Tales From The Sonali War: Year 1 of 5 (Pax Aeterna Universe Book 4)

by Trevor Wyatt

  I remain at the back of the room, watching as the Sonali soldiers plan to level a defenseless, farming colony.

  It’s even worse as I realize that it’s a farming colony with no armed presence. Then again, I wonder why the Terrans would set up a defenseless colony so close to us and expect us not to attack.

  Maybe they have faith in our morals—because really, what race would attack a defenseless planet?

  Well, it’s too bad for these ones. Their government failed them.

  I begin to prepare my mind for the horror I am being compelled to wreak on this planet. It’s not my fault, I tell myself. It’s the way the universe is.

  “How long before Terran reinforcement comes?” I ask aloud, drawing the room’s attention to me.

  It is the legate that answers, “We estimate three hours. Our intelligence assets suggests that there is a battle group currently headed for the border. They are planning to attack one of our soft targets. By the time we begin our approach, they may divert that battle group to come to the aid of this planet.”

  “I highly doubt the Terran Armada would send their starships to a worthless planet,” Colonel Zel says.

  “If it’s worthless, why are we attacking it, then?” I blurt.

  Colonel Zel flashes me a surly look.

  I remain impassive. I know I am walking a tightrope here. My question can easily be misconstrued as sympathetic.

  I add, “What strategic significance is accorded to us if we destroy that planet?”

  The looks on the faces in the main command turn from confusion to comprehension. I get some nods.

  Colonel Zel says, “Panic Campaign. When the Terran Armada loses half of its colonies, they will realize the error of their ways and beg us for forgiveness. Then we will strike at their home world. We will kill that beast of a President they have and disband the Terran Council. And if we feel like it, we will occupy their world and claim it as ours.”

  There is a silence. I am struck to my core with terror. How did we come to this point as a society, where men like my brother become leaders?

  Is all truly fair in war?

  “Okay, get to your ships,” Colonel Zel says. “Let’s go kill us some Terrans.”

  By the time I am strapped in to the shuttle, the transport vessel begins bombardment. I remain in the relative darkness of the hull of the shuttle, shoulder to shoulder with thirty other soldiers, hearing the thunderous explosions that follow missiles being launched planetside.

  The soldiers begin to chant their ear chant in anticipation. Soon, we are given the go signal and we lift off the shuttle bay. We join numerous other shuttles to enter the atmosphere of Beruit.

  I shut my eyes and begin to imagine what it must be like now on the ground. I imagine a small child looking up at the night skies and seeing hundreds of shuttles raining down from the sky, filled with men who don’t give a damn about your age or gender, who will kill you all the same. I try to imagine the terror they must feel.

  Colonel Zel, who’s right beside me, grabs my hand, and says, “If my men notice any crack, they will take their shot. You will die. So, what’s it going to be? Will you kill or be killed?”

  I don’t reply, neither do I open my eyes. My brother knows that I’m a Terran sympathizer at heart, not because I have any particular love for the people (they did start the war, after all), but because I find that war is fruitless. It is pointless. It is utterly useless.

  The shuttle touches down with a jerk. Our straps release us automatically, even as the shuttle door opens. With impressive war cries, the soldiers empty the shuttle rifles ablaze and blades held up, Colonel Zel leading the charge.

  I hear the screams of the victims soon enough. I rise to my feet, fighting against my ethics. It takes the very thought of death to push me to the open shuttle door. I pull out my gun and blade and jump down onto the dirt.

  We have landed in a large village. The houses are well built, though outwardly resemble huts. Already littering the floor are dead or dying bodies of men, women and children. Every one of them are unarmed. The ones that are armed are armed with hoes, cutlass and other farming tools.

  Everything is like slow motion to me. I move slowly through the village, shooting and shooting and shooting. Everyone that rushes to me gets shot in the head. Those that are running away get shot in the back. Now, it’s either me or them, and I must choose me.

