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Decision Point (ARC)

Page 43

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt


  own anything up here, so gift-giving isn’t exactly easy. Can’t get

  on the nets and order stuff to be shipped up here, all gift-

  wrapped. But gifts don’t have to be toys and stuff. What I gave

  Flip here, the gift that got us in so much trouble, was a poem.”

  “Oh how sweet,” said the Brit. “A love poem?”

  In answer, Flip recited it. Blushing, of course, because the

  joke was on him. But also loving it—because the joke was on

  him.

  Dink could see that a lot of them thought it was cool to have

  a toon leader write a satirical poem about one of his soldiers. It

  really was a gift.

  “And just to prove that we aren’t celebrating actual

  Christmas,” said Dink, “let’s just give each other whatever gifts

  we think of on any day at all in December. It can be Hannukah.

  It can be … hell, it can be Sinterklaas Day, can’t it? The day is

  still young.”

  “If Dink would give us all a gift,” intoned the Jamaican kid,

  “that would give our hearts a lift.”

  “Oh how sweet,” said the Brit.

  “Crazy Tom thinks everything’s sweet,” said the Canadian,

  “except for Tom’s own mold-covered feet.”

  Most of them laughed.

  “Was that supposed to be a present?” said Crazy Tom.

  “Father Christmas is doing a substandard job this year.”

  “It would be pleasant to get a present,” said Wiggin.

  Everybody laughed a little. Wiggin went on. “It would be better

  to get a letter.”

  Only a few people chuckled at that. Then they were all quiet.

  “That’s the only gift I want,” said Wiggin softly. “A letter

  from home. If you can give me that, I’m with you.”

  “I can’t,” said Dink, now just as serious as Wiggin. “They’ve

  cut us off from everything. The best I can do is this: At home you

  know your family’s doing Santa stuff. Hanging up stockings,

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  right? You’re American, right?”

  Wiggin nodded.

  “Hang up your stocking this year, Wiggin, and you’ll get

  something in it.”

  “Coal,” said Crazy Tom, the Brit.

  “I don’t know what it is yet,” said Dink, “but it’ll be there.”

  “It won’t really be from them,” said Wiggin.

  “No, it won’t,” said Dink. “It’ll be from Santa Claus.” He

  grinned.

  Wiggin shook his head. “Don’t do it, Dink,” he said. “It’s not

  worth the trouble it’ll cause.”

  “What trouble? It’ll build morale.”

  “We’re here to study war,” said Wiggin.

  Zeck whispered: “Study war no more.”

  “Are you still here, Zeck?” said Dink, then pointedly turned

  his back on him. “We’re here to build an army, Wiggin. A group

  of men who work together as one. Not a bunch of kids hammered

  down by teachers who think they can erase ten thousand years of

  human history and culture by making a rule.”

  Wiggin looked away and said, sadly, “Do what you want,

  Dink.”

  “I always do,” answered Dink.

  “The only gift that God respects,” said Zeck, “is a broken

  heart and a contrite spirit.”

  A lot of kids groaned at that, but Dink gave Zeck one last

  look. “And when were you ever contrite?”

  “Contrition,” said Zeck, “is a gift I give to God, not to you.”

  Only then did Zeck walk away, back toward his bed, where he’d

  be hidden behind the curvature of the barracks room.

  *

  Rat Army was only a small percentage of the population of

  Battle School, but word spread quickly. The other armies began

  picking it up as a joke. Someone would pick up some scrap of

  leftover food and drop it on someone else’s meal tray, saying,

  “There you are, from Santa with love.” And everybody at the

  table would laugh.

  But even as a joke, it was a gift, wasn’t it? Santa Claus was

  giving gifts all over Battle School within days.

  It was more than just gifts. It was stockings. Nobody could

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  say who started it, but after a while it seemed that the giving of

  every gift was accompanied by a stocking. Rolled up, hidden

  inside something else, but always a stocking. Nobody hung the

  stocking up in hopes of getting it filled, of course. It was the other

  way around—the stockings were being given as part of the gift.

  And the recipient of the stocking found a way to wear it,

  whether it fit or not. Dangling from a sleeve. On a foot, but not

  matched with the other sock. Inside a flash suit. Sticking out of

  a pocket. Just for a day, the sock was worn, and then it was given

  back. It was the stocking more than the words now that said, This

  is from Santa Claus.

  The stockings were needed, because what were the gifts? A

  few were poems, written on paper. Some of them were food

  scraps. As the days passed, however, more and more of the gifts

  took the form of favors. Tutoring. Extra practice time in the

  Battle Room. A bed that was already made when somebody came

  back from the showers. Showing somebody how to get to a

  hidden level in one of the video games.

