Peace Army

by Steven L. Hawk

  Over the first year after Treel’s capture, Grant had spent at least two hours each day talking with the alien. His reasons for doing so were protective and proactive in nature. He needed information that would help protect Earth from a possible future attack. And he did not want to wait until the day the information was needed to get it.

  There was no torture; it wasn’t needed. The alien was forthcoming with every detail requested. He answered Grant’s questions about Minith capabilities, tactics, and weapons promptly and efficiently. Because of the ease with which it was gained, Grant was initially suspicious of the information provided. It took him nearly a year to realize that Treel was just responding as he had been conditioned by Minith culture. Upon losing his entire force and being captured, Treel had simply conceded superiority to the humans who defeated him.

  For the Minith, defeat by a superior opponent meant a complete and immediate shift in loyalty to the victor.

  Once Grant understood that key detail of the Minith psyche, he proceeded differently. He fostered a relationship with the alien based on mutual trust and understanding. They discussed more than just tactics of warfare. They ventured into areas of Minith culture—family life and children. It was during these discussions that Treel announced to Grant that he had a family. A spouse and two children resided on a planet that had been captured and claimed outside the Minith’s home solar system.

  It was soon after learning of Treel’s family that Grant introduced the alien to his own son.

  Eli was three when Grant first took the boy to visit Treel, and Grant was amazed at the bond Eli and the alien formed. Within weeks, Eli was asking to visit Treel daily. It took more than a little convincing to get Avery to relent to regular visits, but after agreeing only on the condition that they visit as a family, she too was soon swayed by Treel’s interactions with the boy. Eli’s lack of fear and obvious affection for Treel helped seal the deal. After six months of family visits, neither she nor Grant had any concern about Eli’s safety and soon permitted Eli unrestricted visits.

  Despite his own convictions, it took two years for Grant to convince the Leadership Council that the Minith soldier was no longer a threat to humans. He eventually succeeded, though. Although Treel was still technically a prisoner, he was not confined to a room or a cell. He was free to roam as he wished—for now. Grant had no idea if that freedom would be allowed to continue.

  The approaching ship changed things.

  * * *

  “Check.”

  Eli scanned the board. The pieces were in their appointed places. But he always made sure. His dad taught him that lesson the first time they ever played.

  Always make sure.

  Satisfied everything was in order, he moved his knight two spots down and one spot over. It settled neatly into its appointed place. To the place he had planned for it to settle a dozen moves back. He smiled at his latest opponent, the only person—well, not really a person—other than his dad who played chess.

  “Checkmate.”

  “Ah! I thought I had you that time, little one,” Treel conceded. He leaned back from the table and glared at the five-year-old across the board.

  Eli grinned at Treel’s menacing sneer. He knew it was a “tactic”—his dad’s word—the alien used to intimidate him. But it never worked. Treel was a Minith, but he was nice. That was Treel’s big secret around most humans. Almost everyone was scared to be around him. Not his dad or his mom, or even his uncle Tane or his uncle Mouse. They knew Treel well enough. But everyone else left the room quickly when the alien entered. They weren’t used to his size, his large ears, or his green leathery hide.

  Eli knew that was the reason Treel kept to his room. He did not like how most humans acted when they were around him.

  “Again, little one?” The best thing about Treel, though, was he liked to play chess. He was also getting better with each game, which was great.

  “Sure,” the boy eagerly accepted. He loved the game and would play all day if he could. His dad was busy and didn’t have a lot of time to play. His uncle Tane tried playing a few times, but Eli knew he did it just to spend time with him. Uncle Tane wasn’t very good, and that was boring.

  They gathered the pieces and settled them into their places. Eli rocked with anticipation of the next match.

  Treel curled his top lip and snarled. Eli laughed.

  “Don’t even try that tactic, Treel. You’re goin’ down, clown.” He quoted one of his dad’s favorite phrases whenever they started a new game. He didn’t know what it meant, but it sounded funny.

