“Admiring it again?” he says.
“What? Oh, yeah. It’s alright.”
“Bullshit. You know it’s sick.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. But I’d be okay with owning it.”
“Over my dead body, bud.”
We get back into the car and on our way.
“How old is this relic? I don’t think I’ve ever asked,” says Isaac.
“Two thousand sixty-six.”
Isaac takes a drag of his ancient. “Jesus that’s old,” and another, “must have cost you a fortune.”
“It’s still younger than your smoking style,” I say. He blows a puff into my face. I flip him off as I wave it away. “And not too bad. I got a good deal from my uncle, just all of my high school savings.”
We exit the lot and are back onto the route. “Want a hit?” Isaac offers, holding his ancient out, “I laced it with weed, or are you still missy good shoes?”
“No, you’re not going to convince me. You know it’s bad.”
“Nag, nag, nag. Oh look,” Isaac points his ancient at the first bar we pass, Stout Brothers, “they look pretty packed already.”
“We could maybe start there.” We keep driving down the route. Other classic cars, some older than mine, pass us by. “I was thinking of entering the Wang-Stang into the car show some time, you know, the one where all the hotrods drive slowly down this route for fun.”
“What’s first place?”
“Twenty grand.”
Isaac whistles. “Damn.”
We pass a few more bars, and then the route takes us out towards a local state park. As we enter the park border and the buildings turn into trees, a newly placed sign stands on the left in a clearing. On the board is the flag of the Party flapping behind construction workers in yellow helmets. In big black letters above the flag it says: YOUR PARTY AT WORK: FURTURE DEVELOPMENT SITE.
“Is your presentation done?” I say, already knowing the answer.
“Kinda, gonna BS it like usual, and I know you’ve been done for years, kiss ass.”
“Just because I am into politics and global issues, doesn’t mean you have to feel inferior or jealous.”
“Were you just practicing your pick up line on me for tonight? Because I am soaking in between the thighs right now.”
“What’s your topic about? Citizens who don’t know anything? Because you aced that one.”
“Actually fucker, I changed it.”
Interesting, considering his previous assignment was his most thought out one this semester, which was him pausing at the door to a library to begin preliminary research, before deciding he would just bullshit the whole thing—and he always liked to remind me being high out of his mind had nothing to do with it. “Do tell.”
“It’s how the banished states are actually more free, better off than us.”
What a ludicrous idea. “You can’t be serious?”
“What’s wrong, Party Boy? Are you upset that there may be differing views of success and happiness than what we are spoon fed?”
“Let’s just try to entertain your stance then. First of all, they are the last third world countries in the world. That’s because they are barred from the United Nations for what they did during the Terrible War. So even if they liked being separate from the rest of us, they are still woefully behind.”
“True, but here’s the difference. The thing people don’t look at, that the UN doesn’t want people to see. They are beginning to redevelop. Improve themselves, without any international help. And they are all democratic! Do you even remember when our country used to be that?”
“We still are—”
“Oh my fucking god Peter, don’t call me crazy if you’re going to be dense yourself. You know very well we are not. The occasional opinion pulls we have, are just that, us telling our Parents what our opinion is. It may give them a better outlook, but it doesn’t change their decisions. The Party got rid of the last of it when they took over.” He begins talking like a robot reading a textbook, “Because democracy causes us to be too divided, a non-unified people that did not act correctly or logically, starting wars.”
“Alright, yeah, we live under a different system, but surely you can’t disagree that this system isn’t better. Look at what it’s done for all of us. I mean, c’mon, there is global peace now. That has only been a concept till recently in our history.”
“All I am saying is, sure we have free things, like college for all, and the world is at peace too, but at what cost did we take to get there?”
“Your presentation will be very interesting. Just be careful how off base you get though, don’t want a Party Rep docking you.”
“The cost is freedom as we can see.”
“What, you mean the freedom to go make poor decisions and fuck up our world more? No thanks, I don’t want that type of free will. I am proud of what we have, what the Party has done. It’s given us freedom from those evils now. Freedom from war, freedom from scarcity…”
Isaac cuts me off, “Okay, okay, I know the Creed and shit too.”
We drive on the route going deeper into the state park, eventually approaching a turnoff on the road where I pull over. I realized I’ve never showed him this little place.
“What’s up?” says Isaac.
I turn the car off and open my door. “Come on, check this out.”
We walk down a little trail through blackberry bushes that enter into a meadow. “See those roses growing all crazy over there.” I point out the patches of them.
“Yeah, they’re pretty and shit, so what?”
“They weren’t there till my freshmen year. A floral truck crashed a while back, and I guess the seeds flew out into the meadow, where the roses grew the next spring.”
Isaac starts on his next ancient. “Why do you know this?”
“Serena and me had sex over there our first time.”
“That’s a weird name for a boy.”
I have to grin. “Shut up. Anyway, she told me about the roses as we came out here.”
“She’s single now, right? I could use that story when I take her out here.”
I push him down, and we get back on our way to the car.