  Must you? Says a voice that stops me in my tracks. It’s Father’s voice. And all of a sudden, my mind is flooded by overwhelming guilt and shame.

  If father were still alive and saw me, would he be proud of my actions?

  A girl’s scream pulls my attention to a small house to my right. I walk right into the small living room to find a young girl and her brother cornered by one of the soldiers. He’s reaching for his pants latch.

  I go mad with rage. I raise my gun, aim and shoot. The Sonali crumples to the ground.

  “What in the name of the Goddess…”

  I turn to see my brother in the doorway, looking at the dead Sonali. The moment he looks up at me, I am aiming at him.

  His eyes widen with fear.

  “I’m sorry brother,” I say, “but I didn’t sign up for this.”

  Before Zel can bring up his blaster, I shoot him in the chest. He falls outside and out of sight. I know I should feel terrible for killing my brother. But I don’t feel such. I feel relieved. I feel a little redeemed.

  There is nothing I can do to make up for what I’ve done in the past, but I know that I am doing the right thing.

  I look at the terrified duo.

  “Go,” I say. “Go and hide somewhere safe. Hide where no one will see you.”

  They only look at me strangely.

  I realize that they don’t understand what I’m saying. I motion with my hands. They get my gesture and run out of the house, giving me a wide berth.

  All is not fair in war. The ends do not justify the means. Every act we have committed, we will be required to give account of it one day. It may not be to the government, it may not be to a military tribunal. Indeed, we may have forgotten, when we shall be called upon to pay. But one day. Surely, one day. Every creature will be required to give account of what he has done.

  I hear a voice behind me. It’s Terran speech.

  I turn to see why the boy has returned when I feel a powerful energy tear through my body. I see the gleeful look in the boy’s eyes and he releases three more shots, drops the blaster, and runs away.

  I fall to my knees first, the life draining from me. Then I collapse on my face, bleeding out.

  My final thoughts are disarrayed, but I find that I am not enraged by the boy’s action. If anything I am liberated and no longer bound by guilt. I also feel a great sense of pity for the universe I’m leaving behind, for the children who are being raised in the Terran Union and in the Sonali Combine because of the cruelties of this horrible war.

  I should have been a scholar.

  Alas, all is not fair in war.

  6

  Last Survivors

  I stare across the large camp fire through the many faces to Kendra, who is sitting in the third row—the very back. I’m in the second row, and our eyes find each other. She’s the epitome of beauty. Her blonde hair lights up and glisten almost with a delicate bioluminescent material in the cast of the popping flames. Her soft eyes are green, though I can’t see them from this distance, looks at me and makes my heart melt.

  Kendra Chapman—or KC, as she’s fondly called in our small settlement on this side of the second moon of Latrellia, is a tall goddess. Her lips are thin, yet luscious. Her oval face is a little puffy in the cheek region, giving her a very attractive look. She has a petite figure and a gorgeous body.

  I wink my left eye at her and she cracks a silent laugh, a little chuckle escaping her lips. The elderly woman beside her gives her an upbraiding glance and she presses her lips thin in response, fighting hard to keep from laughing.

  No one knows we are�
��together, and for good reasons. KC’s family and mine aren’t exactly the best of friends. In fact, there has been a feud between our families since before their fathers landed on this moon and settled here.

  I heard it has something to do with KC’s great grandfather and mine contesting for the town chairmanship and my dad failing. It led to a revolt that in turn led to many deaths, mostly on KC’s family’s side, thus beginning a feud that lasted until this day.

  “They are a pack of wolves!” my dad would always rant, even though he and KC’s father have had little or no physical altercation.

  When I first heard it, I couldn’t believe it. You only heard about stuff like that in the holo-vids. It didn’t happen in reality.

  But now, I have to think again, because my life was the very expression of that reality.