  Treel snarled again. Gave Eli the Minith version of a smile. Led out with knight to F3.

  * * *

  Grant stopped, peered into the window set into the door, and nodded. As expected, Treel and Eli were well into a game of chess. A surge of regret at not having more time to spend with Eli flashed painfully through his core. He shrugged it off, consciously denying it the power to deter him from his duties.

  Grant pulled the door open and entered the room quietly, not wanting to disturb the game.

  Eli would have none of it, though. When he saw his dad, the game was forgotten. He erupted from his chair and quickly wrapped himself around his dad’s legs.

  “Dad!”

  “Hey, son. You kicking some Minith butt?” He smiled and ruffled his son’s reddish-brown hair, a gift from his mother’s gene pool.

  Treel stood from the game. Stretched. “Yes. Your little one is unusually good at this game of strategy. He will make a fine soldier one day.”

  “Don’t tell his mother that, or she’ll never let him play chess again,” Grant only half joked. Avery knew the need for soldiers, but she was adamant that her son would not be among them.

  “Aw. C’mon, dad. It’s just a game.” Eli knew when his dad wasn’t being completely serious. “Besides, I’m gonna be a pilot.”

  “Yes, yes. A pilot, just like your uncle Mouse.” Grant knew where his son’s allegiance resided. “Unfortunately, I’m not sure your mom sees the distinction between a person who fights on the ground and one who fights in the air.”

  Grant picked the boy up and squeezed him in a tight hug. “You know how much I love you?”

  Eli spread his right thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart and held his hand up to his eye. He squinted through the tiny space. “About this much?”

  “Ha. Even less.” They laughed, both familiar with the game they played. The smaller the gap, the more love there was between them.

  Grant put the boy down and pointed him toward the door. “Go see what your mom is doing. I need to talk to Treel for a bit.”

  “But Dad, we’re right in the middle of a game!”

  Grant sighed. Surveyed the board quickly. Shook his head. “Little buddy, looks like you’ve got him set up for checkmate in three more moves.”

  “What?” Treel growled as he scanned the pieces arranged on the table. “I’m ahead on this one.”

  “Ha! That’s funny,” Eli teased as he headed for the door. “Told you you were goin’ down, clown!”

  Chapter 2

  Mouse landed the jet carrier on the runway outside the giant structure formerly known as Violent’s Prison. Tane, the sole passenger on this extended flight, was glad to be back on the ground.

  Although much faster than the carriers he had grown up with, this new version was constricting in its size. Where normal carriers were utilitarian vehicles designed to carry a dozen or more passengers from once place to another, this new variety carried a maximum of two people in tiny, separate compartments. The jet carrier was meant for two things: speed and war.

  In addition to the jet design initially described by Grant, but developed by Tane’s ever-growing research and development team, the vehicle boasted a wide range of weapon systems and defensive countermeasures. According to Grant, ancient armies known as “air forces” were built around similar, though not quite as efficient, flying machines.

  Tane and Mouse were finally home
from the three-day trip that had them visiting the generals of each of the four other Culture Armies. The four generals reported directly to Grant, who also acted as the general of the N’mercan Armed Forces. The purpose of the trip was to notify the other Cultures of the impending arrival of another Minith mothership, and to alert them to the coming battle.

  Tane and Mouse had found the other generals and their Culture Armies woefully unprepared for what was headed their way.

  Grant had worked miracles preparing Earth and its citizens for this day, but it was an uphill battle at best. Reversing hundreds of years of forced indoctrination toward a peaceful society could not be accomplished in a short period—even when the fate of the planet rested in the balance. The majority of the world’s population was too fixated on Peace to understand the need for an army, weapons, or soldiers, much less the fighting that those things implied. Billions would prefer to let the Minith destroy the planet to picking up a weapon and fighting against their ultimate destruction.

