A Call to Arms

by Bradley Hutchinson

  James sighed, his gaze drifting to the bubbles in his champagne – they were rapidly bursting, popping into nothingness, just like their dreams.

  “So? We’re not at a crisis point yet, James, why the sudden urgency to sign up and throw your life – our life – away?”

  “I wouldn’t call it urgent,” he quietly said. “But I guess it’s for the same reason everyone else signs up in time of war. To protect their loved ones. To preserve civilisation.” He leaned forward, grabbing her hands in his and giving them an affectionate squeeze. “I don’t intend to run out and sign up tomorrow, Jen, or even next week, but I imagine it would have to be soon if things continue like this. I just wanted to… air it out, as something I’m seriously considering. I didn’t want to spring it on you.”

  “Oh, well that’s a relief,” Jennifer said sarcastically. She snatched her hands back as if James had suddenly become a leper, leaning back in her seat, her posture rigid and angry. She ran a hand over her face.

  “Basic training takes less than a year, Jen,” James said, trying to sound reassuring. “And even then, once it’s finished, you’re basically a Reservist – you actually have to request for an active duty deployment. I fully intend on remaining on Bastion… it just means I won’t have as much free time as I usually do.”

  Jennifer eyed him suspiciously, not at all convinced by the militia-based recruitment policy of the Navy. After all, if things were that bad, would you really entrust the defence of the realm to volunteers?

  Of course you wouldn’t, and she knows that eventually, the Navy will start enforcing active duty among its reserve personnel.

  “So if you’re not prepared to actually fight, James, why bother signing up at all?”

  “Because, one day, I may actually be needed to fight.” James shrugged fractionally. “But at this point, that sort of decision doesn’t need to be made… I’ll make it when it does need to be made.” He wasn’t being entirely honest, even to himself – he knew that, when the time came, he’d volunteer for active duty.

  Jennifer seemed to know that, too. He could see them in her eyes, her accusing stare.

  “Assuming they don’t make the decision for you,” she muttered, sighing. “You realise, if you offer to fight, you could be deployed for years at a time? And probably not here, at home, where I am, they’ll send you to the front.” She leaned forward, her voice a low growl. “You could die, James.”

  “I am aware of that possibility,” he said casually, trying to instil a sense of calm into the discussion. “You know I have a secure backup at the gene bank. They can always clone me… if something happens to me.”

  Jennifer sneered, rolling her eyes and waving his reassurance away. Like him, she’d never been overly comfortable with the idea of a re-life, much preferring the idea of the authentic original.

  “So, do we wait for you to come back before resuming our lives, or do I raise our kids on my own, and pray that daddy comes back and doesn’t die before he meets them?” The vitriol in her voice shouldn’t have surprised James, but it did. She was taking this harder than he thought she would… or perhaps harder than he hoped she’d take it.

  She came into this dinner expecting to have a family, so she’s bound to be a little muddy in her thinking now. James kept that to himself, though – a new warzone in the middle of a crowded restaurant wouldn’t be good for publicity.

  “That isn’t fair, Jen,” he snapped, rather forcefully. Jennifer cocked her head and gave him a sarcastic look. “Alright, so maybe it is.” He sighed resignedly. “If you don’t want me to go, or if you don’t think I should go, I won’t. I’m not so arrogant to believe that this war will hinge upon my fighting or not. I know I’m not that important. Not like there aren’t billions of others out there…”

  Jennifer was silent, staring into his eyes for long moments, the candlelight reflection dancing across her irises teasingly. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

  He nodded slowly. “Very. I’ve always believed in standing up for what I believe in – you know this. I count this… desire… as merely an extension of that belief. It would be… moral cowardice… for me to not do my best to defend what I believe in.”

  “You are so full of shit,” Jennifer chuckled, mocking his little speech, but she fell silent after that, her thoughts silencing her. She finally let out a pent-up sigh and nodded slowly, rather dejected and defeated.

