Son of Justice

by Steven L. Hawk

  Crimsa jogged to the line of six and took his place at the end. He looked down the line, and catching Eli’s eye, gave a slight nod. The tight smile fixed to his face seemed to acknowledge the fact that his fellow recruits didn’t approve, but that he was pressing on anyway. Eli gave him points for that.

  Eli then looked to his own platoon to see if anyone was stepping forward. His gaze landed on Benson, his bunkmate. If anyone else deserved to step forward, it would be him. Benson seemed undecided, however. His body leaned forward as if he wanted to move, but his feet remained firmly planted. The look on his face hinted at the internal struggle that Eli knew was taking place. They had discussed this once a few weeks back—whether either of them would self-select if not chosen for the Sift. Eli had quickly announced his intention to do so. Benson hadn’t committed. Apparently, he still wasn’t ready to commit. Which was a mistake.

  “Benson,” Eli called out, knowing he wasn’t allowed to speak but unable to stop himself.

  “Silence!” Twigg commanded and looked back over his shoulder. He scanned the seven candidates, apparently unsure of which one had spoken. His gaze lingered on Eli a moment longer than the others, though. He had to know the two men were close, which made him the obvious choice. Eli faced forward innocently and studiously ignored the sergeant’s look. The alien turned back to the company. “Anyone else?”

  The action paid off. When Eli turned to look again, Benson was looking in his direction. Eli nodded once, sending a clear message. You can do this. Benson grinned and immediately stepped out of line. A few moments later, he was standing at the end, next to Crimsa.

  Eight recruits were entered into the Sift.

  Chapter 12

  Eli grabbed his tray and looked around the mess hall for an empty seat. He spied Ellison seated alone at a table near the rear of the large room. He jabbed an elbow into Benson’s side and pointed his chin at their lone platoon-mate.

  “Go ahead,” Benson looked to where Eli indicated, and nodded. “I’ll be over in a minute.”

  “Just go with the green slop,” Eli said with a grin. His bunkmate was notorious for taking his time when making his food choices. Ever since the second forced march incident in week three, no one in their unit touched chakka again, despite its flavorful nature. Instead, they went with the duller but infinitely safer choices that remained.

  Benson claimed each food had unique flavor profiles that improved or degraded depending on how the food was prepared and how long it had been sitting. He insisted much of it was not only edible, but delicious under the right conditions, and he took his time evaluating each dish before dropping it onto his plate. To Eli’s unrefined palate, the processed patties, nuggets, and mushy lumps of starches and proteins were all more or less the same. The primary difference between one selection and the next was the unique colors they were given. Each color was meant to help the recruits identify the underlying taste profile of the food, but all seemed lifeless and drab.

  For Eli, the stuff was consumed for one reason only—sustenance. The joy of a good meal was what he missed most about his home on Waa. They grew real food there. Many of Earth’s native vegetables, fruits, and animals had been successfully transplanted to the new planet. Unfortunately, the terrain of Telgora was not quite so hospitable, and the logistics required to transport food to Telgora were enormous. As a result, 95 percent of their meals were a scientifically sustaining combination of processed nutrients, proteins, and thickening agents that were collectively referred to by the soldiers on Telgora as “slop.”

  Eli shook his head and began winding his way between tables.

  “Enjoying the daily lunch menu?” he asked as he dropped his tray next to Ellison. Ellison gave him a withered look and shoveled a significant forkful of the green muck into his mouth.

  “I swear,” Ellison replied, speaking around the large bite, “if Earth told potential recruits about this slop, no one would join the defense forces.”

  Eli chuckled. “I dunno. Benson seems to love the stuff.”

  “Yeah, but he’s a certified freak.”

  “Well, there is that,” Eli agreed as he took his first bite of the off-white patty that was meant to taste like potato. He didn’t taste potato, but the slightly bitter stickiness identified it as being from the starch family. He swallowed the bite and moved on to the green mush that the defense force substituted for green beans. All he could taste was slop.

  “Mind if we join you second platoon geeks?”

  Eli looked up to see Adrienne Tenney standing beside him. Standing behind her was Private Sims, the other Sift nominee from Third Platoon. He looked to Ellison, received an indifferent shrug, so he nodded and pointed to the seat next to him.

  “Sure, have a seat.”

  The two settled in at the table and silence filled the space as the four concentrated on the slop in front of them.

  “What, are we hanging out with the competition now?” Benson’s arrival broke the silence as he dropped his tray on the table in the space across from Tenney.

  “Is that what we are? Competition?” Tenney calmly placed her fork on her plate and focused her attention on the man across from her. Eli could sense the tension ratchet up a notch.

  “Of course,” Benson said, seemingly unaware that he was suddenly under Tenney’s internal microscope. “You’re in the Sift. We’re in the Sift. There’s only one commanding officer position available. We can’t all win it. Some of you guys will have to be my underlings.”

  “And you think a self-select has a chance at the CO position?” The question was posed in a calm tone, but it was meant to get a rise out of Benson. He hadn’t been nominated for the Sift by his peers or by the cadre, he had put himself into the mix. Eli watched the exchange and saw Benson’s face flushed suddenly with anger. Tenney’s words had struck their mark. Eli didn’t wait for Benson to reply.