The route finishes going through the park and takes us through the other side of downtown. It’s nearing the evening and the bars are picking up. We plan out which ones we’ll hit as the route reconnects, forming into one big circle. It’s our circle. The place we call home. Where we spend our weekends drinking, our afternoons cruising and trying to pick up girls, and our free time talking in the car while I drove, about whatever was important to us at the time.
III
Today is the last day of midterms at North Carolina State University. It’s the end of the afternoon as I walk down my usual hallway to my favorite class—but I can’t fight off this anxiety. Remain optimistic, you are going to pass and graduate from Junior year, you just know it. And after that, from there, you only have one year left before that BA in Global Studies and having earned a diploma of achievement.
“One hour to Sol System,” says the intercom.
I feel a bump against my arm and I realize my eyes are closed. I open them and look over, it’s Isaac, but he’s dressed like a marine, between his legs he cradles a black rifle. He hands me a piece of paper and a pen with a word written on it. My eyes really open and the sleep leaves them as they are replaced with my surroundings: the noise and rumble of marines around me preparing, Party Representatives in their field fatigues routinely hobbling down the rows to give us encouragement, followed next by some chaplain to give god’s word, and the occasional turbulence that tosses the ship. Here we are, all of us drafts squished into this space carrier, sweating in fear for our lives, trying hard to remain brave by shouting the Creed and Morals to each other, trying to act strong before our first battle.
Wait, one hour? Christ, then we actually begin our war. Will we survive the atmosphere battl
e and landing phase onto the planet? Then what? Will I die? How long will I make it? I can’t even imagine returning home…I am so far away, isolated. Oh god, how bad will it hurt if I’m shot?
Meal containers are handed down the rows of seated marines. We all pass. My stomach is in knots. One marine throws up, his puke floats in the zero gravity hull as others next to him try to bag it so it doesn’t spread. “We’re going to die,” someone moans.
I nod to Isaac, and look at the paper he handed me. The first word says Fuck. My lips break into a tense grin. That’s Isaac, wanting to start something like this silly poem game in inappropriate times. Well, let’s see then I guess, I have to write a new line off the letters of his last word.
Fast undertakings cause karma,
I give him back the paper, and lay my head against the hard plastic seat I am buckled in, and view the netting holding supplies above me. My headache grows, and soon it’s throbbing relentlessly. God, how I wish I had some painkillers. Deep breath Peter, whatever you do, don’t focus on that fucking horrible headache you have growing. I gaze back at the supplies in the netting above me. A blue combat helmet, with the white bold abbreviation UN, gazes back at me through the mesh. I’ll do the Creed, everyone does the Creed, the Creed helps.
Deep breath.
First, no man is as strong or capable as they can be when not part of the whole.
Deep breath.
Second, find strength in the whole. This is my community of brothers and sisters.
Deep breath.
Third, never let the revolution die. Fight valorously for the ideals created by the Fathers.
I cough on the next breath. Ah god, this headache! I lower my head into my hands. Concentrate.
Those ideals are: unity, defense of social morals, and the continued fight against the ever encroaching evils of discontent and dissidence.
Now the reason the Herculeans are my enemy. Earth is a unity of humanity. The Herculeans clearly threaten that with their massacre of fellow humans.
Deep breath—but I can’t breathe. My lunges feel like two boulders sinking into a lake. Breathing only gets harder, the pain in my head sharper. I stop to suck in oxygen for a while. I will have to finish the Creed some other time. I rub my temples to try and alleviate the migraine, but my heart still races. Reciting the values are not enough to ease this tension. I close my eyes to dream, to a better place.
It’s my last midterm today as I prance down the hallway to the classroom. And as if fate, my last midterm is also my favorite class, Peace and Conflict Resolutions. It has become my favorite class so much it has actually convinced me to switch majors to Global Studies. One day I’ll work for the United Nations, this class has shown me that. From there, I’ll aid in the continual effort to disarm the weapon stockpiles of countries after the Terrible War, ending the last reminder of humanity’s final conflict, and truly solidifying global peace that the Fathers have worked tirelessly to create. After all, they always said it is my generation that would succeed in doing it, for we are the Pure Generation, the Golden Youth.
I pause before the door to my class taking out my painkiller bottle, and pop a few. I enter the class and that aura of serenity from the joy of learning fills my presence. Sitting right before me is Professor Mr. Martin behind his desk, waiting in anticipation upon hearing our presentations, whether he is genuinely excited or nervous about the reaching the graduation quota, I don’t know.
“Afternoon, Peter,” says Mr. Martin with a smile, easing the wrinkles in his face, “I look forward to yours.”
I take my seat at the front of the class, “Nervous but ready, sir.”
“One more thing,” he leans forward over his desk towards me. “I’ve noticed you’ve shown interest in my area by switching to Global Studies. As you can imagine, this curriculum also now includes our sister star systems. You could quite possibly, with such good grades, go abroad to a whole other planet, such as the capital planet of the Dolus System, Nova Terra. It would be the first program of its nature being presented by our Federal government.”
