Decision Point (ARC)
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own anything up here, so gift-giving isn’t exactly easy. Can’t get
on the nets and order stuff to be shipped up here, all gift-
wrapped. But gifts don’t have to be toys and stuff. What I gave
Flip here, the gift that got us in so much trouble, was a poem.”
“Oh how sweet,” said the Brit. “A love poem?”
In answer, Flip recited it. Blushing, of course, because the
joke was on him. But also loving it—because the joke was on
him.
Dink could see that a lot of them thought it was cool to have
a toon leader write a satirical poem about one of his soldiers. It
really was a gift.
“And just to prove that we aren’t celebrating actual
Christmas,” said Dink, “let’s just give each other whatever gifts
we think of on any day at all in December. It can be Hannukah.
It can be … hell, it can be Sinterklaas Day, can’t it? The day is
still young.”
“If Dink would give us all a gift,” intoned the Jamaican kid,
“that would give our hearts a lift.”
“Oh how sweet,” said the Brit.
“Crazy Tom thinks everything’s sweet,” said the Canadian,
“except for Tom’s own mold-covered feet.”
Most of them laughed.
“Was that supposed to be a present?” said Crazy Tom.
“Father Christmas is doing a substandard job this year.”
“It would be pleasant to get a present,” said Wiggin.
Everybody laughed a little. Wiggin went on. “It would be better
to get a letter.”
Only a few people chuckled at that. Then they were all quiet.
“That’s the only gift I want,” said Wiggin softly. “A letter
from home. If you can give me that, I’m with you.”
“I can’t,” said Dink, now just as serious as Wiggin. “They’ve
cut us off from everything. The best I can do is this: At home you
know your family’s doing Santa stuff. Hanging up stockings,
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right? You’re American, right?”
Wiggin nodded.
“Hang up your stocking this year, Wiggin, and you’ll get
something in it.”
“Coal,” said Crazy Tom, the Brit.
“I don’t know what it is yet,” said Dink, “but it’ll be there.”
“It won’t really be from them,” said Wiggin.
“No, it won’t,” said Dink. “It’ll be from Santa Claus.” He
grinned.
Wiggin shook his head. “Don’t do it, Dink,” he said. “It’s not
worth the trouble it’ll cause.”
“What trouble? It’ll build morale.”
“We’re here to study war,” said Wiggin.
Zeck whispered: “Study war no more.”
“Are you still here, Zeck?” said Dink, then pointedly turned
his back on him. “We’re here to build an army, Wiggin. A group
of men who work together as one. Not a bunch of kids hammered
down by teachers who think they can erase ten thousand years of
human history and culture by making a rule.”
Wiggin looked away and said, sadly, “Do what you want,
Dink.”
“I always do,” answered Dink.
“The only gift that God respects,” said Zeck, “is a broken
heart and a contrite spirit.”
A lot of kids groaned at that, but Dink gave Zeck one last
look. “And when were you ever contrite?”
“Contrition,” said Zeck, “is a gift I give to God, not to you.”
Only then did Zeck walk away, back toward his bed, where he’d
be hidden behind the curvature of the barracks room.
*
Rat Army was only a small percentage of the population of
Battle School, but word spread quickly. The other armies began
picking it up as a joke. Someone would pick up some scrap of
leftover food and drop it on someone else’s meal tray, saying,
“There you are, from Santa with love.” And everybody at the
table would laugh.
But even as a joke, it was a gift, wasn’t it? Santa Claus was
giving gifts all over Battle School within days.
It was more than just gifts. It was stockings. Nobody could
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say who started it, but after a while it seemed that the giving of
every gift was accompanied by a stocking. Rolled up, hidden
inside something else, but always a stocking. Nobody hung the
stocking up in hopes of getting it filled, of course. It was the other
way around—the stockings were being given as part of the gift.
And the recipient of the stocking found a way to wear it,
whether it fit or not. Dangling from a sleeve. On a foot, but not
matched with the other sock. Inside a flash suit. Sticking out of
a pocket. Just for a day, the sock was worn, and then it was given
back. It was the stocking more than the words now that said, This
is from Santa Claus.
The stockings were needed, because what were the gifts? A
few were poems, written on paper. Some of them were food
scraps. As the days passed, however, more and more of the gifts
took the form of favors. Tutoring. Extra practice time in the
Battle Room. A bed that was already made when somebody came
back from the showers. Showing somebody how to get to a
hidden level in one of the video games.