  Even when it wasn’t a tangible gift, there was the stocking to

  make it real.

  Father was right, thought Zeck. The parents of these children

  put the lie of Santa in their hearts, and now it bears fruits. Liars,

  all of them, giving gifts as homage to the Father of Lies. Zeck

  could hear his father’s voice in his memory: “He will answer

  their prayers with the ashes of sin in their mouths, with the poison

  of atheism and unbelief in the plasma of their blood.” These

  children were not believers—not in Christ, and not in Santa

  Claus. They knew they served a lie. If only they could see that

  when you do charity in the name of Satan it turns to sin. The

  devil cannot do good.

  Zeck tried to go see Colonel Graff, but he was stopped by a

  Marine in the corridor. “Do you have an appointment with the

  commandant of Battle School?”

  “No, sir,” said Zeck.

  “Then whatever you have to say, say it to your counselor. Or

  one of the teachers.”

  The teachers were no help. Few of them would talk to him

  anymore. They’d say, “Is this about algebra? No? Then tell it to

  somebody else, Zeck.” The words of Christ had long since worn

  out their welcome in this place.

  The counselor did listen—or at least sat in a room with him

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  while he talked. But it came to nothing.

  “So what you’re telling me is that the other students are being

  kind to each other, and you want it stopped.”

  “They’re doing it in the name of Santa Claus.”

  “What, exactly, has anyone done to you—in the name of

  Santa Claus?”

  “Nothing to me, personally, but—”

  “So you’re complaining because they’re being
kind to other

  people and not to you?”

  “Because it’s in the name of—”

  “Santa Claus, I see. Do you believe in Santa Claus, Zeck?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Believe in Santa Claus. Do you think there’s really a jolly

  fat guy in a red suit who brings gifts?”

  “No.”

  “So Santa Claus isn’t part of your religion.”

  “That’s exactly my point. It’s part of their religion.”

  “I’ve asked. They say it isn’t religion at all. That Santa Claus

  is merely a cultural figure shared by many of the cultures of

  Earth.”

  “It’s part of Christmas,” insisted Zeck.

  “And you don’t believe in Christmas.”

  “Not the way most people celebrate it, no.”

  “What do you believe in?”

  “I believe Jesus Christ was born, probably not in December

  at all anyway, and he grew up to be the Savior of the world.”

  “No Santa Claus.”

  “No.”

  “So Santa Claus isn’t part of Christmas.”

  “Of course he’s part of Christmas,” said Zeck. “For most

  people.”

  “Just not for you.”

  Zeck nodded.

  “All right, I’ll talk about this to my superiors,” said the

  counselor. “Do you want to know what I think? I think they’re

  going to tell me it’s just a fad, and they’re going to let it run itself

  out.”

  “In other words, they’re going to let them keep doing it as

  long as they want.”

  “They’re children, Zeck. Not many of them are as tenacious

  as you. They’ll lose interest in it and it will go away. Have

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  patience. Patience isn’t against your religion, is it?”

  “I refuse to take offense at your sarcasm.”

  “I wasn’t being sarcastic.”

  “I can see that you also are a true son to the Father of Lies.”

  And Zeck got up and left.

  “I’m glad you didn’t take offense,” the counselor called after

  him.

  There would be no recourse to authority, obviously. Not

  directly, anyway.

  Instead, Zeck went to several of the Arab students, pointing

  out that the authorities were allowing a Christian custom to be

  openly practiced. From the first few, he heard the standard litany:

  “Islam has renounced rivalry between religions. What they do is

  their business.”

  But Zeck was finally able to get a rise out of a Pakistani kid

  in Bee Army. Not that Ahmed said anything positive. In fact, he

  looked completely uninterested, even hostile. Yet Zeck knew

  that he had struck a nerve. “They say Santa Claus isn’t religious.

  He’s national. But in your country, is there any difference? Is

  Muhammed—”

  Ahmed held up one hand and looked away. “It is not for you

  to say the prophet’s name.”

  “I’m not comparing him to Santa Claus, of course,” said

  Zeck. Though in fact Zeck had heard his father call Muhammed

  “Satan’s imitation of a prophet,” which would make Santa and

  Muhammed pretty well parallel.

  “You have said enough,” said Ahmed. “I’m done with you.”

  Zeck knew that Ahmed had gotten along well enough in

  Battle School. Their home countries were powerless to insist on

  religious privileges, so the children in Battle School had been

  granted exemptions from the obligations of Muslims to pray. But

  what would he do now that the Christians were getting their

  Santa Claus? Pakistan had been formed as a Muslim country.

  There was no distinction between what was national and what

  was Muslim.

