by Trevor Wyatt
I know I didn’t get the choice to choose. I was forced to Ascend because at the time, the military needed more men than women. The same thing with the males at the time. They were barred from the ceremony and hence have to live the rest of their lives as men and infertile. The rest of the Sonali people must attend the Ascension ceremony.
Just one of the other ways I feel the Sonali government is ruining the lives of its people.
At thirteen, when I was being reduced to nothing—literally nothing, my flesh being ripped out by spiky whips (I still have those scars on my back, as do most military nonconformists turned conformists) I was but a wide eyed girl who thought she could make a difference in the world reading books. After thirteen, I was tamed. I took my trainings seriously and fashioned myself into a killer.
In fact, it was my dedication and skill and seeming ruthlessness that got me drafted into the Hell Fire Brigade. At eighteen, the government changed my gender to a male and the subsequent physical developments only intensified my physical strength and ability.
I am not hardly the best fighter in the Brigade. In fact, I might be considered one of the weaker ones. But compared to the regular army troops, I would be incredibly stronger. And compared to Terran soldiers, I am a super-Sonali.
I have used my past experiences as an excuse to justify some of my inhumane actions. We have been operational for three months now. We’ve raided about thirteen colonies thus far and committed some of the most unforgivable acts seen in the galaxy. All these I’ve justified with my need to live.
It’s pretty simple: in the military and more so in the Hell Fire Brigade, it’s kill or be killed. It’s conform or be made to conform (only at this point, your conformity would be death—the ultimate conformity to the true end of all flesh).
There are many Terran sympathizers in the Sonali Prime. Some scholars sympathize with the Terran claiming they were pushed to war by an action we did not commit. Some religious caste members upbraid the military for dragging the Sonali people into a war with a people we just made first contact with, a people who up until now haven’t had contact with any other species, not even the devious Tyreesians or psychic Reznak.
Even some leaders protest our approach. They are allowed to.
But Terran Sympathizers within the military is a taboo. Those even as much as suspected to be sympathizers are dealt with. You don’t have to even speak against it. If you as much as whisper it in your dream and you are heard by a disloyal friend or a superior officer, you will be dealt with—and that is if you’re not killed on sight.
If you hesitate to pull a trigger, especially during an engagement, your death is sealed and secured by that action. In fact, that is not just considered sympathizing, it is sympathizing unto death. It’s treason, and execution can occur right on the battlefield.
So, you see why I’ve had to do all the terrible things I’ve had to do. And keeping quiet about it is the hardest thing. I’ve had to live with myself, even after slaughtering hundreds of children and burning hundreds of defenseless civilians, just to dissuade the sub-legate of my brigade that I am not a Terran Sympathizer.
I’ve deceived myself into thinking that my instinct for self-preservation is so strong that it permits my morals to assimilate and accept my disdainful and shameful actions. But I wonder just how long this deception will last. I know I can’t go on deceiving myself indefinitely.
There is a commotion at the center of the cafeteria that pulls me out of the evils of my past back into the present.
A soldier has been drawn up by Colonel Zel. This soldier is small-statured, but sturdy and muscular. He has been stripped bare except for a pair of tight shorts he has on. His oolna is a visible bulge below his waistline. The ladies around see it and whistle and call out to him carelessly.
I look at the soldier intently. I don’t know him—it’s a big unit and Zel commands us all. Nevertheless, from the maze-like scars on his skin, I can tell he was once a nonconformist like me…or he still is.
Colonel Zel has a strong grip on the Sonali’s arm.
“People, what do we do to traitors?” he calls.
“Kill them!” comes the unanimous reply, followed by cheers and chanting that all call for the Sonali’s head.
I look around with dismay and extreme consternation. We are supposed to be brothers. We are supposed to be comrades in arms. How did we get this way? How were we turned into a pack of wolves? Even wolves understand the essence of brotherhood and oneness.
I see the bloodlust in the eyes of my fellow soldiers. I see the desire to see blood spilled. I see a desire to wreak havoc and propagate mayhem. I think about the colony we are descending on tomorrow, the poor hapless and harmless people who are going to feel the wrath and curse of our kind. I can only feel pity.
Colonel Zel turns and then looks through the hundreds of heads in the room straight at me. I jerk back.
“What do we do to sympathizers?” he roars, keeping his gaze fixed on me.
I swallow hard and as the crowd follows with another thunderous response, “We execute them.” I mutter along.
Colonel Zel points straight at me. “You!”
His very words seize me, causing me to sit ramrod straight.
“You will do the honors,” he says, then pushes the soldier onto the ground. Immediately, everyone gives this muscular Sonali a wide birth, forming a wide circle at the center of the cafeteria with the soldier in the middle.
I haven’t moved at all, because I am not sure of what’s happening. Everything’s happening so fast.
Hands grab me and set me on my feet. Hands pass me along, my eyes fixed on Colonel Zel who looks at me with disdain. A handle is pressed into my hand by someone and I look down at my hand to see I’m holding a large, curved blade with an edge so sharp it is capable of splitting the air.