Even when it wasn’t a tangible gift, there was the stocking to
make it real.
Father was right, thought Zeck. The parents of these children
put the lie of Santa in their hearts, and now it bears fruits. Liars,
all of them, giving gifts as homage to the Father of Lies. Zeck
could hear his father’s voice in his memory: “He will answer
their prayers with the ashes of sin in their mouths, with the poison
of atheism and unbelief in the plasma of their blood.” These
children were not believers—not in Christ, and not in Santa
Claus. They knew they served a lie. If only they could see that
when you do charity in the name of Satan it turns to sin. The
devil cannot do good.
Zeck tried to go see Colonel Graff, but he was stopped by a
Marine in the corridor. “Do you have an appointment with the
commandant of Battle School?”
“No, sir,” said Zeck.
“Then whatever you have to say, say it to your counselor. Or
one of the teachers.”
The teachers were no help. Few of them would talk to him
anymore. They’d say, “Is this about algebra? No? Then tell it to
somebody else, Zeck.” The words of Christ had long since worn
out their welcome in this place.
The counselor did listen—or at least sat in a room with him
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while he talked. But it came to nothing.
“So what you’re telling me is that the other students are being
kind to each other, and you want it stopped.”
“They’re doing it in the name of Santa Claus.”
“What, exactly, has anyone done to you—in the name of
Santa Claus?”
“Nothing to me, personally, but—”
“So you’re complaining because they’re being
kind to other
people and not to you?”
“Because it’s in the name of—”
“Santa Claus, I see. Do you believe in Santa Claus, Zeck?”
“What do you mean?”
“Believe in Santa Claus. Do you think there’s really a jolly
fat guy in a red suit who brings gifts?”
“No.”
“So Santa Claus isn’t part of your religion.”
“That’s exactly my point. It’s part of their religion.”
“I’ve asked. They say it isn’t religion at all. That Santa Claus
is merely a cultural figure shared by many of the cultures of
Earth.”
“It’s part of Christmas,” insisted Zeck.
“And you don’t believe in Christmas.”
“Not the way most people celebrate it, no.”
“What do you believe in?”
“I believe Jesus Christ was born, probably not in December
at all anyway, and he grew up to be the Savior of the world.”
“No Santa Claus.”
“No.”
“So Santa Claus isn’t part of Christmas.”
“Of course he’s part of Christmas,” said Zeck. “For most
people.”
“Just not for you.”
Zeck nodded.
“All right, I’ll talk about this to my superiors,” said the
counselor. “Do you want to know what I think? I think they’re
going to tell me it’s just a fad, and they’re going to let it run itself
out.”
“In other words, they’re going to let them keep doing it as
long as they want.”
“They’re children, Zeck. Not many of them are as tenacious
as you. They’ll lose interest in it and it will go away. Have
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patience. Patience isn’t against your religion, is it?”
“I refuse to take offense at your sarcasm.”
“I wasn’t being sarcastic.”
“I can see that you also are a true son to the Father of Lies.”
And Zeck got up and left.
“I’m glad you didn’t take offense,” the counselor called after
him.
There would be no recourse to authority, obviously. Not
directly, anyway.
Instead, Zeck went to several of the Arab students, pointing
out that the authorities were allowing a Christian custom to be
openly practiced. From the first few, he heard the standard litany:
“Islam has renounced rivalry between religions. What they do is
their business.”
But Zeck was finally able to get a rise out of a Pakistani kid
in Bee Army. Not that Ahmed said anything positive. In fact, he
looked completely uninterested, even hostile. Yet Zeck knew
that he had struck a nerve. “They say Santa Claus isn’t religious.
He’s national. But in your country, is there any difference? Is
Muhammed—”
Ahmed held up one hand and looked away. “It is not for you
to say the prophet’s name.”
“I’m not comparing him to Santa Claus, of course,” said
Zeck. Though in fact Zeck had heard his father call Muhammed
“Satan’s imitation of a prophet,” which would make Santa and
Muhammed pretty well parallel.
“You have said enough,” said Ahmed. “I’m done with you.”
Zeck knew that Ahmed had gotten along well enough in
Battle School. Their home countries were powerless to insist on
religious privileges, so the children in Battle School had been
granted exemptions from the obligations of Muslims to pray. But
what would he do now that the Christians were getting their
Santa Claus? Pakistan had been formed as a Muslim country.
There was no distinction between what was national and what
was Muslim.
