by Sara King
“Then you’re in the wrong place, stupid,” Monk said. “We’re gonna be soldiers.”
Looking at her excited face, Joe doubted Monk knew what a soldier was. None of them did. Because they were kids and they should be playing jacks and chasing butterflies and building tree-forts, not trapped on an alien ship, learning about war.
Once again, as one of the only ones in the whole room who truly understood what the aliens had in store for them, Joe felt the weight of responsibility suffocating him.
As his five groundmates argued the merits of soldiering, Joe suddenly felt ancient—an old man in a room full of children. This wasn’t fair. They were just kids. He wanted to run up to someone who would listen and scream at them that this wasn’t supposed to happen to kids.
A few minutes later, everyone’s heads snapped around when Commander Tril suddenly shouted, “Now you’ve eaten, get out! Head back to the gym! Run!”
Joe snatched up Maggie and they ran. Back in Battlemaster Nebil’s care, they joined the exhausted, sweaty-faced losers for three hours of physical exercise. By the time Nebil was finished with them and sent them back to their barracks room, the entire platoon looked like zombies, and everyone was too tired to cry.
CHAPTER 5: Early Balding
“You should have let me kill him.”
The officers’ hall fell silent at his words. Everyone had taken off the hated translation devices and had been engaged in the first real Ooreiki conversation they’d managed to enjoy since the choosing process began. Now they waited, every sudah fluttering in silent anticipation of Kihgl’s next words.
Very slowly, Kihgl put down his meal and wiped his mouth. “Kill who, Commander Tril?” he asked, taking entirely too long to look up at him. Almost as if he were bored.
Tril scowled at his superior. Kihgl was a soot-loving furg. The bureaucrats had given him too much credit for his battle record. Anyone who looked him in the sudah could see he wasn’t worthy of a brigade.
“You said yourself Lagrah planned on killing him,” Tril continued. “Why else take him onto the ship? He’s too old for our needs. The food is designed for younger recruits. It will wreak havoc on his system. Why spare him?”
“I changed my mind, Small Commander Tril,” Kihgl said in that same, even, unhurried tone. “It is not your place to question me.”
Hearing that, from a vkala still bearing the scars of his shame, made Tril’s sudah speed up in anger. “Just as it wasn’t your place to defy Lagrah?” he demanded, knowing that, as a yeeri, Tril’s position would be heard amongst the other castes.
No one, however, raised a voice to support him. In fact, if anything, the others in the room seemed to be glaring at him. Commander Linin was carefully picking at his plate, looking like he wanted to sink out of sight. He could feel Battlemaster Nebil’s ancient eyes on him, filled with disdain. His skin prickling, Tril ignored the aging Ooreiki. The furg had been a Prime Commander several times, only to keep getting repeatedly demoted to battlemaster just as soon as he gained a regiment of his own. Incompetents and jenfurglings. He was surrounded by them.
Holding his gaze, Kihgl gave him a long, cold glance. “I defied no one, Commander. I claimed a child slated for execution, as was my right. Commander Lagrah himself backed me.”
Tril switched tactics. “He’s a troublemaker—we knew that when Lagrah took him aboard. Next time he creates problems for us, we should get rid of him. It would give us back the respect we lost when we didn’t kill him.”
“He’s a recruit now, Commander Tril,” Battlemaster Nebil barked. “Protected by Congressional law. He was entrusted to our care.” He looked him up and down, his pale brown eyes raking over him in pure disdain. “You would break the founding principles of our society to save face?”
A couple Ooreiki in the hall snickered and Tril felt his sudah flutter. “The Human lost all fear of us when I didn’t shoot him,” he retorted. “I saw it this afternoon, when I confronted one of his recruits who wasn’t eating.”
“Technically, making his recruits eat is his responsibility, Tril,” Kihgl reminded him. “It is not your place to interfere.”
Frustrated, Tril slapped a hand to the table. “Give me control of the modifier, sir. He will not respect us until—”
“Speaking of respect, Tril,” Kihgl interrupted calmly, “I hear you took over the class after I specifically gave it to Nebil. Did you not respect my decision? Or was it Lagrah’s personal order, commissioning me as Second Brigade’s secondary commander, you did not respect? Or perhaps you simply have no respect for my authority as your commanding officer. What is it, exactly, that you failed to respect?”