  The concept of Peace threatened to strangle any hope for success against a Minith return. It was a deeply bred flaw—one that the human psyche, once geared toward the concept, could not easily shake. At least, not in less than a single generation.

  The best chance of breaking the cycle rested with the youngest generation of humans. At the direction of the Leadership Council six years earlier, all children six years or younger were held out of the formerly required Peace training sessions. Tendencies toward violence were officially relaxed for the first time in more than two hundred years.

  Parents were required by their leaders to be tolerant of pushing, shoving, and hitting. Instead of using old techniques for stopping and redirecting outbursts, parents were instructed on how to properly guide the behaviors. Children were no longer put into Peace training classes or subjected to mind-alteration therapies. Parents were directed to explain to children that hitting and kicking were acceptable, but only if done to protect themselves or others from attack or abuse.

  But knowing what is needed and being able to provide it are two wholly separate things. Many complied and did their best. Other parents could not adjust, though their future and the world’s future depended on it. So they refused to comply with the Council’s directives and raised their children as they had been raised. Still others complied, but could not bear to see their children express the mildest displays of violence. Most of these eventually turned their children over to Council-run orphanages and care centers.

  Within these orphanages, trained instructors were hired and all followed the letter and intent of the Leadership directives. Children in these facilities quickly outnumbered the trained adults and they grew up fighting as kids once did, often outside the “only when to protect yourself” guidelines. Nature was permitted to take its course and the strongest and smartest children quickly led their groups. Not surprisingly, the children who showed the most promise of becoming future soldiers came from these places. But there were too few, and they were still too young, to be of any help in the coming weeks.

  These thoughts weighed heavily on Tane as he climbed out of the cramped cockpit of the jet carrier.

  “See you inside, Mouse,” Tane muttered as he dropped the final step onto the runway.

  He saw several gray-clad figures running toward the carrier. They would help Mouse check out the vehicle and prepare it for the next flight. They were not soldiers, but were very good at helping those who were. He and Grant had learned early on that they needed to use non-soldiers in whatever support roles they could. It helped stretch their combat forces to the maximum usable level.

  “Hey, that’s ‘Colonel Mouse,’ Senior Scientist Tane Rolan!” The large pilot shouted from his seat in the carrier. Tane looked up. Mouse’s dark face, now full of shiny gold teeth, smiled down at him.

  The pilot waved.

  “Just messing with you, Tane. See you inside.”

  Tane released a breath and waved back weakly. Even after six years of working beside them, the scientist still struggled to know when these soldiers—these former Violents—were were joking and when they weren’t.

  He turned quickly on his heel and headed for the giant fortress of concentric concrete buildings. The acid-filled moat was gone and the outer wall of the structure had been breached on four sides to allow traffic to pass easily into and out of the facility.

  Upon defeating the Minith six years earlier, the prisoners had been released. The idea was that they would form the foundation for Grant’s new army, and almost all accepted. The large structure had then been turned into a modern-day Pentagon. At least, that’s what Grant called it. Tane wasn’t sure what that meant—there were five concentric buildings, but each was a square, not a pentagon—but it held significance for Grant, so that’s how he always thought of it. What he did know was that the best human fighting force to grace Earth in more than three hundred years was housed here.

  Unfortunately, that knowledge provided little comfort.

  * * *

  Grant was in a sour mood as he strode toward the inner square. He nodded at the men and women he passed, but his mind was elsewhere. A Minith mothership was only days away and the human forces defending the planet were woefully unprepared. He wanted another six years—needed another six years.

  Adding another layer of difficulty, the manner in which they acted toward Treel had suddenly become complicated. When notified of the approaching ship, the alien’s stance was immediate and unequivocal. He would stand with the invaders. Minith nature and law demanded it.

  It pissed him off, but Grant understood. If he were in Treel’s situation, he would fight for his people, despite any personal feelings for his captors. On top of that, Treel had a family on another planet. The only hope for getting back to them was with the Minith.

