What is really right or wrong? Surely it is all just perspective. And I mustn’t be narrow minded to think one philosophy is always correct, the Party knows that, they know that the ends justify the means—fight now so they won’t be a threat to human peace later—I need too as well.
Isaac breaks me from my thoughts. “Here, add this to your helmet.” He throws me the yellow marker.
“What?”
He shows me his helmet. It says Fool’s Gold on the side.
“Are we allowed to do that?”
“Just do it. Gonna make it a little squad thing.”
I add the saying. I even add sparkles on some of the letters. He looks over and smiles. “I have come upon a new parable to tell.”
“Another Isaac parable?” I groan, throwing him back the marker.
He pockets the marker, and then rotates his lighter around in his hands. As he rotates it faster the red and white stripes become a tie-dye blur. “Yes my pupil. Now shut the fuck up while I lay down some wisdom.”
He lights another ancient. “There are two guys inside a public restroom. Both of them in separate stalls that are right next to each other. Both of them taking a shit. Now they also both know, that the other guy is in there too, there is no secret they are simultaneously dropping a duce. Then one guy in the stall hears the other guy say, ‘Are you fucking kidding me? No toilet paper?’
Now, this guy did not directly ask the other for toilet paper, in fact, why should he offer any, anyways? It’s not his problem. Also, this guy who doesn’t have any paper, may just as well go to the next stall over and solve it himself, or maybe the guy will own up to his failure at picking the wrong stall, and accept his shortcomings and leave. But regardless, this guy next to the stall without paper still has to answer the question: do I give him some of mine, and end up getting involved in his shit, or do I reframe, and stay in my own stall, simply worrying about my own shit.”
“This is stupid. You said it yourself, they are both right by each other. He can just hand some paper underneath the stall to the other guy without it being a big deal.”
“Ah, and that’s the typical response right? We all like to think we are some Good Samaritan, some altruistic savior of our brothers, but I have not yet added one very crucial detail.”
“What?”
Isaac takes a deep drag, turns to face me, and exhales with a smile. “The guy looks at his roll of paper, and realizes, that there’s no way in hell there’s enough for two people.”
I sigh, “Goddamn it, Isaac.”
VII
Isaac hands me the fold of paper. I check out what he wrote, the last word being Resonates.
Reason eventually succumbs once nations attack, threatening every soul,
“Twenty minutes till atmosphere,” announces the intercom. “Man stations and prepare for invasion.”
I place the paper inside my chest pocket. I’ll have to add mine later.
Sergeant Blake rises out of his seat. “Easy, on me.”
Everyone in my unit—twelve in total—rises into the walkway, taking rifles and equipment in preparation to board our landing transports in the hanger bay. We grab the netting of the low ceiling above us so that we don’t float about, and hobble down the walkways to our hanger.
We are in zero gravity, but our sacks and equipment are still heavy on us. I’ve had many training days with full battle-suit getup, but only a few while not under Buzz. We are told Buzz will relieve the weight and it was true, but till you get it, you’re carrying an elephant. It starts with our helmet. A simple metal alloy formed to fit our heads. Then comes the machinery embedded with it: a visor that slides down over our face like a motorcyclist’s face shield, a small communications antenna on the left side, and a battery unit on the back of the helmet near the bottom that powers it all. This transforms the visor into a virtual layer over the battlefield giving us on the moment information and target finding. The whole helmet is painted blue except for the white font letters on the front: UN, signaling I am a Peacekeeper. Overall, it comes weighing in at 3 and half kilograms.