Tril’s eyes dropped to the seven-pointed star on Kihgl’s chest and he could feel the heavy silence that followed suffocate the room like it had been stuffed with sand, the only sounds the whispers of his sudah as they fluttered in his neck. Sputtering, he said, “Of course I respect your decisions. Battlemaster Nebil was rambling. We were under a time constraint, and I decided I needed to cut him off before another battalion arrived to train.”
“Battlemaster Nebil, were you rambling?”
“Not that I was aware of, sir,” Battlemaster Nebil replied, the ancient Ooreiki’s sudah absolutely still. Tril scowled at him.
Turning back to face him, Kihgl said, “He says he wasn’t rambling.”
Faced with the cold disapproval of his secondary commander, Tril swallowed. “Perhaps my…perceptions…were off. I do respect your decisions, sir.”
“Then you will respect my decision to keep the modifier.”
Frustration tightened Tril’s every inner fiber. Never before had he experienced a vkala who did not bow to a yeeri’s greater station when it came to decisions of politics. Glaring, he growled, “You had the bad grace to put him in my company. The least you can do is give me adequate means of controlling him.”
“Nebil did not seem to have a problem controlling him,” Kihgl noted.
Tril’s sudah took off in his shame, becoming whirring blurs in his neck. “But I was the one with the gun, Kihgl,” he insisted. “I was the one who failed to shoot him at the ceremony. Our scientists have consistently reported that the Human psyche is extremely primitive. If I don’t reassert my authority, he will create more trouble within my company. Commander, you must allow me the tools I need to control my troops.”
From across the table, Battlemaster Nebil gave him a flat look. “I was under the impression that the essence of becoming a small commander was demonstrating a marked ability to lead.”
Tril bristled. “Careful, Nebil, or I shall have you thrown to the Dhasha for insubordination.”
Battlemaster Nebil laughed. “Oh, you can try it, boy.”
Tril’s mouth fell open at his subordinate’s blatant disregard for his station. Not only was Nebil a battlemaster, not even a commander—which should’ve meant he wasn’t even technically supposed to be at the damn table—but he was wriit. A worker caste. That he dared to speak to Tril in such a manner without even the military ranking system to back him left Tril stunned.
In the long silence that followed, none of the others coming to Tril’s defense, Battlemaster Nebil—the only battlemaster allowed in the officer’s hall—looked him up and down lazily. “You make me wonder if you gained those points on your star from running errands for a Corps Director and not by proving your merits in battle.”
Tril had to contain his fury. “I fought for every rank. I did not have the advantage of being a vkala.” He cast a disgusted look at Kihgl.
Battlemaster Nebil’s eyes hardened. “Tril, you are blind.”
Tril ignored the wriit, speaking to Kihgl, now. “You were recruit battlemaster in training. Two turns later, you were sent to Planetary Ops after only five turns in service. Should I question your ties to Commander Lagrah back then? He was an Overseer then, wasn’t he? Two vkala must find each other companionable in a world filled with higher castes.”
Kihgl’s pupils tightened in anger. “Take a lesson from Battlema
ster Nebil,” he said. “Learn to control your company with approved means or I’ll be forced to find you a less challenging task.”
Outraged, Tril stood, feeling the eyes of every Ooreiki in the room. Their sudah were fluttering too quickly—they laughed at him.
A vkala, in front of everyone, had dared to threaten him. A yeeri. At first, Tril wanted to come across the table and grab Kihgl by the throat.
Putting every ounce of willpower into controlling his fury, Tril said, “This will be your mistake, Commander. Not mine.” Then, before Kihgl had a chance to respond, he turned and stalked from the room.
Loudly at his back, Kihgl called, “Be sure you are prepared for your first class at 02:30.” As if Tril were still a niish that needed to be reminded such things. His sudah fluttered madly as he strode from the room.
Fuming, Tril returned to his quarters to prepare for his lecture. He should have known they would favor Kihgl. After all, out of all twenty-one of the Ooreiki overseeing the training of Sixth Battalion, only Tril himself had not served with Kihgl sometime in the past. Of course they would side with Kihgl. He was much loved. Despite however much truth Tril’s arguments held, he would always be an unknown to them.
