Peace Army

by Steven L. Hawk

  Other weapons had been more difficult. The first prototype for the jet-powered carrier fighter that Mouse and his forces flew had taken two years for Tane’s team to develop. The final version had taken the team another year to perfect. Once the vehicle was finalized, it took yet another year to set up the manufacturing facilities that could produce the vehicles in quantity. Grant agonized over the slowness at first, but once the fighter was perfected, and the facility was built, the plant rolled out carrier after carrier. Grant was forced to acknowledge that the laborers of current Earth were good at their work. Over the last two years, the plant had rolled out more than ten thousand of the carriers—almost twice as many as there were pilots to fly them.

  The same was true of the tanks, personnel carriers, pulse weapons, and artillery pieces that Grant had added to the mix. The plants—and the workers who staffed them—were building weapons that might never be used, simply because there were not enough soldiers to man them. For Grant, this was a blessing and a curse. It was great to have a surplus of weapons and vehicles—a surplus of weapons is generally a good thing for an army to have. But in this instance, the surplus only highlighted their need to turn more of the population into soldiers.

  Of all the cultures, the Afc’n Culture had been the most successful at drafting willing fighters. More than a third of the world’s fighting forces, which currently totaled fewer than sixty thousand, were recruited from the continent that Grant had always known as Africa. Of the remaining forty thousand fighters, roughly fifteen thousand came from the N’mercan Culture. The S’mercan and As’n Cultures had drafted nearly ten thousand recruits each; the Urop’n and Musl’n Cultures contributed less than three thousand. The sixty thousand included virtually all ten thousand of the former adult inmates of Violent’s Prison. This meant that in six years, Earth had produced only fifty thousand additional fighters—from a population of more than sixty billion.

  Not enough. Not nearly enough, Grant thought. He pulled his weary mind back to the here and now.

  “Colonel Mouse, how are you?” he asked his second-in-command.

  Mouse merely nodded, raised a hand in greeting, and smiled.

  Grant’s mood lifted immediately. The sight of the large black pilot proudly showing off his new smile never failed to elicit a warm feeling. The first time he had met Mouse, just a few buildings away from where they now were, the larger man possessed only a handful of teeth. Dental care for residents of Violent’s Prison had never been a priority before they helped defeat the Minith.

  Grant took a silent roll call of the attendees as he approached his seat at the head of the long table. In addition to the lead scientist and the commander of his air forces, the primary members of the command team, six in total, were present. All, except Tane and Mr. Blue, were former inmates of Violent’s Prison.

  Mr. Blue, at Tane’s insistence, had been placed in charge of the non-combat operations personnel. Despite Blue’s strict adherence to the principles of Peace and Grant’s personal dislike of the man, Tane had argued that Blue’s abilities made him the obvious choice for the position. Grant had grudgingly agreed and, over the past few years, had come to acknowledge that the professional administrator was exceptionally good at his job, despite being a constant pain in the ass.

  As he sat, Grant noticed the single surprise attendee. Standing in the far corner of the room, her hands clasped calmly in front of her, stood Randalyn Trevino, the N’mercan representative from the Leadership Council. She was dressed in the royal blue pantsuit that Grant had learned was common to all Council members who visited their home Cultures on business-related matters.

  Though normally common and drab, the one thing Grant appreciated about current dress styles was that they gave information about the wearer and his or her purpose. Colors and styles had meaning and were universally accepted by the classes and groups assigned to them. Farmers wore light-brown coveralls. Cleaners, janitors, and other personnel responsible for the upkeep of buildings and equipment wore light gray. As a military man, accustomed to uniforms, Grant appreciated the utilitarian nature of the current dress. As a man raised in an era where individualism was celebrated, however, the repetitive sameness wore on his already tired mind. There was no denying that the majority of the world he had woken up to was boring. Boring, boring, boring.

  “Culture Leader Trevino, what a pleasant surprise,” Grant said, making sure to address the leader in the formal, Standard manner. “I see you are here in an official capacity. Please, join us at the table.”

  Randalyn smiled and nodded, promptly sitting in the empty chair at the far end of the table. It was obvious that the other attendees had left the seat open for their guest.

  “Thank you, General Justice.” Randalyn Trevino smoothed the front of her suit and placed her clasped hands on the table. “I hope my unannounced visit is not ill received.”

  “Nonsense, Randalyn, you’re always welcome here.” Grant dispensed with the Standard speech and reverted to the style they typically used. He had come to know Randalyn Trevino—Randi to her friends—well over the past six years and liked her immensely. Except for Tane, she was probably most responsible for him being brought back to life to fight the Minith.

  “Thank you, Grant. In light of the current situation with the Minith, the Council thought it best that I oversee the response firsthand.”

  “By ‘oversee the response,’ I hope you don’t mean to guide or direct our forces in any way, Randalyn.” Grant paused, looking directly at the Culture Leader. He wanted his position to be very clear. “I will direct our military response as I see fit.”