  “Then go,” she said, trying to smile and not quite succeeding at the attempt. “And go with my blessing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Jennifer barked out a bitter laugh, looking to the ceiling as if for help. “Of course I’m not sure! But it’s what you want, it’s what you need to do. I know you, James, you’ll be miserable and frustrated until you get your way, and I don’t want to live with that sort of resentment. That will destroy our marriage.”

  He sighed. “If you want a divorce…”

  “You idiot,” she scoffed. “That would defeat the purpose of you going to war, wouldn’t it?” she asked savagely. “Fighting for those you love?” She finally did smile, genuinely. “If I change my mind, I’ll let you know.”

  Smirking, he cocked his head. “Well, it’s not like you’re the only one I love…” There was a slight bang, and James leaned forward to rub his shin in silence. They enjoyed the moment of mirth for all it was worth, savouring it as if it was their last.

  Which it could well be. James kept that thought to himself.

  “You know,” Jennifer said, finally breaking the silence, a mischievous glint in her eye, “I had thought, with Troy deciding to try and have a kid of his own, that you’d want to start your own family, too.” She looked at him pointedly.

  “That’s a rather shallow attempt to manipulate me, Jen,” James replied silkily, smirking a salute at her rather obvious attempt.

  She smiled back, unperturbed and unabashed. “Is it working?”

  “Maybe.”

  *

  “You’re really going through with this?”

  It was the next day, and both James and Troy were both nursing hangovers, as well as coffee, as the high noon sun filtered down onto their little spot on the balcony of James’ penthouse.

  Troy had posed the question to James, who was leaning back in the recliner lazily, his legs resting up against the railing on the balcony, his suit jacket wide open, scarlet tie looped over his right shoulder. The embodiment of taking it easy.

  “Well we haven’t made any decisions yet,” James said, sitting in a more upright fashion, dressed in slacks and a plain shirt. “One way or the other.” He hesitated, frowning. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

  “Not the kids,” Troy said, his hair rippling a fiery red before he got it under control, even as he eyed James suspiciously. “Jen told me about you wanting to join the Navy. That doesn’t sound like my little brother, far too much violence in a war for James Hunter, protector of life and liberty.”

  “I’ve been a prosecutor for years, Troy. I’ve seen lots of violent things that no person should have to ever see. These are violent times, Troy.” James paused, collecting his thoughts and taking a calming breath. “But by fighting, I hope to save lives, preserve liberty.”

  “That’s a cliché, and you know how I feel about cliché’s, Jim.” Troy offered a little sigh as his gaze veered away from James, out over the balcony. “We already have people more than willing to fight, and who are probably better at it than you. Our family hasn’t had a soldier in it since humans set foot on Mars.” He crossed his legs and leaned heavily back into the recliner, craning his neck to look over his feet. “Are you going to become an officer?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  Troy shrugged casually. “You just don’t strike me as someone who will take orders very well, James. You never have… and I don’t think you ever will. You’re a completely independent individual.”

  James digested that little nugget for a few seconds in silence as he gazed o
ut over the city-scape. “Well, I suppose I could do the Officer Training Program once I get past Basic…”

  Troy growled, vexed. “You’re no soldier, James. You never have been. None of us are. We have a problem with someone, we sue them. That’s our way! Why are you so intent on being a… a… hero?”

  “Did you ask that of Sarah when she joined?”

  Sarah was James’ only sister, second-born to Patrick Hunter and his first wife in 2336. Despite being a prominent businesswoman – albeit just another cog in the family empire – she had enlisted as soon as the war broke out, her sense of duty as strong as James’, only with no attachments to stop her – when she’d signed up her youngest child was in his mid-teens.

  Troy waved dismissively, sneering. “Who knows why our sister does anything,” he grumped. “Sarah’s been trying to find something to rally against all her life, the N’xin are the perfect targets for her… better them than us, I say.”

  James couldn’t say he agreed with that assessment, but chose not to pursue it. “That may be so, but I’m not trying to be a hero, Troy. Wars don’t need heroes. But they need soldiers… and patriots.”