Damn, what should I say? I mean, educators have the authority to position us into internships and jobs they feel would best suit society—without any regard to the our opinion of course. So he’s suggesting, though indirectly, that I show interest, but more importantly agreement to his comment. All in all, I guess I should be humbled, he thinks I am good enough to work abroad. “That would indeed be a terrific opportunity. However, I would much enjoy learning more here on Earth, before traveling to a whole new planet for intern opportunities.”
“Of course, I get ahead of myself. You still technically have two semesters left after this before you achieve a BA,” says Mr. Martin, “You are just one of those very promising students.”
The bell rings and a law officer enters leaning against the wall near the door, and waits for our presentations with little interest. Such a shame they have to resort to this, if kids only studied adequately for midterms there wouldn’t be so many nut jobs shooting up the campuses after their poor evaluations.
The ship shudders from hyperspace travel jerking my head. “Fuck’s sake, Private!” shouts Sergeant Blake, “Secure your equipment!” I rub my neck from the whiplash and realize my XM-10 has bolted loose from its holster in between our packed seats, and hovers lazily in the air. My bandolier has also slid out, spinning before the face of the marine next to me. I retrieve the bandolier, and wrap it around my rifle barrel as I lock it back into place on the side of my seat.
The cold black figure of its metal barrel sucks the heat from my fingertips. I used to be against guns, I was even a member of the Freedom of Arms club on campus. But now I can take apart and reassemble this rifle with my eyes closed—and I know it can do the same to me. And now it talks to me. At first I couldn’t understand the language, until I realized it only mimics its master.
I can hear the gun repeating the Drill Instructor during demonstration. “This rifle, your life, is called the XM-10 ATAC—Adaptable to All Conditions. Black is its industry color, and as you can see here, a large butt stock to reduce kickback and to allow you to rest your cheek on while aiming. A top mounted hand bar for easy carry. Shock and weather resistant. Integrated scope above the hand rail. Lightweight. And universal ammunition for all of the XM variants; an LMG and Sniper can use my magazine if need be, and vice versa because all weapons share the same rifling blueprints. And like these rifles are the same in their one role: kill, every one of you will become a copy of the next in killing capabilities, so help me God.”
I was never part of a frat in college. The Marines fixed that. My frat is Easy unit, composed of two rifle squads and one LMG personal. Leading it is Sergeant Blake and his lower NCO Corporal Kaiden of the second fire team. We are part of Platoon L—Love Company—Tarnus its Captain, and god does he like to use the Company name to remind us of what we love. We Love the Core. We Love America. We Love the Party. We Love our rifles. We Love killing.
“Peter, how about you go first,” says Mr. Martin.
I rise, but a Party Representative pokes his head into the classroom. “Is this class course one-six-six-four-three?” Before Mr. Martin answers the Party Rep enters the room, his dark brown overcoat that goes down to his calf’s absorbing the indoor light. The overcoat’s monotone drab is parted at the waist line by a large gray belt, its buckle a blue star. At the thighs the coat splits down the middle for maximum movement. The Party Rep adjusts his white beret; the red letters of NFFP stand bold on the front with a single blue star of the United States resting below it. I wanted to join the Junior Party Representative Officers program in high school, but the requirement of military service first turned me off.
I sit back down.
“Yes sir it is. I am sorry, I forgot you were arriving,” says Mr. Martin.
“How long have you been a professor here?” says the Rep, coldly.
“Seven years, sir.”
“Interesting.” The Rep tu
rns his attention to the class while taking a space near the wall with the officer. “I assume we have all said the Pledge.”
I glance at Mr. Martin to see a quick dash of dread wash over his face. “We were actually about to start it, sir.”
“Wonderful, commence.”
We all rise, facing squarely towards the two flags of the US and Party that adorn the front of the class wall behind Mr. Martin’s desk. This time I stare at the Party Flag. The flag is a white base with a large blue star and its gold trimming in the center. Inside the center of the star is the same red bold letters of NFFP that label all Party paraphernalia. Underneath the blue star is the Party motto also in red that wraps around the two bottom triangles of the star: Unity, Defense, Revolution. The Party Rep takes his beret off, and neatly holds it in his right hand over his heart while his free hand rises to a salute above his brow facing the flags.
We follow suit. I place my right hand over my heart, and being in perfect synchronization with the rest of the class, start the pledge.
“I pledge allegiance, to the flag of America.
I pledge allegiance, to the Party Creed and Morals.
And to the state, for which it stands, one nation under unity.
Indivisible, with security and prosperity for all.”
After this the Rep comes to the front of the class. “Remain standing to hear the Party Ideals,” and with excitement rising in his voice begins, “The pledge of allegiance is a pledge to the Creed and country.
It is a pledge to the ideals of our New and Global Founding forefathers. The men who rescued us from the horrors of the Terrible War. The men who rebuilt this great nation.
It’s a pledge to fulfill our duties and obligations as citizens of the United States. This duty is foremost to persevere and continue the fight for the Revolutionary Ideals, as instituted in our Constitution by the New Founding Fathers, on behalf of the Global Founding Fathers.
Travesty (SolarSide Book 1) Page 3