Next is our under armor fatigues. A full body onesie, battle pajamas. Light and water resistant, able to absorb most of our sweat, and also carrying our intergraded chemsack, all entering in at one and half kilos. What’s put over it is what makes it heavy though. First a ACU coat, which is what the actual battle-ready fatigues are, only allowed to be worn when in combat—old traditions don’t die easy. It covers our entire torso, coming in at 5 kilos. After that is the chest encompassing suit of bullet proof body armor weighing around 6 kilos, the heaviest thing on us. All combat fatigues are currently just a tan colored theme, simple in order for all the participating countries to easily maintain uniformity. But our body armor plates, encased in its own thick flack vest as well, are an olive drab for Marines, making us stick out from the rest of the GI forces. Together, it’s this armored vest with the flak jacket underneath that can help decide if a bullet kills you or not. Though what it can do against Herculean plasma our superiors have conveniently left out, so it’s quite possible it’s all useless. Something you’re better off not fretting about.
Going lower, we already have the leggings part of our under armor. What we wear over it is the same type of bullet proof body armor on our torso, but in obviously different areas. First is the iron underwear, or Crotch, one and half kilos. This wraps around the most valuables like a superhero’s thong. Over the under armor is flak pants, made with a thick fiber to resist trauma to make up for the absent body armor our legs are naked to, five and half kilos. Next come the boots. They go almost up to our knees because after the lacing the cuffs are infused armor plates to help protect our shins and calf’s, three kilos each. To complement the suit we also wear shoulder cap armor, two kilos. Following that is elbow and knee armor pads, one kilo each, so four combined overall.
And that’s just the suit. We put on a second vest over the flak jacket, two and half kilos, which holds all of the immediately important shit one would need double time out in the field. Magazines that snap off quickly, half kilo each, but you carry at least 4, so two kilos. Medical kit and dressing kit, another kilo. A grenade, a little over a kilo each, but again, you’d be dammed not to carry more than just one. Field knife, right under half a kilo. A utility canister depending on what your sergeant deems necessary for the mission, such as a smoke or motion sensor canister, one kilo. Then not required but extremely recommended is a sidearm. Weight differing to what you choose, but most around two kilos, but you better not forget its ammunition, add on one more kilo.
Next is the sack over our back. The thing itself is one and half kilos. In it our C-rations, packed for one day’s supply of meals, two kilos. A rifle repair and cleaning kit, one kilo, another kilo or so if you’re carrying spare parts too. At least six more magazines, three kilos. A second dressing and med kit, one more kilo. A flare, half a kilo. Rope, one kilo. Our gas masks, and their filtration canister, two kilos. Shovel that can be contracted and placed on the side of our sack, also two kilos. All topped off with your trusty bladder filled with water and electrolytes that has its own pocket inside the backpack, two kilos full, half a one empty, and you don’t want it empty.
But no one’s backpack is ever that light. You also have your favorite snacks because C-rations suck, half a kilo, but up to two if you’re a fat ass. You have a book because half of fighting is doing nothing, and you want a thick book to carry you through, one kilo. A sleeping bag, because you don’t always know if Command will really have it available for you when it’s time to hit the deck, one and half kilos. Some sort of bug repellent because alien bugs are a lot scarier than Earth ones, half a kilo. Some hobby of yours because reading can be lonely and being lonely in war is what happens when you’re dead, so why encourage it? Maybe it’s a deck of cards, light at half a kilo. Or maybe it’s a gaming system, one to two kilos depending on brand. And if you’re old school, it’s a board game, probably one kilo. After
that you still need all of your personal belongings. The things that really get you through it all. Family photos in plastic so that it doesn’t get ruined by weather, or porn, still definitely wrapped in plastic, half to one kilo depending on your tastes. An item of inspiration: maybe your dad’s bible, or favorite stuffed animal from when you used to be a kid and weren’t expected to fight and kill, or just an article of clothing that smells like home or your girl; something to prepare you for death, round that up to a kilo.
Finally is the item of the show, why we’re here, our rifle. The XM-10 comes in at three and half kilos unloaded. Overall, you won’t be surprised that you’re carrying around on minimum sixty-four kilos, one hundred-forty fucking pounds, into battle. But then, you are surprised, not because that’s heavy, but because that’s all you’re carrying into battle, into death. That this is all your life equals to in physical terms. Just one hundred-forty pounds. You are only worth one hundred-forty pounds because that is all you need to bring in order to do your job. That house, hundreds of tons, that car, nearly a ton, all the shit in your house and car, thousands of pounds, isn’t necessary, isn’t you. Because really, you only need a little over a hundred to make it by. Your life can be condensed into something that small. One hundred pounds. Reminding you how finite you are, and how infinite war, who has swallowed countless hundred pound lives, is.