  Troy rolled his eyes, returning his attention to the sky above them. Long seconds passed between then. “Are you implying I’m not a patriot?”

  “Not at all, but I think you’re woefully naïve to be passing judgement on me.”

  “Funny,” Troy said, eying James off again with a single eyeball. “I was going to say the same about you.” There was another loud silence between the brothers that seemed to last a small eternity, until Troy finally asked: “So, are you and Jen going to start a family of your own?”

  James shrugged awkwardly, then realized that Troy probably couldn’t see the motion properly. “We’re not going to try and stop Jen from getting pregnant,” he elaborated quietly. “So… I guess we’ll see how the cards fall as time goes on. We’re not in a rush.”

  “Yet,” Troy muttered. “But if Jen’s maternal instinct is kicking in, you better be sure you don’t rain on her parade, James. You know how women can be when they’re scorned.”

  James smiled. “I do know that… curious how you do, though.” He looked over at Troy, arching an eyebrow. “What about you? How are you going to beat millions of years of human evolution and push out a kid?”

  Troy grinned mischievously. “I haven’t quite worked that part out yet. But there are always… possibilities.”

  Chapter Two

  “Impressive, Mr. Hunter, most impressive… you almost set a new record.” Commander Malcolm Brady hit the datapad he was holding against the palm of his hand as he cast a wary gaze in James’ direction. “Barely two seconds off the old record, which was made back in ‘95.” He held out a hand, and James deftly surrendered his training pistol, a standard-issue M-24J.

  “What was our accuracy like?”

  “On that, your squad did set a record. You were one hit off an even ninety percent. You eclipsed the old record by nearly a whole percent… that head-shot by Ms. O’Donnell will be going into the training manual, I think.”

  “It was a lucky shot,” Caitlyn O’Donnell muttered, her rustic Irish accent a stark contrast to the more urban-like accents employed by most Bastion natives. James smiled at her – she was always a modest one, despite being one of the best snipers on the base. “Well it was,” she insisted.

  “Dismissed,” Brady said, waving them off.

  A minute later, James was back into his usual fatigues, leading his squad as they strolled out of the simulator, basically an enormous cube-shaped room that could house nine vehicles with ease. Dotted with holographic projectors and every sensor instrument known to the Commonwealth, the Virtual Combat Simulator – a military version of the same Virtual Crime-Scene Analysis Unit – was the closet you could get to real combat, without actually being in serious danger.

  Introduced almost two centuries earlier, the technology had eliminated the need to put trainees at risk in live-fire situations – despite the realism of the VCS, it was only mildly dangerous, and even then, usually due to human error. There hadn’t been a death during a training exercise in nearly a century, and injuries tended to be minor and easily treated by a medic on-site.

  “Y’know, if not for your having come back to save me, you’d have shaved half a minute off that record.”

  James glanced down at his deputy, Kathleen Nicholson, a woman of below-average height, strawberry-blonde hair, and above-average intelligence. A chef by trade, she’d opted to put her rather fiery temper to better use than a frying pan, and had done her Basic training alongside James, getting into Officer Candidate school with him.

  “When I got here, I tried to make it my policy to not to leave people behind,” James admitted, aware of just how clichéd that sounded. “Even in sims.” He looked back at their troupe and waved them off. “Dismissed. See you at 1800.”

  As he watched them file out in groups of two or three, each making for various exits, it struck him how odd it felt to have authority over people. As a prosecutor, James was simply a cog in a big machine, with people under him, next to him, and above him. The same was true here, in the military… only it wasn’t. The stakes were bigger, the responsibility bigger…

  Maybe it’s because the stakes are much higher now. The simulated environment was so real it was extremely easy to forget that it was fake – the sights, the sounds… the scent of burning, of ozone… It’s difficult doing this in a training capacity.

  His mind flashed back to his brush with death in Menacor, supressing a shiver down his spine. He still woke up in the middle of the night, paralysed with fear, frequently believing that destruction was going to rain down upon his head without any warning.