  “Everyone has a chance,” he announced, anxious to defuse the mounting tension. “A large percentage of self-selects achieve top position, actually.”

  “Really?” Tenney and Benson asked at the same time. Benson seemed surprised, while Tenney seemed dubious of the announcement.

  “About one in four,” Eli stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “Apparently, those who possess the confidence to volunteer often possess the qualities that make them excellent leaders.” Eli did not add that it was just as likely to make them terrible candidates for the Sift. Statistically, a fourth of those who self-selected outperformed their peers. Another fourth did well enough to gain officer positions. The other half usually failed one or more of the selection criteria.

  Benson smiled and sat up straighter at the news. Tenney offered little more than a doubtful, muttered “huh.”

  “How is it that you know so much about the Sift, Jayson?” Sims asked from his position on the other side of Tenney.

  “Our good man, EJ, knows everything about the Alliance Defense Forces.” Benson’s overenthusiastic response launched tiny flecks of greenish paste across the table. One of the larger flecks landed just in front of Tenney’s plate, and she stared at the offending particle of slop for two seconds before redirecting her stare at Benson. “Oops. Sorry,” he offered meekly before continuing. “He’s a walking tree of knowledge when it comes to the military.”

  The table fell silent as all heads turned in Eli’s direction. Instead of meeting the looks, he put his head his head down and focused on the brown protein patty that was supposed to taste like beef. He carved a bite of the offending substance and popped it in his mouth. No way does this taste like beef.

  “I’ve been wondering about that,” a voice cut into the silence from behind Jayson.

  Crimsa.

  The self-select from Tenney’s platoon ambled around the table and claimed the last seat on the far side of Benson.

  Eli heard Sims, who was directly across from Crimsa, groan. Crimsa heard it as well, but just offered a slight smile to his peer before turning his attention back to Eli. Eli had the distinct im
pression Sims had just been acknowledged, then summarily dismissed from the other man’s consideration. Rude.

  “How is it that an orphan from Earth knows so much about this place? Or how is it that you always seem to know what the sergeants are going to do next? Or how is it that you can speak Minith? Huh? Can you tell me that, Private Jayson? Oh, and while you’re at it, maybe you can fill us in on where you obtained your weapons training? There’s more to you than what’s on the surface and I, for one, would like some answers. Who are you? Where are you from, and—most importantly—what secrets are you hiding?”

  Eli was surprised at the man’s garish audacity, and from the looks on the faces around him, the rest of the table felt the same. Although the recruits here had all—well, almost all—been raised as orphans, destined to enter the Defense Forces from the time they were small children, they were still from Earth. And Earth was still by and large a peace-loving world where most of the population lived in strict communities that prohibited all forms of violence and aggression. Twenty years earlier, Eli knew, a confrontation like the one Crimsa was fostering now would have classified him as someone to watch, a potential Violent. But not now. Things were beginning to change, and Eli felt somehow comforted by that fact. If they were to build an effective army, they needed to cast off the old chains that came with the unrelenting mantra of peace-above-all-else, and learn to defend themselves as a race. It was a struggle that had started with his father, and he had sworn years ago to carry the torch forward. Now was his time. And the time of those around him.

  He lifted his head from his “beef” and turned toward the man at the other end of the table. He looked directly into Crimsa’s eyes. “My secrets are my own, Crimsa,” he announced in a calm, steady voice that did not falter, did not waver. A cool rush of confidence and control swept through him as he locked eyes with the other man. “You’ll get answers if and when I decide to give them to you.”

  Eli looked at each of the recruits seated at the table, making eye contact with each in turn.

  “You all will. Until then, the best advice I can offer is to stay focused on the task in front of you. The Sift begins tomorrow, and make no mistake, we are competitors. But we aren’t competing against one another. We are competing for one another. Regardless of how we place in the Sift, we can’t move forward as individuals. We have to move forward as a team—a team that the rest of our company looks to for leadership.”

  Eli noted that all of their eyes were on him. Some were nodding, others just stared. They seemed to be taking in his words and weighing them for merit, which was all he could hope for at this moment. He didn’t know how they felt about their fellow soldiers, what they considered their chances were in the Sift, or how they might react should they win top position. All he knew was how he felt, and he did his best to express his thoughts. He lifted his chin and pointed to other, non-Sifted recruits seated around them.

  “They deserve the best leadership we can offer, so do your best in the days ahead. Regardless of how our positions land when the Sift is done, you all have my word that I will support you to the best of my abilities. If one of you becomes my CO, I’ll give you a hundred percent every day, and on every mission that comes our way. I will do so gladly, and without complaint. Hopefully, you’ll do the same for me if we find ourselves in those positions.”

  Eli returned his gaze to Crimsa so there was no question to whom his final words were directed.

  “But if you don’t—if you can’t—I won’t hesitate to put you in line, or put you out the door.”

  Without waiting for comment, Eli stood up and grabbed his tray. He dropped it on the recycle belt as he passed, and exited the mess hall. He had one thought on his mind as he left the others behind.