  Yes, Grant understood.

  Treel had similarly understood when Grant announced that his room was again a cell. It was now securely locked, with two armed guards posted outside the door.

  Grant’s new concern about Treel’s decision was that Eli would not understand the sudden change in the dynamic. No more visits. No more chess games. No more interaction with the alien soldier who had become a constant part of his young life.

  For at least the thousandth time since being brought back to life, Grant longed for the old days, when his decisions affected only himself and the soldiers under his command. Life had been so easy then. Now his actions and decisions affected his wife, his child, his soldiers—hell, they affected the entire human population.

  He hadn’t asked for the responsibility, but the future of humanity had been shoved into his hands six years ago. The world’s biggest friggin’ game of hot potato ever, and he had lost.

  And he was tired.

  The gray hair that had recently started to pepper his otherwise dark crew cut was proof that he was no longer a young buck. The deepening lines in the face that looked back at him every morning confirmed it. He looked his full thirty-eight years.

  Make that 638 years, he silently corrected. Give or take a decade.

  Grant exited the building that made up the Fourth Square and crossed the open courtyard that separated it from the inner Fifth Square building. Each step seemed heavier and slower than the last and he entered the building reluctantly.

  Being the innermost building within a series of buildings, the Fifth Square was the smallest, but most secure facility within the mammoth structure. Upon defeating the Minith on Earth, Grant had made it his headquarters and the command center for what was gradually becoming Earth’s Army.

  Through the Fifth Square building was the final courtyard, a large, open area that marked the exact center of Violent’s Prison. Grant briefly considered passing through the command building and getting on one of the dozen or so carriers that waited in the courtyard. But the temptation passed quickly, replaced as it always was by resignation and the ever-present weight of responsibility.

  He stopped for a moment in front of the command conferenc
e room door to compose his thoughts before entering. Grant found himself doing that more and more lately as his energy levels shrank and the weight of his responsibilities grew. Those few seconds to calm his emotions, gather his thoughts, and consider the big picture helped him manage the weight.

  He took a final deep breath.

  Released it.

  Entered the conference room.

  This meeting was a daily gathering of the military leaders of the N’mercan and global forces. It was their daily information sharing and planning meeting. In this room, the issues that impacted and shaped the world’s defense against the Minith were discussed, debated, and decided. Except for the Earth’s Leadership Council, the people in this room were undeniably the most influential humans on the planet. Some thought they were the more influential than even the Leadership Council.

  “Tane. Colonel Mouse,” Grant acknowledged the two men as he entered the room and took in the attendees. “Good to see that you’re back.”

  “Good day, Grant,” Tane replied.

  Senior Scientist Tane Rolan was the real hero in the fight against the Minith, both now and six years earlier.

  That was Grant’s view, anyway.

  It was the diminutive thinker, with the steel gray eyes, who had brought Grant back from his frozen slumber. It was Tane who had given Grant new life, new limbs, and the weapons with which to fight the alien invaders. Grant was merely the brawn—an ancient soldier with muscles and military know-how. Tane was the brains of the outfit. His ability to take Grant’s ideas and turn them into reality was nothing short of amazing.

  Grant learned early on that he could describe a weapon or vehicle and, within a few months, Tane and his ever-growing team would parade out a prototype, ready for Grant’s inspection.

  Some designs were easier to create than others. Reproducing the laser-based weapon that Grant had found in the Boston museum was a simple matter of reverse engineering. Turning that pistol-shaped weapon into a rifle version was accomplished just as quickly. Those two weapons supplemented the standard, projectile weapons which were the real foundation of Grant’s new army. In Grant’s experience, there was no better weapon than one that fired actual bullets. However, he also recognized the need for diversity in firepower, and the laser-based weapons were a good choice for mixing things up. For every ten soldiers who carried a “real” rifle, one soldier would be issued one of the laser rifles.