At the edge of the milling crowd, I am pushed into the center and stumble over one of the tables. I have to throw my sword hand away so I don’t impale myself in the gut.
This gets a lot of cheers and laughter from the soldiers around.
The one to be executed stands his ground several yards away from me, using another table as a barrier between him and me.
Movement at the main entrance catches my eye. Filing into the edge of the cafeteria is a group of officers. I recognize them as the B control center crew. The legate is the last to walk in. He’s a fat Sonali with a belly that protrudes outward. He may look lazy, but I know him to be ruthless. Maybe this is why they assigned him to pilot the same vessel as the infinitely ruthless Colonel Zelvin.
It’s unclear who’s in charge, though, in the ship: the legate or the sub-legate. They serve under different arms of the military.
I walk over to Zel.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say.
I see the surprise appear on Zel’s face, which is quickly replaced by fury. “He says we don’t have to do it!” Zel roars.
There is a shocked whisper that spreads through the room.
“Have we found ourselves another sympathizer?”
I feel my heart climb up to my throat.
“No!” I yell. “I am not a sympathizer!”
“Prove it, then,” cries someone from behind.
“Kill the bastard!” cries another.
Then someone way in the back who’s probably too drunk yells, “By the True Way, kill them both!”
And everyone cheers to that.
“You know what?” Col Zel says, “Let’s make this more fun. Give Mailyn a weapon. Let him have the dignity to fight to the death or kill this zhingta standing before me.”
Colonel Zelvin speaks with total hatred that slams into me and forces me to double back. I turn just in time to see someone throw a blade at Mailyn, who picks it out of the air with practiced ease. He moves the blade through the air with a familiarity that I find terrifying. Then he looks up at me and a dreadful smile spreads across his face.
I look back at Zel. I step across the space separating us unt
il my lips is by his ears.
“Don’t do this…” I whisper, “Brother.”
Zel replies in an equally silent tone, “What brother of mine is unwilling to kill Terrans? Kill him and you will ride out with me tomorrow to destroy that colony. Otherwise, die here with dignity and not a branded traitor. I will not have you bring shame to our father’s name.”
I shake my head. “Father wouldn’t want me to do this.”
“You know nothing of father’s wishes,” he whispers with an edge in his voice. Then he backs up and palms my chest, sending me into the air and crashing onto a table right in the center of the space.
“What are you waiting for?” Colonel Zel says, “Fight to the death!”
Everyone screams and cheers.
I hear Mailyn’s scream before I see his blade falling towards my throat. My blade intercepts barely two feet away from my face. Sparks fly around. While they do, I whip my legs around, striking the Sonali on the face and getting to my knees on the bench.
The Sonali staggers backwards, dazed for a short period of time.
I stay where I am, not taking advantage.
Mailyn recovers. Now, he’s furious. He screams again and rushes towards me. I leap into the air, perform three flips in mid-air over the man’s head and land in his back, even before the Sonali has the chance to turn.
My blade goes right through the base of his neck and shoot out of his neck, spilling blue blood all around the ground.
The crowd goes mad. I force a smile, though a fire burns within me. A fire of hate. A fire of hatred against all the Sonali hold dear. Hatred for this war that has turned brothers against one another. Hatred for this war that has made rapists out of our soldiers, murderers out of men, and making genocide something to be commended.
This anger is ablaze in me, causing my smile to turn into a frown. I jerk out the blade and Mailyn falls to the ground. Then I swing the blade once more, lumping off his head.
The head lands on the floor and rolls until it stops by my head. I look up at Zel. He has a satisfied smile on his face. Across the distance and regardless of the deafening scream of triumph that has engulfed the mess hall, I see through my brother’s smile the monster that he truly is.
I let the sword drop to the ground as I am rushed by my comrades who lift me into the air and hail me for my patriotic act. As I am bobbing in the air, I am struck with the insensibility and unreasonableness of these people. When did killing your fellow man become patriotic? When did compassion and love and kindness become a crime?
When did we stray so far from the light that we not only live in darkness but require it to survive?
Are we truly the monsters a Terran mother would tell her child? Do we not land on their planets and water their crops with their own bloods?
We, the Sonali, did not pick this fight, true—it was picked for us. Nevertheless, do we not have a responsibility to pursue peace and not war? Can we not rise above unnecessary scuffles? If the Terrans can’t see past their ignorance and bashful pride, then is it not our duty as the more superior race of the two to consider their handicap?
I force my way to the ground and begin to walk away.
“Alright everyone!” Colonel Zel begins to say, “Enjoy your night and prepare to make blood rain tomorrow night! Terran blood!”
The scream that follows this is so deafening I can’t help but bring my hands to my ears as I walk out.
I wander aimlessly through the transport vessel for a long time before finding my way back to the accommodations. Since this is really a transport vessel used for transporting soldiers, we don’t get quarters. Only Colonel Zel and some other officers get separate quarters, aside, of course, from the crew of the ship.
