the sound of the commotion, he turned and nodded at me. “I got this, NJ. Hold the fort, I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Roger that,” I replied and went back to Silky.
I cursed myself when I realized I’d felt a smudge of sympathy for the Tallerman recruits. Had that emotion been placed there by the deserter? My voices told me they were watching out for any kind of psychic violation, but they’d been so quiet since the Battle of the Flies, I had no idea whether my guardians were on active sentry duty or had gone AWOL on me.
I regarded the alien. If you chopped off his head lumps and ignored the pallid skin tone, then his features were almost human, and his delicate bone structure, relative to mine, reminded me of the space rats – the branch of humanity bred for the Navy.
What quality makes us human? It’s a question I’ve asked ever since I fought on Earth. I haven’t liked any of the answers so far – too messy and far too painful – but I do know the answer isn’t a simple one. Now, I’m not saying Silky was human, but his appearance was close enough that now I was moments away from dumping him out of my life, I wanted more than ever to know his story.
I grabbed him by his shoulders and asked the question I’d avoided. “Why did you run? You don’t strike me as a coward.”
“I couldn’t carry out an order,” he replied. “My unit was coming around to removing the officer who gave it, anyway.”
“Removing your officer? You mean you were about to mutiny?”
“No. Never!”
I looked askance. “Sounds like it to me.”
“Only because you know nothing about my people. It is not a question of loyalty or mutiny. It is a matter of our biology.”
I’d heard a few tales about alien biology, the sort of things that give you nightmares. I have no doubt that aliens frighten themselves with lurid tales about human Marines. I wasn’t buying it, though. Sorry, sir, but it wasn’t my fault, it was my biology. Yeah, right. I shook my head. “I still don’t get it. You were about to remove your officer and replace her–”
“Why her?” Silky gave me a funny alien look. “Why assume my officer was female?”
“Does it matter? Our officers were mostly female. Aliens. Jotuns. A
legacy of the time when we were the Human Marine Corps, before we switched sides to the Legion in the civil war.”
“Ours were all male.”
“Whatever. Aliens and genders.” I shuddered. “I prefer you lot when you’re genderless like the Trogs, or the Scumblebutts with a multitude of freaky ones, because – and I mean no offense – I can’t stand the idea of aliens mating.”
“For a man who has seen much that is unpleasant in the wars, you are alarmingly squeamish, Ndeki Joshua.”
“What can I say?” I shrugged, a gesture Silky seemed to provoke in me. “I cultivate my foibles, and we’ve wandered off the point. You disobeyed orders that you didn’t like, and then ran.”
“So did you.”
“Never compare me to a deserter!”
“You disobeyed that order to fire on the Gliesans dug into that hillside. You told me yourself, though the story follows you around like an odor. A scent that I followed to your farm.”
“We are not the same. If you ever suggest again that we are, I’ll break your bones.”
“Save your threats for someone who cares, NJ. Fact was, I was ordered to shoot prisoners who had surrendered. It was murder. We were the Human Legion, and we were supposed to be better than that. The Legion stood for tolerance and alliance between races and I still believe in that ideal. In that way I am your opposite. I believe the only way we can survive this peace is to learn to live together. This is a greater challenge than to win the war.”
I laughed, relieved really because if he wanted to win me over, Silky had just blown it. “So to top it all, you’re a bleeding heart idealist. Let’s all hold hands around the campfire and celebrate our differences through the poetry and dance of our distinct traditions. Is that how you see the future?”
“I am not a frakkhead moron, NJ. The worst thing about most wars is the peace. It is true of the wars on my planet, going back to pre-history. I imagine it is the same for Earth. When a great power is brought down, what fills its place? It is a question usually settled by more wars, often petty little conflicts that can grind on for centuries until a new power arises. A new tyranny.”
“That’s a depressing view of the universe, pal.”
“This is the lesson of history. Do you deny it?”
I thought about that while I glanced over my shoulder at Rao’s little crisis. The side room had gone quiet, although I couldn’t tell whether matters had calmed down, or Rao had settled the matter by shooting everyone dead.
“Here’s what I think,” I said, unsure why I cared enough to debate with a deserter. “A great power – the White Knight Empire – has been hugely diminished by the war. A new one has emerged, thanks to the Legion. I did study Earth history when I was there, and there are parallels to our current situation. When the survivors of such a war are so fearful of chaos on one flank, and the emergence of a new tyranny on the other, that same fear can drive them to put aside their differences and work together until eventually cooperation becomes a habit, an inherited trait passed on to the next generation.”
“Do you think this is possible?” he asked. “Is it your belief that this peace can hold long enough to… to become a habit?”
“In pockets across the Human Autonomous Region… perhaps. I don’t know.” I could sense Silky’s despondency. “You don’t believe it is possible,” I said. “Do you?”
“No, NJ. I wish it were different, but the habit of cooperation, as you put it, is too much to wish for. The commanders of the Human Legion were infected with optimism. They needed that belief in a better future to win the war of liberation, but they were not pessimistic enough to establish a lasting peace.”
The alien purred deep in its throat, and jerked its shoulders, its eyes rolling in their sockets.
“Are you frakking laughing?” I enquired.
