The Chaplain's War

by Brad R Torgersen

  “Bad word choice. Look, I agree, you were never cut out to be a traditional pulpit-thumper the way some people have always seemed to think you should be. But it cannot be denied that you just happened to be the right person in the right place at the right time, and who also had the right ideas. Once may be coincidence. Twice? Even I have to start wondering.”

  I walked back from the kitchen and plopped down onto the sofa again, frustrated.

  “I can’t do it alone,” I said.

  “You mean, go back to Purgatory with the Queen Mother?”

  “She won’t be the Queen Mother by then,” I said. “She’ll be just like the Professor: a mantis who’s desperately seeking enlightenment at the hands of an inept human. What if I blow it this time, just like with the Professor?”

  “Didn’t you just tell me that the absence of the disc seems to have had a profound effect on her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And isn’t the Queen Mother—or whatever she’s going to call herself later—essentially vowing to do without a disc from now on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there you go. Seems to me that’s the missing ingredient. If what Captain Adanaho theorized is true, and the disc was somehow suppressing natural perceptions, then it stands to reason the Queen Mother’s quest for spiritual awakening will garner significantly different results.”

  I wanted to believe my old friend. I really did. But . . .

  “Come back with me,” I said, finally putting the question on the table.

  “What?” she said, startled.

  “Like I said, I can’t do this alone. I need help. I need . . . someone with real faith who can help me.”

  “You’ve always seemed to be a faithful soul to me,” she said, “although you were always too wishy-washy about it for my tastes.”

  “Wishy-washy?”

  “Again, sorry, bad choice of words. Harry, from what I could tell, you were always afraid to commit. To pick one of the flavors, as the Professor called them, and dive in headfirst. Make the effort. Do the work to deeply and truly understand one particular religion.”

  “My job was to serve everyone, and I—”

  Diane ran a thumb across the air in front of her throat.

  “Save it. That’s been an excuse. Sounds to me like you know that if you go back to Purgatory with the Queen Mother, you won’t have any excuses to hide behind.”

  “You’re kind of pissing me off,” I said to her, and meant it.

  “You’re the one asking me to come back with you,” she said. “Sounds to me like all you really want me around for is as a crutch when the questions get too hard, or too uncomfortable.”

  I fumed quietly on the sofa. Had coming to Diane’s place been a waste of time? A mistake? I wanted very badly to get up and go. But something held me in place. I slowly downed the rest of my drink and stared at my shoes. Civilian shoes. I’d picked up a set of cheap clothes in the spaceport after I’d landed. Was I angry simply because Diane was telling me what I’d suspected all along, yet had not had the courage to admit to myself?

  “Crutch or no, I still want you to come,” I said softly.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  “Can’t.”

  “Got a nice job? Something you can’t walk away from?”

  “You might put it that way,” Diane said, though she wasn’t smiling.

  “Not that it would take much,” I said. “You and I both know that Purgatory’s a cozy little acre of hell.”

  “In a different time and place I might have said yes,” she said. “But a lot has changed for me since I came back to Earth. I’ve got responsibilities here that I can’t just walk away from.”

  I looked around the apartment—clearly a bachelorette pad.

  “Not a husband?” I said.

  “No.”

  “Are you a mom now?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  She stared at me—eyeballs to eyeballs.

  Then she dropped her gaze.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said.

  “Think quickly. Once the treaty is signed, the Queen Mother is headed back to her people—and I am going with her. Once she’s handed over her responsibilities, we’re going back to Purgatory.”

  Diane looked at the floor of her apartment, mouth turned down in a frown.

  “There was a time when you could not have paid me enough money to go back to that damned planet,” she said. “I hated it there.”

  “We all hated it there,” I said.

  “Not you. At least not enough to leave.”

  “I had a job to do.”

  “So do I.”

  “Is that your answer, then?”

  “Like I said, I’ll think about it.”

  “I won’t blame you if you say no,” I said. “But I’d be thrilled if you said yes. Thanks for having me in. It’s really good to see you.”

  She looked up at me with a slight smile.

  “It’s good to see you too,” she said.

  We chattered a bit more. Small talk, mostly.

  Then I let myself out the way I’d come in.

  CHAPTER 58

  THE TREATY SIGNING WAS A SPECTACULAR EVENT.

  Hundreds of Fleet officers and thousands of civilian officials crowded the plaza at Fleet Headquarters, North America West. It had been built on the bones of the old United States Navy air base on Whidbey Island, off the coast of Washington State. Mobs of spit-and-polished men and women moved to and fro, their passes and ID tags hanging from lanyards on their necks, while the press—with their ID tags and their passes hanging from similar lanyards—interviewed anyone and everyone they could get their hands on.

  Myself especially.

  I’d not expected that.

  But Diane had been right: my status as a celebrity had been cemented by the cease-fire. And now that we were officially closing out the war, my name was on everyone’s lips: as the guy who pulled off a miracle.

  I mumbled my way through question after question, trying not to sound too stupid, but feeling too much like I’d felt when people visited me in the chapel: expecting me to dispense insight, wisdom, or guidance. So I told them the truth. That I’d just done what I thought was the right thing, and we’d all been lucky that it was enough to make a difference when it counted.