VIII
While we hobble through the hallways to the carriers I grip the only familiar shoulder of the person before me, Isaac, now my closest friend—brother really—here on the other side of our galaxy. He looks back at me with a smirk, “Looks like our cruise is over.”
My last day on Earth.
Just like that, we are marching out of Parris Island base towards the fields and loading docks of the American Space Fleet. Endless circles of fences and loading depots surround white cylinder tops sticking a few meters above ground. These are the transport shuttles we will take to meet the real force of the fleet: gigantic battleships constructed in separate parts on Earth, then brought up to space to be assembled—their mass too big to launch them from the planet or for them to land down wholly. Medium sized frigates leave behind huge white clouds as they enter the atmosphere above us. Being Marines we lead the land forces to board the shuttles. As the first to fight, we’re the first to lead the formation.
We are organized into brigades and tight squares of hundreds of men. Armored vehicles and tanks trek by our marching gaps onto loading ramps. Helicopters and harriers pass overhead to their landing docks on the sides of bigger spacecraft carries, all poised at the sky for takeoff. Large bleacher seats parallel us marching filled with reporters, visitors, and senior officials and other Party agents. Next to them are the saturated seats full of families and loved ones, waiving and shouting off to us.
Is my family here? I’ve fucked up badly with them. All the wasted time I could have spent with my younger brother, Creon. The hope my parents had for me to have a better life before the draft. Don’t cry, you’re a marine now. I feel the warm tears on my face. I’ve been selfish these past weeks about my situation. I have failed to write or communicate with them at all. What a wretched man I am. The last time I talked to Creon was when I was yelling at father about being drafted. I am so fucking low. He must be just as hurt too, and now, I may never see him again.
This is how I leave earth.
My family.
My life.
Onto starships that will take us solarside.
I wasn’t the brother I should have been. I have already lost part of the Peter I was before the draft. I have hidden from the ones I loved as if it was their fault.
More tears on my face. More regrets on my mind.
Sergeant Blake leads our unit pass the bleachers. Following him is Corporal Kaiden, and the rest of us privates in the unit: Vance, Alex, Rommel, Tommy, Isaac, I, Julian, Jonathon, Vick, and our LMG carrier Ray. These are the only faces I have known since my life changed. Faces drafted from all over the eastern side of the United Sates into one army. The faces I will rely on in battle, and probably die with.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Julian, his expression reassuring. I never realized how old he actually was, he must be in his thirties—a father? “I’m leaving a lot behind too, my wife and little daughter.” So he confirms my suspicions. A forming tear glistens in his eye. He blinks and it’s gone.
“Do you think we will ever come back?” I say.
Determination forms in his face. “I have to, my family and life is here.” But his strength seems artificial. A levee holding back his real emotions just like the rest of us are.
Vance lightly punches me. “Guys, don’t be so gloom and doom. It’s starting to make me feel too.” His smile radiates at us, soft and sad. Tommy, who is by his side, looks down too, despite him and Rommel being the most rhetoric about being excited and proud to serve.
Regardless of our opinions on this war we are all hit by the consequences. Isolation from the ones we love, fear of dying, and now, fear of never seeing Earth or our families again. All of us think about war. Not the war in the movies or videogames that raised us as children. Or the wars we read about in history books. But a war that will kill many of us. A war that is now real to us. Most of the men in my unit have never even traveled outside of America like me, let alone their own state. Now, we are being sent to a whole other world to die for a people we don’t even know. And what will it be like at home when we come back? How alien will Earth be to us, just like this planet we embark on is, once we return?