  The right corner of Randalyn’s mouth lifted. It was almost a smile, but not quite. The shine in her eyes was evident, though.

  “Grant, I have no intention of getting in your way or making any military decisions.” She paused and let the comment settle. “But that statement stays in this room.”

  She looked at those around the table, met their stares, and received silent agreement.

  “There are some on the Leadership Council who do not have the same faith in your abilities that I have. They prefer—how shall I say—a more ‘controlled’ approach. That is why they asked me to come here.”

  “So what you’re saying is that the rest of the Council doesn’t trust us to do what’s right?” Mouse asked. His smile was absent.

  “Not the entire Council,” Randalyn responded. “But there are one or two who still cling to the principles of Peace. They have forgotten the lessons we learned not so long ago, and believe that we might be able to negotiate or reason with the Minith.”

  “Are we certain the aliens cannot be reasoned with?” Blue asked. His hands waved imploringly at the Culture Leader. “How do we know for sure?”

  The administrator was grasping at nonexistent straws and Grant was in no mood to hear it.

  “That’s enough!” Grant asserted. “Blue, do you have any problem keeping what’s said in this room to yourself?”

  “What… what do you mean?”

  “I’ll keep it simple,” Grant spoke as he would to a child. His weariness prevented him from remaining as professional as he might have liked. “Are you going to run to the Leadership Council and let them know what we discuss in this room?”

  “No…no.”

  “Good, then let’s have no more discussion about whether the Minith can or cannot be reasoned with. I think we all know the answer to that question.” Those seated around the table nodded their agreement, including Blue, although it was with obvious reluctance.

  “Now, let’s get on with our agenda.”

  Grant’s exhaustion was quickly forgotten as they got on with planning their response to the incoming Minith ship.

  Chapter 3

  Grant entered his quarters in the First Square building. Although not large, the area that he’d been given offered his family some privacy and they had customized the space as well as they could. It was late and he quietly peeked in on Eli, who slept in a closet-size
d area that served as his bedroom.

  Eli was sleeping peacefully. He lay diagonally across the small bed and, as was his usual practice, his blanket was kicked off his small body. Grant readjusted the blanket and ran his fingers through the boy’s hair. He was careful not to wake the boy because, once awake, Eli would want to know all about his dad’s day, and Grant was tired. He could wait until morning to share more time with his son. These few minutes of silence and closeness were enough for now.

  Grant dragged himself into the space he and Avery had created for their bedroom. It was the one place in this new world where he really felt at home, and he let the feeling overtake him as he pulled off his boots and removed his olive drab coverall. The weight of his responsibilities almost disappeared for the first time all day. He lay down quietly, trying not to wake Avery, but she immediately stirred.

  “Hey there, handsome. What time is it?” she asked quietly.

  “Just a bit after midnight. Sorry to wake you.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He reached out for her breast, suddenly not so tired. He found her shoulder instead and slipped his hand down to her back, pulling her closer. He nuzzled the top of her head. “And what did you have in mind?”

  She pulled her head back slightly and turned her face upward. He could not see her in the darkness, but knew she was looking into his eyes. Her ability to see in the dark was much better than his.

  “Just wanted to see how you’re doing,” she whispered knowingly.

  The tiredness returned and he rolled onto his back, all thoughts of intimacy forgotten. Grant knew she was worried about him. She had been encouraging him for months to slow down or take a break. She knew more than anyone how the constant pressures of planning and training for war were affecting him. She had been the one to point out his first gray hair—one that appeared on his chest, of all places.

  “About the same, hon. Things are really starting to pick up steam.”

  “Yeah, I heard. Your son came to me this afternoon, crying that he wasn’t able to see his favorite chess partner.”

  “Aw, dammit,” Grant groaned. “I’m sorry, Avery, I should have told you and Eli. I just got caught up with things.”

  Avery stroked his face. “It’s okay, I understand,” she spoke gently. And she did understand, Grant knew. She was good that way. “I spoke to Tane and he told me what happened. I can’t say I’m surprised, though. Treel is a Minith soldier.”

  “Well, then, that makes two of us. I just wish Eli understood.”

  “Maybe you can try to explain it to him tomorrow,” Avery replied. “I didn’t go into it much with him this afternoon. He’s just a little boy, and all he knows is that he just lost his best friend. You know that’s what Treel is to him, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Grant acknowledged. “It’s a sad day when a five-year-old’s best friend is a seven-and-a-half-foot-tall green alien whose entire race wants to turn you into a slave. Why can’t he have friends his own race, size, and age?”

  “You know why, Grant,” Avery explained, though they already knew. “Most five-year-olds are not like our little boy. He’s too much like his father and twice as smart, to boot.” She poked him in the ribs with the last comment and laughed.

  “Hey, I’m smart too,” Grant joked back, laughing. “And what’s the matter with him being like his old man, anyway?”

  “Well, you got the ‘old’ part right.” Avery was giggling now. “Find any more gray hairs today?”