  If the reporters were disappointed, they didn’t show it.

  There were other men and women—other officers—plainly prepared to hold forth, both politically and philosophically, on what the treaty signified.

  When I could, I stole away to one of the verandas that had a view of the ocean. The wind coming in off the water was tangy and brisk, but with the sun out and the sky clear, things weren’t cold. I looked down over the historical airfield which had been preserved next to the much larger and more industrial-looking spaceport, with its gantries and towers and hangars filled with aerospacecraft. Not too different from Armstrong Field, where I’d first trained as a recruit.

  One of those hangars held a mantis ship.

  I could just barely make out the ceremonial mantis guards arrayed around the hangar, with an equal number of Fleet marines—in full dress uniforms—arrayed around the guards.

  Unlike when I’d been aboard the Calysta, I knew now that the marines had no ulterior orders. Even Fleet Command had been convinced that peace was necessary, following the loss of over two-thirds of their capital ships. We’d been on the run when the Fourth Expansion was brought to an official halt: our offensive blunted, pulverized, and beaten back. It would have been a matter of months until Earth itself became the target.

  Something I found surreal, as I watched gulls circling and drifting in the air over the beach at the far edge of the old airfield.

  For a brief moment I imagined kinetic impact weaponry or hydrogen bombs coming down on the island. Or, if the mantes were smart, far out in the Pacific. Drop a big enough asteroid into the water and th
e tsunami would do most of the work. At least for the coastal areas where much of the civilian population was concentrated, as well as a good deal of Fleet equipment and manpower.

  But now, all was quiet.

  When it came time for the official signing to begin, I took my seat along with the rest of the Fleet personnel.

  One after another, generals and several civilian statespeople took the podium to make their speeches. I sort of tuned out—old military habits dying hard—while I looked across the dais on which the podium sat, to where the Queen Mother and many of her officers were in formation. Their antennae waved lazily in the breeze, while their eyes were directly on the podium proper.

  Occasionally I saw the Queen Mother move her head, looking in my direction. I smiled slightly, hoping she noticed that I noticed her.

  Then I got a shocking surprise.

  General Ustinov, overall commander of Fleet in its entirety, had one of his colonels approach the podium with a small box.

  “And now if Chief Barlow would please present himself,” Ustinov said, his Russian accent distinct.

  I reflexively shot up out of my chair and muttered apologies as I made my way to the aisle and then up to the edge of the dais. I looked up at Ustinov—flanked by his other generals—and saluted.

  “Warrant Officer Barlow, reporting as ordered,” I said.

  The general—and all around him—also saluted.

  When they dropped their hands, I dropped mine.

  “Come on up,” Ustinov said, pointing to a spot in front of the podium.

  I stepped onto the carpet and proceeded to where I’d been aimed, then stood at rigid attention. When one of the colonels whispered under her breath for me to do an about-face, I spun on a heel and faced the crowd, which was composed of Fleet, civilians, and mantis personnel alike.

  The outdoor amphitheater was packed.

  I swallowed hard.

  “None of you need an introduction to this man,” Ustinov said into the microphone on the podium. “But I wanted him to receive special recognition for his contribution to this moment. In war, generals have to plan for the worst-case scenario. Having discussed things with my counterparts in the mantis military, my understanding is that we were both convinced that the other side would strike. At any moment. So that when hostilities did renew, we threw ourselves into the melee with all our energy. Yet it was a chaplain’s assistant who took the initiative to seek an alternative path. A path we’re now walking, for the sake of mankind’s future in this universe. Chief Barlow, please remain at attention while I and all the other people of Earth give you a well-earned round of applause.”

  The amphitheater came alive with clapping, as men and women rose to their feet. In addition to the clapping, there were cheers from the civilians, some of whom where pounding their hands together so hard—with tears in their eyes—that I blushed despite myself.

  After thirty seconds, the applause died down, and the civilian people began to return to their seats. The military folks remained standing. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the Queen Mother walking slowly up to the podium.

  The colonel’s voice hissed for me to do another about-face. I did as I was told. Ustinov stepped away from the podium and walked up to me. The colonel trailed, box in hand.

  “Stay with it,” Ustinov said quietly to me. “I know it’s painful being the focus of attention like this, but we’ve only got two more small matters to attend to. Colonel?”

  The box sprang open on hinges. Two small metallic items gleamed within. I didn’t dare look down—just kept my eyes straight ahead.

  A major walked to the podium and cleared her throat, using a small pad to read from while she spoke into the microphone.

  “Attention to orders. In accordance with the wishes of the President-Secretary of the Alliance of Earth Nations, and per the directive of the Chair of the Colonial War Contingency Congress, Harrison Barlow’s brevet rank of Warrant Officer is removed. Barlow is hereby promoted to the rank of Captain, Chaplains Corps, per special appointment by General Ustinov, Commanding General, Fleet Command.”

  Ustinov reached up and plucked the bars from my collar.

  “You won’t be needing those anymore,” he said softly, still smiling.

  Out of the box came captain’s clusters identical to what Adanaho had worn. I swallowed thickly as the general pinned them in place.