  I don’t know why Kendra and I clicked the moment she returned with her aunt from New Sydney to come here and start her formal training in agriculture. She’d been taken away when we were only toddlers and have not come back for several years. She returned just before the war began six months ago. I remember when I first saw her, alighting from the shuttle that had brought her and a couple of new settlers down from the transport vessel. That was the happiest day of my life.

  I hear a few scuffles behind me. I look over my shoulders to see many more people coming to gather around the camp fire. There are two more loose rows behind me. There are about a hundred of us at the camp fire, sitting on stones in the center of the town.

  It’s the first day of the month of September, and as usual, we begin every first days with a campfire night.

  It’s majorly for everyone below the age of twenty, including kids and young adults—and it’s compulsory. Not attending the camp fire night is tantamount to social suicide. It’s not however compulsory for adults, though some try to attend. Mostly the counsellors and teachers, even those in other settlements on the moon.

  “Are we all in?” says the priest. He’s not an actual priest, since we on the moon do not practice any form of religion. We like to think of ourselves as free thinkers. Perhaps, our ancestors travelled a great distance from Earth, saw the vastness of space, and decided there was no God. They laid down those principles for us, which has guided our beliefs.

  So, even though we call him a priest, he really isn’t. Nevertheless, we realize the functions of a priest, which is to guide and lead people to the light. And sometimes to remind us of our past that we may make the right decisions in our present for a better future. Because this man in the middle of the circle by the fire fulfils this role for us during the camp fire nights, we call him the priest.

  His actual name is John…that’s it. No last name. John is a wizened old man in his late seventies. He has undergone several regenerative surgeries in his late sixties that put a few more decades in his body. He’s still old and aging, but his physiological systems are still quite intact. So, he’s not walking with a bend, like some of the old people in the town. He isn’t developing cataracts or glaucoma, like many of the oldies in the town.

  He certainly has a strong voice that can reach to the very edges of the town from the center of the town on a silent sunny afternoon. It is even rumored that he is still quite sexually active, although I can’t tell that that’s true.

  It’s pretty difficult to reconcile a priest (even though he really isn’t one) with sex—priests are supposed to be undefiled by the vain pleasures of this world. Priests are supposed to refrain from eating a lot and stay indoors seeking transcendence or higher truth or knowledge or whatever it is they seek.

  Anyways he’s not one, so whatever.

  John is standing ramrod straight, his face and hair adorned with silver hair. They are long and are stretching down to his shoulders, parallel to the general downward drawl of his facial skin. Unfortunately, John didn’t have enough money to pay for a facial reconstruction surgery to revive the youth in his face.

  There is a tiny gnat beneath his left eye, which many of us think is some sort of tech that allows him to see very far. Oh, and John has the best sight in all of the moon. The man can see in clear details for hundreds and hundreds of yards, so long as there’s no obstruction. When asked, he always attributes it to the reconstructive surgery he did on his eyes, but everyone knows reconstructive surgeries don’t give you super abilities—enhancements do.

  Some of us believe that he was some sort of spy for the Armada Intelligence, especially during the Schism. We know he fought in the war, we just don’t know in what capacity he fought. And his wartime experiences are something he never ever talks about.

  There are still some people coming in from all directions. I take another look around. We must be over two hundred now.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  “Are we all in?” John asks again, his voice strong and subduing every murmured and hushed whispers around.

  The giant flames dance in the smooth breeze that washes across us under the starry night. Other moons are in the sky, flooding us with a strong moonlight.

  “Yes, John,” replies a young woman from behind me. At that point, I hear commotion to my right. I look down my row to see Peter making his way towards me, causing everyone to complain.

  He gets to me and I shift a little so he can squeeze himself in. Instead, he just flops himself into the tiny space, jarring me a little on my side. I guess the other guy feels the pain because he curses a little and jerks Peter in the side.

  Peter is about to punch the guy in the face, when I stop him. Peter glances at me, a wicked glare still on his face.

  “Don’t do it,” I whisper to him.