  “Woman, that’s just not right, making fun of my gray hair.” Grant sat up and flexed his biceps. “Anyone else around here have arms like these? Huh?”

  “Oh, you’re still the best-looking specimen of manhood around, Grant. A little gray hair isn’t going to change that.” Avery pulled his face down to hers and kissed his eyes. She knew he was too tired for more than a few kisses and pushed him back to his pillow.

  “What, can’t the best specimen of manhood around get a little bit of loving?”

  “Mmm. Not tonight,” Avery grew serious again. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, babe. Anything you want to know. All you have to do is ask,” Grant muttered as he settled back to his side of the bed. This was his favorite part of the evening. Settling down with the woman he loved, just talking. Of course, it usually happened after they made love—but he wasn’t one to complain as long as it wasn’t an every night occurrence.

  “What do you miss most about your old life?” Avery asked. Her voice was now calm and hushed. “We never talk about it, and I want to know.”

  “Really? That’s what you want to talk about? With all that’s going on lately, you want to know about the ‘old days?’” Grant chuckled. His own thoughts had been of the ‘old days’ lately and he didn’t have to think about his answer too much.

  “Yes, really. What do you miss the most? The women?” she asked teasingly.

  Grant laughed and shook his head.

  “No, not the women. Truth is, I didn’t know that many. My days were spent in the Army, which was a man’s world. More then than now, believe it or not. I’m sure the women were great—I just never had time to find anyone like you.” Grant couldn’t see it, but he could imagine Avery rolling her eyes.

  “Whatever,” she said, confirming the invisible eye roll. “Okay, not the women. So, what do you miss?”

  Grant took a few seconds to order his thoughts.

  “I miss the little things. I miss the taste of a good cigar. I miss playing poker with my friends. I miss football, rock music, jalapenos—”

  “I have no idea what you just said.”

  “Okay, let me see… I miss color on the walls. All the walls here are the same dull shade of gray. I miss the clothes I used to wear. I miss having some actual flavor in the food I eat. Nutrition is well and good, but what about adding some spice every now and then? How does that keep a person from leading a Peaceful life, huh? I don’t get that one at all.

  “Probably more than anything, I miss the way that we were all individuals. We weren’t part of some collective consciousness with the singular goal of propagating the human—excuse me—the Peaceful human existence. Everyone dressed the way they wanted to dress, ate what they liked to eat, and spoke how they were raised to speak. We didn’t have to speak a ‘standard’ language in public, and we certainly weren’t limited to six distinct Cultures back then.” Grant paused and tried to rein in his passion for the world he was born into. His anger for the world he now lived in. Could not.

  “Avery, there were nearly seven thousand different languages spoken on Earth back then.”

  “Seven thousand?” Avery asked. Her voice reflected her disbelief.

  “Yes, almost seven thousand—not the hundred or so that exist now! And there were hundreds of different cultures, each with their own traditions and beliefs. That’s what I miss most. The ability to travel from one place in the world to another and be immediately surrounded by differences. Differences in architecture, language, food, clothing, holidays!

  “Those hundreds of cultures have blended into six! And those six are just watered-down versions of the most common characteristics the larger groups shared. What we once referred to as a melting pot has finally come to a boil. We share a common language. Dress the same way. The buildings look the same. Our differences have become so minute, there’s not much difference between a farmer who lives fifty miles away from one who lives three thousand.”

  Grant took a breath and consciously calmed himself. He had not voiced his thoughts before, but now that he had, it was hard to control.

  “People have given up so much to achieve that illusive ideal of Peace. Individuality, personal choice, and self-expression have been casually traded away for the false comforts of social conformity and moral complacency. While that might rid the world of war, it comes with a price.

  “In my time, there was a saying, ‘variety is the spice of life.’ Although I didn’t apprec
iate it at the time, there was a lot more truth in that than I ever considered.”

  Exhaustion caused him to stop talking. He released a long, tired breath, gathered his thoughts, and focused on the positive. Despite sharing his pent-up emotions, not everything in the present world was drab and flavorless.

  “There’s one thing the old world didn’t have, Avery. One thing that makes this world so much better than the old one.”

  “Really? What is that?”

  “It didn’t have us.”

  Avery scooted close and draped her arm across his chest.

  Grant lost himself in the scent of her hair.

  Slept.

  Chapter 4

  Grant awoke to the sting of his nose being flicked by a five-year-old finger.

  His first thought was that he had overslept. His internal clock told him it was late morning—much later in the day than he typically awoke. He rarely overslept and the knowledge that he had done so now, with the Minith approaching, was an indicator of how tired he had become.

  His second thought was that his son needed attention as much as his troops did, and he had been lax in giving it. Grant’s arms snaked out, snatched the boy from his feet, and pulled him into the bed. He wrapped him in a tight embrace and Eli giggled at the rough treatment.

  “Why, I oughta…” Grant teased. He tickled his son’s ribs, eliciting squeals of laughter and a sudden staccato of reflexive kicks, one of which caught him squarely in the family jewels.