#
After forcing the recruits to shower in a noxious chamber that reeked of alcohol fumes, Battlemaster Nebil sent them to a dark, amphitheater-style classroom.
A dark-skinned, orangish Ooreiki greeted them once they were settled. Joe felt a queasiness in his gut when he realized which alien it was.
“Hello. Oonnai. I am Small Commander Tril, two ranks under Secondary Commander Kihgl.” He touched the five-pointed silver star on his chest with a tentacle. “You can tell our rank by these symbols. Ground leaders have a stripe, squad leaders have a triangle, battlemasters have a four-pointed star, small commanders a five-pointed star, and so on, all the way to Prime Commander Lagrah, whose star has eight points. From there, we get into Overseers and Directors, who you will not see until you get out of training. Soon we will give ground leaders their recruit rankings. Each ground leader will get a stripe, but recruits do not get the circle surrounding it until you graduate. The circle signifies your acceptance into the Army, and until you earn it, even the ten recruits we choose as recruit battlemasters will be outranked by the youngest grounder one day out of graduation. Do you all understand?”
Joe stiffened, realizing that Tril’s translator had been turned off and the alien had somehow been able to form perfect English from his big, tongueless mouth. Hearing the utterly clean, human-sounding voice come out of the alien’s fat face gave Joe goosebumps. It made him wonder how long the aliens had been in space before their attack, studying them.
“I’m a linguist with the Ooreiki Ground Force, Seventh Galactic Unit,” Tril continued. “Usually I work as a personal interrogator for a Corps Director, but right now I have the pleasure of teaching you youngsters to speak the Universal Language of Congress, affectionately called Congie.” Commander Tril’s eyes caught on Joe and an unmistakable look of irritation crossed his wrinkled alien face before he looked away again.
“Take this, for instance.” An image of a wingless dragon flashed on the screen behind Commander Tril. It was breathtaking, with rainbow scales that shone like gems and black talons jutting from its stubby feet like polished scythes. It was in the process of ripping a spaceship to pieces. “This,” Tril said, turning from Joe and jabbing a tentacle at the picture, “is a kreenit. If there’s any word you’ll need to know to save your life, it will be this one. Everyone please repeat after me. Kree-nit.”
Everyone repeated the word immediately, since Tril had beaten four children bloody that afternoon for being slow. When they were done, Joe raised his arm.
Tril ignored him.
Another kid on the other end of the room raised his hand.
“Yes?” Tril asked. “Kkee?”
Joe lowered his hand, glaring.
“Are you trying to say that dragon’s real?” the kid asked.
“Very real. You’ll learn more about them in your Species Recognition classes.”
“It’s tearing apart a spaceship?” another kid blurted.
“They’re notorious for that,” Tril said, wrinkling the skin over his head in what Joe recognized as his first look at an Ooreiki smile. “Sometimes they manage to shatter their collars, and when they do, even the Dhasha fear them.”
Shatter their collars? Joe frowned down at the blue band of metal, wondering how much force it would take. Probably enough to pulverize his leg afterwards.
Tril was still answering questions, looking amused. Joe watched him closely, a little envious. He didn’t seem to hate the other kids. Just Joe.
“What are Dhasha?” someone asked.
Commander Tril turned to glance at her. “Commander Linin will teach you more about different species. It is my job to teach you to speak Congie.” Tril switched the image on the screen to a chart. “You Humans are uniquely talented in that you’re natural linguists. If you look at the chart, you’ll see how the different language sounds break down according to ability. Whereas most Congressional species can only physically pronounce seventy-five percent of the Universal language, you Humans can learn to pronounce all of it. Thus, I have a feeling many of you will be joining me as interpreters instead of scrambling down tunnels.”
Tunnels? Joe’s heart palpitated uncertainly. Did he say tunnels? Immediately, his skin grew clammy and his palms started to sweat. Joe hated tunnels. He couldn’t even crawl through a culvert without utterly freaking out halfway and Sam having to go get Dad to pull him out.