“I am. Don’t you find us to be a ridiculous pairing?”
I nodded. I saw what he meant, but that didn’t mean I had to laugh. “You believe we should all hug the alien,” I said, “but you don’t believe it will work. Whereas I believe immediate cooperation is the only chance we will ever have of a decent future for hundreds of generations to come, and it might still work. But I shut myself away because I can’t stand you alien bastards.”
“You are correct. We make a good team.”
His words exhausted the thin seam of humor I had found in our situation. Silky’s chances ran out with them. “I never said we were a team,” I said coldly. “Is there anything else you can say in your defense? Any reason why I should regret handing you over to be shot for desertion?”
“The prisoners. They were from 271st Tactical Marine Regiment. Humans. I spared humans, NJ. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Not to me. You’re still a deserter, but… but I’ll put it to a vote.”
The moment I said that, I regretted it. I had the sense that I was being pulled into sticking by this alien. Whether it was Fate or my own self-destructive tendencies, I didn’t care. I hated the idea of being forced into anything.
With bad-tempered resistance, as if I’d pulled them from liberty back into active duty, the shades of my dead comrades came out in force to debate what should be done with the deserter. They argued too quickly for me to make sense of what was said, or even tell who was speaking. I thought I heard Rifleman Tekle Turay speaking, which would be the first time in eight years I’d heard a peep from him. Efia was screaming shrilly, and when she started to sing over the top of the others, I had to admit to myself that she was probably insane.
What I wasn’t hearing was a straight yes or no answer.
Then there came a hush in my mind. My ghosts were still present, but they were respectfully backing away, leaving space for someone to speak.
That someone, of course, was Sergeant Chinelo.
Fire team buddy, urged the Sarge.
You mean we fought together? Me and this white thing with lumps on its head?
Roger that, dongwit.
We stood side-by-side and faced the enemy. That’s true, but we were attacked by little insects. It was hardly the Second Battle of Khallini.
There came a long pause in which I sensed the Sarge working hard to rally his thoughts and marshal them into words.
Marine, this is your brother.
That was the Sarge’s gleaming gem of wisdom. Really? Excuse me, Sergeant, but this is an alien, not a brother Marine.
Side-by-side, insisted the Sarge with gusto. Brother to brother. Sister to sister. And… (I had the eerie sense that Sarge winked at this point) sister to brother.
When I didn’t respond, he barked: You need someone to watch your six, Joshua!
My eyes near popped with indignation. Was he serious? I don’t need an alien to keep me safe.
Pay attention, Marine. I’m not talking about your physical safety – I’m talking about your sanity.
My body chilled, but that was nothing compared with my mind that was suddenly claimed by the void, nothing but painfully honest vacuum.
This was the topic my ghosts knew never to raise, not until mad old Sergeant Chinelo said what no one else had dared.
The other ghosts fled.
But I had nowhere else to go.
Has fatigue ever claimed you so tightly that you jerk back into alertness and realize you can’t account for the last five minutes?
I got that too. Except that it wasn’t minutes that I lost, but weeks. And the blackouts were getting longer. And more often. We all of us in my head feared that one day I would switch off and never switch back on again.
And that would be the end of all our stories.
I began to see the Sarge’s point. What better way to ground me to the here and now than an irritating and faintly revolting companion, such as this pallid alien? The only way to save me, was to annoy the hell out of me.
I sensed the Sarge’s approval at the direction in which my thoughts were swinging. I trained many green Marines, boy, he said. Many of them were frakkwits. You, Joshua, w
ere one of the worst. But I knew you would turn good. I cut you just enough slack for you to get your shit in order. This replacement is now in your hands. It is your turn to cut him slack. He will repay your indulgence. Do you doubt my judgment?
I could feel my face sink into a scowl. The sergeant had lived inside my head too many years to be ignorant of how the cogs within turned. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what was the true nature of the voice I called Sergeant Chinelo Fofana. Whatever it was, it carried enough essence of the person I had respected most in my life that going against his wishes took more courage and certainty than I had to hand.
You got to be kidding, said Bahati.
Maybe he’s right, countered Sanaa.
Who’s right? Bahati asked, His Majesty or the Sarge?
Both. That was the most coherent thing the Sarge has said for over twenty years. He meant every word.
The ghost of my later-wife was often the most chiding of all my dead comrades, but the most annoying thing of all was how often she was right. When it came to advice, Sanaa was the go-to ghost.
If Sanaa wanted me to trust the Sarge, that’s what I would do. “All right, Silky. You’re on probation.”
“Probation?” queried Sergeant Rao, who was hurrying in from the door to the parade ground. “I don’t like the sound of that.” He peered at my alien. “I do hope you haven’t brought me some kind of legal frakk-up, NJ. What have you done, now?”
“Relax, Sergeant Rao, I’m looking for work, that’s all. All these alien recruits they foisted upon you… Only half of them have even got opposable thumbs. You’re gonna need someone you can trust to teach them how to shoot.”
“Going legit are we, NJ? You can earn four times the CDF rate by teaching gunnery skills on the black market. Not that you would know anything about that, eh?”
I put on my best outraged face. “I come here to help perform my civic duty, and find myself subjected to a terrible slander.”
After War Page 6