  Time to prepare.

  * * *

  Twigg paced the boundary of his office with an anger-fueled anxiousness he struggled to contain. The compulsive need to move when pondering serious issues was a trait of his race. Pacing served to increase the flow of purple blood across the brain, which in turn, triggered synaptic vesicles to release specific neurotransmitters that facilitated thought and planning. Not that anyone cared about the physiology of the process. For the most part, pacing was merely an unbidden instinctual need that couldn’t be ignored. For the Minith sergeant, the urge to pace was combined with a similarly strong desire to release the rage that had built up inside. He was compelled to pound something, and for the most part, it didn’t matter what. The walls, his desk, his fellow soldiers—they all seemed like potential targets. More than anything, though, he felt the overwhelming desire to search out and pummel Colonel Drah—the witless oaf who had lured him into the web of deceit where he now found himself hopelessly mired. For the past year, the highest ranking Minith on the planet had led him down a path of treachery and underhanded maneuvering that—at the time—had seemed almost reasonable. Keep as many humans out of the Defense Forces as possible. Fewer human soldiers meant a reduction of human power and influence. Over time, that reduction in power and influence would then lead to their being overthrown as the accepted leaders of the Shiale Alliance.

  But Twigg knew now that it had been a fool’s plan, destined to fail. Humans weren’t lesser beings, destined to one day fall to Minith domination. They had proved themselves time and again to be worthy soldiers and competent adversaries, deserving of a place beside the Minith. That had become evident twelve years earlier when they defeated the Minith on Earth, on Telgora, and on Waa.

  Twigg had been a soldier on Waa at the time and had seen firsthand how close the small human invading force had come to breaking through their lines to reach the governor’s palace. The tenacious aggression with which the outnumbered humans had fought, combined with their superior tactical maneuvering and equipment, had almost won the day.

  Drah, on the other hand, had been posted to some distant planet that hadn’t been engaged in any battles. It was one reason why the colonel had risen in the Minith chain of command while others, who had fought and lost—like Twigg—had not. His personal record had not been stained by a loss. That lack of stain was what fed Drah’s beliefs. He hadn’t faced humans and didn’t know their strengths. He saw only their weaknesses and likely still believed what all Minith had once believed . . . that humans were weak, nothing more than two-legged sheep, who belonged in a Minith-controlled flock.

  The sergeant thought about Private Jayson and wondered how Drah would fare against that particular “sheep” in the fighting ring. His lip curled into a smile at the thought. He had no doubt the colonel might rethink his stance after such an encounter. He recalled his own bout. The human, though smaller, was quick and well trained. He was the better fighter with a staff and Twigg held no illusion over what had happened during that bout. He had gotten lucky. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the blow he had received from the human would have landed him in the dirt, with a definite notch in the loss column. Somehow, he had managed to save himself and the win. He doubted he could do it again, the young human was that good. Then there was Jayson’s performance in the tower exercise . . .

  Twigg shook his head and stopped pacing. Despite Drah’s continued ranting to destroy Jayson in the Sift, Twigg knew that he could not. And he would have to prevent Brek and Krrp from following their instructions to do the same. It would mean an end to his career and his aspirations—Drah would see to that. But he had no choice. He was a Minith warrior. As such, he was driven by the established mores and ethos that accompanied that particular life-culture.

  The human had bested him. He had earned his respect, won his subordination. It was beyond his culture, beyond his honor as a Minith, to offer anything less than complete deference to the young private.

  Chapter 13

  The fourth day of the Sift trials began with a surprise for Eli. He and Tenney were neck-and-neck for top ranking, with him leading by only three points. His lead had been more than fifteen points the previous morning, which meant he had lost ground as a result of the militar
y knowledge testing. It was a surprise because he had considered that area of the trials to be one of his primary strengths. He wondered briefly if the last second switch of the tests by Sergeant Brek had anything to do with the results, and made a mental note to speak with Tenney or one of the others about their tests at morning chow. Although he considered himself an expert at military history and weapons, many of the questions he had been required to answer were so obscure, he doubted anyone without access to a data-link could have done better than average. It was interesting, to say the least.

  He turned away from the results—which the sergeants always posted while the recruits slept—just as two other recruits stepped forward to review them. He heard one mutter something about Crimsa and detected a hint of disappointment. Crimsa was doing well, just a few points behind Tenney, in third place. Apparently, those in third platoon who knew him weren’t exactly pleased. He made another mental note to ask Tenney or Sims about that as well. His own interactions with Crimsa hadn’t been overly positive, but the guy seemed to know his stuff, which Eli respected.

  The short trek to the mess hall took less than five minutes, and he fell into line. He looked across the room as he waited for the morning’s offering to be plopped onto his tray. He noted that Benson, Tenney, and Sims were already seated at the table that had become “theirs.” Ever since being entered into the Sift, the group—with the exception of Crimsa, who preferred his own company—gathered at the same table for each meal. It seemed that the other non-Sift recruits preferred the separation as much as they did, and he noted, not for the first time, that the separation of the company’s eventual officers from the enlisted had already commenced.