The progression to the carriers continues. The crowds of families scream and yell as we pass them. Signs are held with texts of love and quotes from famous people. Flowers are thrown at us; red, white, and blue roses. A loud commotion breaks out as new signs rise out of the crowd by the security fence: Keep our sons on Earth! Where was Congressional approval? USA, how many children will send away today?
The security fence breaks down as protesters scream at marines to run. A few actually do. The Military Police and Party Reps rush in with batons raised and began beating the instigators. The runaways are shot with rubber rounds till their bodies collapse against the ground. Vehicles advance upon the scene blocking off the protesters and deporting others, most of them bloody and crying. Remaining media reporters are herded away by the rest of the MP’s.
The formations of marines continue to the carriers as if nothing happened. Supporters and torn apart families continue their words of hope and inspirations to us. I spot my father and mother standing with my crying brother to their side. I look down at my marching boots. I failed. I failed my role as a big brother and as a son to my dad. I look up one last time. They are still searching the crowd for me, but the endless march of marines and blue helmets, stuffed backpacks, supply sacks, and raised gun barrels pointing to the sky block their vision of me—oh my god, I won’t ever see them again. “Dad! Mom! Creon! Over here! I love you!”
Nothing.
The noise of everything else drowns me out, they stand there still searching.
This was my last chance to say goodbye.
The last time I would have made eye contact with them till I come back—if I come back. That eye contact, the visionary connection that would explain it all. How much I love and miss them. How scared I am. How terribly alone I am entering that ship. That I don’t want to die.
But it’s too late.
Nothing.
“It’s okay,” says Julian, strengthening his grasp on my shoulder. “You can mail them, that’s what I’m doing.”
“Yeah, I didn’t even see my family,” says Ray with sadness, “or girl,” with worry.
“It’s probably easier that way,” says Isaac. “It will be worth it when they see us coming back home.”
“I hope so,” says Tommy.
We all do.
“It will, we just gotta worry about surviving, not trying to say our last goodbyes. Don’t think like that.” If only I didn’t know hi
m earlier, I wouldn’t know he was just saying this to try and make us feel better. That he didn’t believe his own words.
The shadow of the first line of fences and depots embrace us. I take one final glance back at the crowd. I find the small figures of my family still searching for me. Why didn’t I yell out when I could of? Just to hear their voice and see their reassuring stare one last time.
Heartbreak.
And this is a new type I’ve never met before, and the worse kind I am sure of now. I am leaving my family, my younger brother behind with no guarantee of coming back. The times him and I spent running around playing, building toys. Arguing and fighting. Rides I gave him in my car to the movies, and talking about the big stuff in life.
At the end of it all, I couldn’t even say goodbye.
He won’t see me again till I come home in a casket. Oh god, how many of us will come home dead? Julian? who is a father. Isaac? who is my best friend here.
An officer atop a crate directs the coming formations. We’re ordered right. My boots clunk against the metal ramp as we descend below ground through a tunnel. We enter a huge catacomb of underground rooms full of machinery and scaffoldings that lead to numerous carriers. We take one raised walkway to a carrier before us, a long torpedo shaped shuttle almost completely underground. Only its nose sticking out above land that we saw earlier as we approached.
At the hull door is an officer giving directions on how to board. “Climb the ladder till you see your color. You will be told your color as you walk pass. Also, the chairs rotate, meaning once we hit zero gravity they will reposition to face you parallel with the ship.”
I reach the door. “Part of Platoon L?” says the officer.
“Yes”
“Purple.”
The artificially lit corridor of the spacecraft swallows me as I climb the ladder to find my platoon and seat. I reach my level, leave the ladder, take my seat, and just like everyone else, remove the heavy laden equipment on our bodies. But our souls are still heavy. We place rifles into side seat holsters, and duffle bags in netting above our heads. Hundreds of seat straps buckle as the ship’s engines roar to life and shake the entire vessel.
Travesty (SolarSide Book 1) Page 7