Oblivious, Commander Tril changed the image to a group of nine pictures, each with a blocky scribble underneath.
“These are the first nine words I want you to learn. This one is food. Nuajan.” He pointed his blue laser-light on the upper left picture of green slime. “It is fortified with everything your bodies need, and should increase your rate of growth by more than twenty times, so you’ll all reach adult size in a few rotations. Months, to you ignorant ashy furgs. Or the closest approximate.”
Joe froze. Great, Joe thought, glancing at the little kids around him, Just freaking great.
Maggie, however, was staring at the picture of goop in awe, mouthing nuajan to herself over and over.
Tril scanned them as he continued. “You’ll quickly figure out basic measurements, but I’ll give you a brief overview: A standard turn is 1.23 Earth years. There are six standard days to a standard week and thirty-six standard days to a rotation. Similarly, there are thirty-six hours to a standard day, and seventy-two standard tics to a standard hour. We measure distance in digs, rods, lengths, and marches. Digs are about the size of a large adult human foot. Rods are nine of those. Lengths are based off the height of ferlii on Poen, and are about four hundred and forty rods. Marches are nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-nine rods. I could try and explain that, but I have the feeling most of you are too young to understand, so you’ll just have to learn along the way.”
Indeed, most of the kids were staring at the alien in complete confusion.
Sighing, Commander Tril went on, talking about everything from aliens to Congressional politics, lapsing into Congie whenever it pleased him. Joe was finally beginning to relax when Tril’s sticky brown eyes found him. “Zero. Recite for the class the nine words we learned today.”
“Nuajan,” Joe began. “Uh…”
“A recruit must address every ranked Ooreiki member of the Congressional Army as oora,” Tril said harshly. “Either that, or address me by my caste title. Uretilakki ni diirok Ooreiki oghis ni jreekil rrenistaba yeeri jare.”
Joe stared at him stupidly.
Commander Tril looked pleased. “You cannot pick, Zero? Perhaps I should activate your modifier until you decide.”
Joe’s eyes fell to the shock collar on his ankle. He’s gonna do it anyway.
He opened his mouth to tell the alien to go stuff himself, but caught the other kids in his team watching h
im, frightened. It’s their butts as well as mine, now, Joe realized, uncomfortable. What would Tril do to them if Joe started mouthing off?
“Oh-ra,” Joe muttered.
“Oora.” Tril made it sound like the second O was a consonant.
“Oh-oh-ra,” Joe tried again.
“Your pitiful attempt will do for now. Recite today’s words. Food, yes, no, left, right, commander, battlemaster, Congress.”
Joe tried. He stumbled over every syllable until Tril took over. “Everyone repeat after me. Food. Nuajan. Yes. Kkee. No. Anan. Left. Ki. Right. Po. Commander. Diirok. Battlemaster. Nkjanii. Congress. Jare.”
Once they repeated to his satisfaction, Tril said, “Keep in mind you’re now expected to use the words we learned. The translators will no longer interpret them for you. As an aside, I was impressed with your progress. I have faith you all will be speaking Congie within a rotation or two. Dismissed. Haagi.”
Battlemaster Nebil met them in the hall outside and took them to a clean white room that reminded Joe of the waiting area of a doctor’s office. After the unyielding black of the rest of the ship, the white surfaces should have been a relief, but Joe felt a sense of dread as the Ooreiki instructed them to remove their crisp white shirts and fold them neatly at their feet.
The air in the room was cooler than the rest of the ship. It felt like they were standing in a refrigerator. Joe’s skin prickled with goosebumps.
At the other end of the room, Battlemaster Nebil pulled a long-haired blonde girl out of formation and shoved her inside the door opposite the exit. Everyone waited, confused.
Three minutes later, the girl came back sobbing. She had a new scar on her abdomen and her long blonde hair was gone. Nebil pushed her back into line and led a black-haired boy into the room. The boy came out a minute later utterly bald, but otherwise didn’t seem too worse for wear. The process continued, the girls returning from the door crying and bald, the boys just bald.
Joe started when someone tugged on his arm. Libby was looking up at him, her eyes wide and red. She was clutching a puff of her curly black hair.