  The other guy is already in a defensive post, his hands made into fists and raised above his face to fight. It’s Brad, and he is one of us. By us I mean one of the cool guys in this settlement.

  “Sorry, Brad,” I whisper to the guy. “Peter is sorry, too,”

  “No, I’m not,” Peter says almost immediately. Then he adds in an icy tone, “And don’t think I’ll forget this.”

  “Whatever dude,” Brad says and relaxes back in his sit.

  When I feel the tension let loose in Peter’s arm, I let him go.

  I look up at John to check if he’d caught the commotion.

  John is looking at us trio, his eyes squinted in suspicion. Fighting is not uncommon in camp fire meetings, because every teenager is here. And when every teenager with raging hormones gather, things are bound to happen.

  Tension is usually high—including romantic tension.

  The tension between me and Kendra is so high that I wonder if people can sense it off of us. Sometimes I get scared when Kendra and I are close together and Kendra’s father walks by. Of course, I’ll have to dodge the man’s look or make it look like I don’t know who Kendra really is. Still, the tension can be so strong I wonder if he can sense it.

  “Why are you late?” I ask Peter.

  Then I notice someone settling in beside Kendra. She’s a pretty black girl with a brown blouse and dark jean pants. Her glossy lips radiate in the firelight as does the tiny little necklace on her chest, which sits against a balmy, sweaty chest.

  Peter chuckles beside me. I glance back at him just in time to see him and Tiffany share a look that’s more than just friendly.

  “You didn’t…” I whisper at Peter.

  Peter is distracted by Tiffany and only replies me with an indiscernible mumble.

  I grab his jacket and shake him until I have his full attention. Peter is huge for his age. Like me, he’s eighteen…heck, we are all eighteen. Kendra, Brad, Peter, Tiffany and I are host of other seniors. It’s like our parents decided to give birth to us at the same time. Peter, however, looks like a professional quarterback with his incredible upper build.

  He’s got a lot of muscles for a guy his age, and he’s easily the strongest of us. Brad comes pretty close since Brad grew up with his dad in the Terran Armada Academy and learned one or two tricks. Brad’s dad is a First Officer aboard a war ship that�
��s off fighting the BFs. This is one reason Brad’s been touchy lately. He worries about his father.

  Most times when I look at Brad and his mother, I thank my luck that my dad hadn’t followed through with his plans to join the Armada and become a sailor. I’ll probably be having a wistful look on my face now, waiting by the slipstream terminal for a call from the Armada telling me how brave my father was or how he sacrificed his life for me and all that rubbish.

  I’d rather someone else sacrificed their life for me and my dad.

  A lot of our soldiers are dying out in the stars so much so that nobody sleeps comfortably at night any more. A lot of the folks on this moon have people that are currently in the border being eaten for dinner by the BFs.

  We call them BFs, which stands for Blue Freaks. Because that is who they are, freaks. Freaks of the universe. Freaks of nature.

  I come to, when I see that I have Peter’s attention. I drag him closer to my face and sniff his jacket. I perceive the distinctive smell of perfumery. It’s jasmine, Tiffany’s perfume.

  I almost choke in disgust as I imagine what Peter and Tiffany had been up to. They came in almost at the same time. He has Tiffany’s perfume all over him. It’s obvious what the two of them did. And thinking of that and the place I told Peter about earlier this morning, I just knew he betrayed my trust. Blasted Peter!

  “I told you that place in confidence, man,” I say letting go of his jacket.

  “What do you mean, Jake,” he replies. “It’s not what you think.”

  I sneak one more glance at Tiffany. She’s now in an impassioned conversation with Kendra, probably telling Kendra how deep Peter went and how he made her cum and all that stuff. Probably putting ideas in Kendra’s mind and thereby putting pressure on me to measure up, at least, to Peter.

  How could I measure up to someone that’s several times bigger than I am?

  I am frowning at Peter amidst the steady buzz of chatter around.

  “Seriously, Jake,” Peter says, focusing his attention on me.