  It apparently took Ahmed two days to organize things,

  especially because it was impossible to ascertain at any given

  time which earthside timezone they were in—or directly

  above—and therefore what times they should pray. They

  couldn’t even find out what time it was in Mecca and use that

  schedule.

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  So Ahmed and other Muslim students apparently worked it

  out so that they would pray during times when they were not in

  class, and would continue to use the exemption for those students

  who were in an actual battle at a prayer time.

  The result was a demonstration of piety at breakfast. At first

  it seemed only a half-dozen Muslims were involved, the students

  prostrating themselves and facing—not Mecca, which would

  have been impossible—but to portside, which faced the sun.

  But once the praying began, other Muslim students took note

  and at first a few, then more and more, joined in the praying.

  Zeck sat at the table, eating without conversation with his

  supposed comrades in Rat Army. He pretended not to notice or

  care, but he was delighted. Because Dink grasped the meaning

  almost at once. The prayer was a Muslim response to Dink’s

  Santa Claus campaign. There was no way the commandant could

  ignore this.

  “So maybe it’s a good thing,” Dink murmured to Flip, who

  was sitting next to him.

  Zeck knew it was not a good thing. Muslims had renounced

  terrorism many years ago, after the disastrous Sunni-Shiite war,

  and had even reconciled with Israel and made common economic

  cause. But everyone knew how much resentment still seethed

  within the Muslim world, with many Muslims believing they

  were treated unfairly by the Hegemony. Everyone knew of the

  imams and ayatollahs who claimed, loudly, that what was needed

  was not a secular Hegemony, but a Caliph to unify the world in

  worship of God. “When we live by Sharia, God will protect us

  from these monsters. When God sends a warning, we are wise to

  listen. Instead, we do the opposite, and God will not protect us

  when we are in rebellion against him.”

  It was language Zeck understood. Apart from their religious

  delusions, they had the courage of their faith. They were not

  afraid to speak up. And they had numbers enough to force people

  to listen to them. They would be heard by those who had long

  since stopped even pretending to listen to Zeck.

  The next prayer time was at the end of lunch. The Muslims

  had spread the word, and all those who intended to pray lingered

  in the mess hall. Zeck had already heard that the same thing

  happened in the commanders’ mess at breakfast, but now most

  of the Muslim commanders had come into the main mess hall to

  join their soldiers in prayer.

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  Colonel Graff came into the mess hall just before the

  announced time of prayer.

  “Religious observance in Battle School is forbidden,” he said

  loudly. “Muslims have been granted an exemption from the

  requirement of daily prayers. So any Muslim student who insists

  on a public display of religious rituals will be disciplined, and

  any commanders or toon leaders who take part will immediately

&nbs
p; and permanently lose their rank.”

  Graff had already turned to leave when Ahmed called out,

  “What about Santa Claus?”

  “As far as I know,” said Graff, “there is no religious ritual

  associated with Santa Claus, and Santa Claus has not been

  sighted here in Battle School.”

  “Double standard!” shouted Ahmed, and several others

  echoed him.

  Graff ignored him and left the mess hall.

  The door had not closed when two dozen Marines came

  through the door and stationed themselves around the room.

  When the time for prayer came, Ahmed and several others

  immediately prostrated themselves. Marines came to them,

  forced them to their feet, and handcuffed them. The Marine

  lieutenant looked around the room. “Anyone else?”

  One more soldier lay down to pray; he was also handcuffed.

  No one else defied them. Five Muslims were taken from the

  room. Not roughly, but not all that gently, either.

  Zeck turned his attention back to his food.

  “This makes you happy, doesn’t it?” whispered Dink.

  Zeck turned a blank face toward him.

  “You did this,” said Dink softly.

  “I’m a Christian. I don’t tell Muslims when to pray.” Zeck

  regretted speaking as soon as he finished. He should have

  remained silent.

  “You’re not a good liar, Zeck,” said Dink. And now he was

  talking loud enough that the rest of the table could hear. “Don’t

  get me wrong, I think it’s one of your best points—you’re used

  to telling the truth, so you never learned the skill of telling lies.”

  “I don’t lie,” said Zeck.

  “Your words were literally true, I’m sure. Our Muslim

  friends did not consult you on the timetable. But as an answer to

  my accusation that you did this, it was such a pathetically

  obvious lie. A dodge. If you really had nothing to do with it, you

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  wouldn’t have needed a dodge. You answered like someone with

  something to hide.”

  This time Zeck said nothing.

  “You think this will help your chances of getting out of Battle

  School. Maybe you even think it will disrupt Battle School and

  hurt the war effort—which makes you a traitor, from one point

  of view, or a hero of Christianity, from another. But you won’t

  stop this war, and you won’t hurt Battle School in the long run.

 

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