It apparently took Ahmed two days to organize things,
especially because it was impossible to ascertain at any given
time which earthside timezone they were in—or directly
above—and therefore what times they should pray. They
couldn’t even find out what time it was in Mecca and use that
schedule.
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So Ahmed and other Muslim students apparently worked it
out so that they would pray during times when they were not in
class, and would continue to use the exemption for those students
who were in an actual battle at a prayer time.
The result was a demonstration of piety at breakfast. At first
it seemed only a half-dozen Muslims were involved, the students
prostrating themselves and facing—not Mecca, which would
have been impossible—but to portside, which faced the sun.
But once the praying began, other Muslim students took note
and at first a few, then more and more, joined in the praying.
Zeck sat at the table, eating without conversation with his
supposed comrades in Rat Army. He pretended not to notice or
care, but he was delighted. Because Dink grasped the meaning
almost at once. The prayer was a Muslim response to Dink’s
Santa Claus campaign. There was no way the commandant could
ignore this.
“So maybe it’s a good thing,” Dink murmured to Flip, who
was sitting next to him.
Zeck knew it was not a good thing. Muslims had renounced
terrorism many years ago, after the disastrous Sunni-Shiite war,
and had even reconciled with Israel and made common economic
cause. But everyone knew how much resentment still seethed
within the Muslim world, with many Muslims believing they
were treated unfairly by the Hegemony. Everyone knew of the
imams and ayatollahs who claimed, loudly, that what was needed
was not a secular Hegemony, but a Caliph to unify the world in
worship of God. “When we live by Sharia, God will protect us
from these monsters. When God sends a warning, we are wise to
listen. Instead, we do the opposite, and God will not protect us
when we are in rebellion against him.”
It was language Zeck understood. Apart from their religious
delusions, they had the courage of their faith. They were not
afraid to speak up. And they had numbers enough to force people
to listen to them. They would be heard by those who had long
since stopped even pretending to listen to Zeck.
The next prayer time was at the end of lunch. The Muslims
had spread the word, and all those who intended to pray lingered
in the mess hall. Zeck had already heard that the same thing
happened in the commanders’ mess at breakfast, but now most
of the Muslim commanders had come into the main mess hall to
join their soldiers in prayer.
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Colonel Graff came into the mess hall just before the
announced time of prayer.
“Religious observance in Battle School is forbidden,” he said
loudly. “Muslims have been granted an exemption from the
requirement of daily prayers. So any Muslim student who insists
on a public display of religious rituals will be disciplined, and
any commanders or toon leaders who take part will immediately
&nbs
p; and permanently lose their rank.”
Graff had already turned to leave when Ahmed called out,
“What about Santa Claus?”
“As far as I know,” said Graff, “there is no religious ritual
associated with Santa Claus, and Santa Claus has not been
sighted here in Battle School.”
“Double standard!” shouted Ahmed, and several others
echoed him.
Graff ignored him and left the mess hall.
The door had not closed when two dozen Marines came
through the door and stationed themselves around the room.
When the time for prayer came, Ahmed and several others
immediately prostrated themselves. Marines came to them,
forced them to their feet, and handcuffed them. The Marine
lieutenant looked around the room. “Anyone else?”
One more soldier lay down to pray; he was also handcuffed.
No one else defied them. Five Muslims were taken from the
room. Not roughly, but not all that gently, either.
Zeck turned his attention back to his food.
“This makes you happy, doesn’t it?” whispered Dink.
Zeck turned a blank face toward him.
“You did this,” said Dink softly.
“I’m a Christian. I don’t tell Muslims when to pray.” Zeck
regretted speaking as soon as he finished. He should have
remained silent.
“You’re not a good liar, Zeck,” said Dink. And now he was
talking loud enough that the rest of the table could hear. “Don’t
get me wrong, I think it’s one of your best points—you’re used
to telling the truth, so you never learned the skill of telling lies.”
“I don’t lie,” said Zeck.
“Your words were literally true, I’m sure. Our Muslim
friends did not consult you on the timetable. But as an answer to
my accusation that you did this, it was such a pathetically
obvious lie. A dodge. If you really had nothing to do with it, you
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wouldn’t have needed a dodge. You answered like someone with
something to hide.”
This time Zeck said nothing.
“You think this will help your chances of getting out of Battle
School. Maybe you even think it will disrupt Battle School and
hurt the war effort—which makes you a traitor, from one point
of view, or a hero of Christianity, from another. But you won’t
stop this war, and you won’t hurt Battle School in the long run.