The accommodations are a series of large halls with bunk beds arranged in rows and columns. Each bunk bed is equipped with its own atmosphere and shielding. As I walk into accommodations C4, I am besieged with a multitude of moaning and groaning. Many of the soldiers have managed to return to the accommodations to have sex.
I feel disgust shoot through my throat.
The bunk bed allows you to shield your bed space as well as block outside view. It also allows you to mute your space, keeping others from being disturbed by your snores or anything else.
It seems that many soldiers like to forget they can do this, when they’ve been able to score one of the female warriors or members of the crew. There are about fifty beds in a particular accommodation room. Out of these fifty, ten are shielded and darkened and emitting high pitched moans and intermittent screams and the occasion flares that show someone inside is pounding on the shield.
I walk past a few of those, doing my best not to get riled up as to pound against the shield and yell for them to be quiet. The Terrans have a phrase that is apt here. It goes…shut the fuck up.
When I get to my bunk space, which is on the other side of the accommodations room, I meet two people groping each other.
I almost yell at them, when the male turns and I see it’s my brother, Colonel Zel. The female is half naked, her breasts bare before me, her nipples standing as stones. She screams and leaps out of my bed, grabbing her breasts in one hand, her blouse in the other, and running away.
“Let’s meet in my quarters in ten,” Colonel Zel calls after her.
“Okay,” her reply returns, faint.
I remain silent, looking from my brother to my ruffled bed back to my brother. I can’t believe it.
“What?” he says with a sheepish smile. “We waited for you. And when it comes, you must go with the flow.”
I don’t know which is worse, that my brother is a xenophobic zealot who’s hatred for Terrans is unparalleled or he’s a hopeless sex maniac.
War does many things to many people.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“I came to make sure you understood why I did what I had to do,” he says.
“I understand,” I reply. Anything to get him the heck away from me as soon as possible.
He shoots to his feet. Before I can react, he grabs my shirt and says, “Do you?”
Though his breath is thick with rakjtag, his eyes are alive with threat.
“I do,” I reply, my voice grave.
“Good.” He lets me go. He looks me over.
“You may think what I do to you is harsh,” he says, “But believe me when I say I do everything to protect you. Many believe I am soft on you. You don’t want them believing that for too long. I can only protect you for too long.”
I don’t reply. I won’t be fooled by my brother’s deception, neither will I be party to his desire to rationalize his wicked and twisted nature.
“Get some sleep,” he says. “Or go have some fun. Tomorrow, we fight.”
He walks away without another word. I take his first advice and go to sleep. According to our code, on the day of an incursion, we have time to ourself and anyone can do whatever they want with their time. Nevertheless, two hours before leaving the ship every one is to report to their platoon for further instruction and so on.
I set my bunk bed system to put me to sleep and only wake me up one hour before I am supposed to report to the main command. Then I activate the shield, the screen block and the mute functions.
I lay on my hardly soft bed in silence. A sweet smelling savor wafts into my nostrils. Seconds later, I am lost in the infinite reals of unconsciousness.
A mild electric jolt brings me to consciousness. I jerk to an upright position, my heart beating fast in anticipation. My body is hot from sweat, in spite of the cool temperature in my bunk, and my mind is groggy as it tries to fill the several hours of gap it was unconscious.
I have a strong feeling that I have something urgent to do, but I can’t quite figure out what it is. I look around my bed, cobwebs and darkness covering my memory.
I take deep breathes and swallow hard.
“Private Groyt, report to main command,” says a voice in my bunk bed space. “Private Groyt, report to main command
now.”
Then it hit me like a shuttle at maximum speed. I am a soldier onboard a transport vessel carrying troops from the Hell Fire Brigade of the Sonali Army. My brother is sub-legate and last night he made me kill another Sonali. In a few hours we will be landing on a border colony called Beruit. I will have to kill people, whether they are armed or unarmed. It will be a massacre.
I deactivate the shield and jump out of my bunk bed. I am the only one in the room. The others are already assembled in the shuttles, receiving last minute instructions. I make a run to the adjacent shower stalls and take a shower. No, I don’t fancy being smelly even though I’m going to fight, not after last night’s panoply of immorality and seediness.
I change into my uniform, attaching my access card to my shirt. Then I hightail it to the armory, where other soldiers are picking their fill of weapons.
The Hell Fire Brigade is an unorthodox army unit. There are no rules of engagement or code of conducts. Neither are we bound to use a certain type of weapons. Although we all take a rifle or pistol, we also take other weapons, especially axes, massive hammers and blades to main, cripple, and behead.
It is where the fun is—the slaughter.
I grab a pistol, then a small blade. I holster the pistol on my right hip and sheath the blade on my left thigh.
I head on to the lower decks, where the main command is located, which is also where the soldiers find their platoons and are shipped down to the planet. We still have two hours to engage, which could mean that we were already in orbit and are already bombarding the planet’s defenses, like security posts, escape shuttles and generators.
The main command is filled with CNC crews and Lieutenants, who are also platoon leaders, in the Brigade. There is a large holographic projection hovering in the center of the colony. The colony is being divided according to the platoon leaders.