  “That’s such a lame excuse, James, and you know it.” Kathleen laughed, a harsh cackle, and it grounded him back to reality. “So, if we do this test again, you’ll sacrifice the record again to save me?”

  “Not if you’re going to mock me with that attitude,” James said archly, and then faltered. Squad Leader Gordon Malcangio was approaching from the other side of the atrium, his own squad – Squad 128 – clustered in around him like a protective shield. “This could be trouble.”

  “Could be?” Kathleen murmured softly, her tone regretful. “Count on it.”

  “So, even with all your freakish genetic enhancements, you still can’t beat the time my dad set thirty years ago?” Malcangio launched the opening salvo without even stopping, his voice carrying like a roll of impotent thunder.

  Being a full head shorter than James, with a crew-cur of fair hair and narrow, menacing brown eyes, Malcangio was from a farming community on the far side of Bastion, a region of the planet that was barely developed – in some ways, it was as wild and untamed as Mid-Western America at the turn of the 20th Century. It was as far removed from the high society of the Citadel as you could get on the planet.

  “I can go back if you like and try again,” James gritted out, his eyes narrowing as his right fist clenched involuntarily.

  “Nah, it’s okay Hunter, we wouldn’t want you to work too hard. Looks like you struggled as it is, and we wouldn’t want you to stain your Versace suits with sweat.”

  “Fuck you, Malcangio,” Kathleen spat, staring daggers at the man. An African-American woman originally from New Orleans, Kathleen had originally been assigned as a deputy to Malcangio, but their differing backgrounds and personality clashes had been frequent, and resulted in more than one significant confrontation, prompting Kathleen’s transfer to James’ squad.

  James had welcomed her experience and dedication, though the increased resentment thrown his way from Malcangio had disturbed him – a month earlier, team-building exercise, orchestrated by the command staff, had back-fired spectacularly, and the working relationship between Hunter’s squad and the 128th had deteriorated even more.

  Malcangio looked at Kathleen, as if seeing her for the first time, his lip curling back in a vicious sneer. “Was I talking to you, you s
tupid bit–”

  James took a step forward menacingly, and felt a sense of satisfaction as the smaller man flinched instinctively. “Watch it, Gordon, or I’ll train some of these genetic enhancements on kicking your head in.”

  “Fancy words, coming from a guy who’s been designed to be the best at everything… and still can’t manage it.”

  James sighed inwardly. He wasn’t hearing anything knew, after all; although seldom encountered, resentment towards the Hunter’s wasn’t unheard of, even on Bastion – and even then, most antipathy directed towards the Hunter’s came from people who were relatively new to the planet, and its culture, which was steadfastly libertarian in nature.

  He shrugged. “Those are still two things that your family will never have... especially if you’re the best their gene pool can spit out.”

  “Gordon, no!” Gordon’s deputy – Tony Azzapardi, a hulking bear of a man who was a good six inches taller than James – snapped as he held the belligerent squad leader at bay. “Just let it go, Gordon.”

  Malcangio somehow shrugged his deputy off, letting out a harrumph as he took a step towards James. James’ adrenaline was pumping, but he stayed his ground, content to let the smaller man throw the first punch; although James had never ever been in a physical altercation – the same for which could not be said for Gordon Malcangio) – he was confident he could take the smaller man on. After all, I didn’t spend a small fortune on all those cybernetic and genetic enhancements to lose to a push-over like Gordon.

  “One day, Hunter, one day…”

  He swore loudly and profusely, and stalked off past James, who watched him implacably as the 128th entered the simulator. He wasn’t worried – the 128th was mediocre in just about every metric, their only saving grace being consistency and a strong team-ethic. James was so confident his accuracy rating would hold that he was almost smug about it.

  No, actually, I am smug about it. The revelation threatened to embarrass him, but it never really found a perch in him – after all, his accomplishment was something to take pride in. Even so, he felt his cheeks flush a little – James usually loathed smugness – it was the main source of friction between him and some of his siblings, particularly Troy, who was often both smug and arrogant.