  “Furthermore,” the major said into the mic, “Captain Barlow is awarded the Interstellar Medal of Valor, in recognition of his sacrifice and hardship in the service of the highest ideals of the Fleet, and the Colonial War Contingency Congress. Captain Barlow’s actions, in the face of overwhelming odds and at the risk of his own life, were directly responsible for the successful cessation of combat.”

  The general gently and expertly applied the strip at the top of the ribbon—from which the solid metal disc of the medal hung—to my chest, where the strip sealed instantly against the artificial fabric of my dress uniform.

  “Now give us one more about-face,” Ustinov said.

  I spun.

  The Queen Mother walked to my side, her eyes looking out into the human crowd.

  “There was a time,” her vocoded voice said, now made large through the amphitheater’s sound system, “when my people thought ourselves the sole, supreme intelligence in our universe. We travelled the stars and saw none to match us. When twice before we encountered sapience, we extinguished it, believing that the universe was ours alone to develop and rule. I was a product of that thinking. There was no room in my mind for humans. Two people changed my thinking. One of whom stands before you. The other does not. Like so many of your people, and mine, she was a victim of my limited thinking. And though I cannot bring her—nor any of the other dead—back, I can tell you now that we mantes are committed to peace. We will learn to make room in our minds, and also, in our hearts, for human beings. This I promise you with my own life.”

  Thunderous, titanic applause. Like a sound wave beating against me. When it finally died down, the major at the podium continued.

  “The Colonial War Contingency Congress Star of Honor is posthumously awarded to Captain Ndiya Adanaho, Intelligence, in recognition of her supreme bravery and sacrifice in the service of all humanity. Captain Adanaho’s clear thinking and ultimate sacrifice are in the highest tradition of her branch, and the Fleet as a whole. On behalf of Fleet Command, we ask that Captain Adanaho’s next of kin approach the podium to receive the award.”

  A tiny old woman in a conservative shawl stood up from the front row of civilians and walked slowly up and onto the dais. Not a sound was heard as she came to stand beside me. A second box was brought forward and pressed into her hands, with Ustinov quietly speaking words of condolence and thanks.

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see tears leaking down the woman’s brown, wrinkled face. I suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to kneel at her feet and plead forgiveness—for not saving her niece.

  But I kept my bearing.

  There was no applause this time. As a whole, we bowed our heads for a respectful moment of silence.

  The rest of the event was something of a blur for me. I went back to my seat as ordered, and observed the actual signing with a mixed mood of relief and exhaustion. I also kept an eye on Adanaho’s aunt, who had returned to her seat, and who wasn’t looking at anyone in particular while she continued to cry. She just rubbed the box in her thin-fingered little hands, clutching it occasionally to her face while those around her reached out their hands to pat her shoulders and express condolences.

  When it was all over, the crowd surged down and onto the dais, bubbling with talk.

  I remained seated, leaning this way and that to try to keep an eye on Adanaho’s aunt, but was upset to discover that the old woman had disappeared.

  I got up and began to gently pushed down through the mass of milling bodies—accepting thanks and handshakes and congratulations as I went—until suddenly I felt someone’s hand grab my forearm and p
ull me aside.

  It was Diane. In full dress uniform.

  “Kudos, Harry,” she said, smiling at me.

  Her finger tapped my medal, then my collar.

  I bowed my head and sighed.

  “Adanaho was the real hero. She earned her rank. And her medal. I didn’t do much. I couldn’t even save Adanaho when it mattered.”

  Then I noticed Fulbright’s uniform.

  “Captain Fulbright?” I said, looking at her with eyes wide.

  “You never asked me my rank when I told you I’d stayed on with Fleet Reserve. I didn’t feel like going through the rest of my career as an enlisted woman. So I put in my packet for a direct commission two years before the fighting got started again. Looks like we’re both going to be playing ossifer now, Harry. Same branch, too.”

  The Queen Mother approached, with General Ustinov in tow.

  “The ripple effects of the treaty will take time to spread throughout mantis space—and the Quorum of the Select. We will have to detour to meet the Quorum on our way to Purgatory, so that my successor can officially take over again. Do you mind the extended space duty?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Very good. We will depart your planet at the rising of tomorrow’s sun. Until then, I have further officiousness and ceremony to attend to, at the behest of your civilian leadership. Will either of you be coming for that?”

  “Not if I don’t have to,” I said, looking at the general.

  “I think I’ll allow for some personal time,” he said. “Since you’ve got one last evening on Earth, it’s up to you to decide how you want to spend it. Report to the flight line at ten-hundred tomorrow, ready to climb aboard the Queen Mother’s ship.”

  I yessirred, saluted, he saluted back, then Diane and I bade farewell to the Queen Mother and looked for a quick exit.

  CHAPTER 59

  OAK HARBOR WAS LIT UP LIKE A CHRISTMAS TREE. FOR A HISTORICALLY military town, the mood was quite festive, with Fleet personnel and civilians alike mobbing the sidewalks and chattering happily amongst themselves. To look at the place you’d not have guessed that until very recently, humanity was at war.