Untouchable Me
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the
brute!”
But it’s “Saviour of ‘is country,” when the guns begin to shoot;
Yes it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
But Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool--you bet that Tommy sees!
-
Rudyard Kipling
Sometime
after the Sixth Great Migrations…
Somewhere
in the Triangulum Galaxy…
I
figured, this was it. I was caught. They knew. Kreeg, if was I ever in
trouble, it was now.
They
knew it wasn’t my ident I used to sign up. They knew I wasn’t supposed to be
here. I thought I’d be sent home in shame, barred from service. An
embarrassment to the war effort. I’d been in the army five months, stationed on
Eptosh B, defending our allies from the Rukirian Hordes.
The
provosts came and called my name. They wore coilguns on their arms. There was
no place to hide under the grey canvass tent. If I ran, they’d have shot me.
So,
I cooperated. They took me from the field hospital, on a Howler, somewhere
else. I don’t know where. A bare, grey room.
And
I waited on the bare, grey bench.
Eptosh
B was conquered by the Hordes last year. It was in all the holostreams. They
invaded with gunships and drop pods, and captured the Eptosh High Senate, and
their Idols, too. They brought the senators and the idols both back to their
homeworld as trophies and established garrisons on the poverty-stricken planet.
The Eptoshim had only recently redeveloped deep space travel. Their ships were
primitive and not built for combat. They barely had an army, even. They never
had a chance. But our treaty with their High Senate and Chief Executive
demanded we intervene. They were Homeworlds’ allies, and that meant it was our
fight, too. The Hordes had to be stopped, or they would move through the rest
of Phycon Sector like a plague.
That
was what the holos in the recruitment office said. And they said, soldiers got
good benefits. Seemed like soldiers had it good. So I figured, why not? It was
something to be, more than an orphan.
A
provost brought me a tray of food. It was the same kind of overly processed
synthetic mush they served at the base. Five differently colored, differently
textured lumps eaten with the same spoon. I picked at the lump that was gritty
and yellow, not particularly hungry, until an officer who looked to be in his
early thirties arrived. He was no provost, this one. I thought his black eyes
looked kind. He didn’t look like he’d ever seen combat. He reminded me of a
school guidance counselor, more than anyone who belonged in a warzone.
“Hello,
Otto,” he said, using my real name. Not “Private Pollock,” which the Lieutenant
called me, or “Pollock,” like my squadmates, or even “Castador,” which it said
on the ident I used to sign up.
He
said, “I’m Captain Tobias Krafft. Public Relations. Don’t worry, you’re not in
any trouble. But you’re a long way from home, kid.”
His
eyes began to look less kind and more like they were searching me, waiting for
me to say something. Like a trap. I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to fill
the silent space, or if I should hold out and wait to see if he would speak
again, unprompted. So, I said nothing. I didn’t want to own my name. Some
stubborn part of me thought if I ignored him, maybe he would go away. But when
has that ever happened? I should have known better. I wasn’t stupid.
Tobias
Krafft spoke in calm, measured tones:
“I
understand why you would expect to be in trouble. But you’re not. Yes, we know
your real name. Castador is your brother. He’s four years older than you. He
studies architecture at Tesh City Community Higher School, and he still has no
idea you enlisted him in the army and are illicitly serving in his place while
he is technically absent without leave. We haven’t contacted your next of kin
yet. Your family must think you just ran away.”
That
was awfully presumptive of him. Castador and I didn’t even have parents. He
remembered them, but I didn’t. We had been wards of the state since I was a
baby. I spent the first ten years of my life fighting for scraps and fleeting
attention in a group home where we were assigned by the Benefactors. Army
seemed like a step up.
Maybe
Krafft knew this already, probably he did, and was trying to goad me into
confirming something, saying anything, like it would give him an edge. So, I
said nothing.
He
half-smiled, half-sighed. It was his way of telling me he was amused but not
surprised. Like he thought I wasn’t as smart as I thought I was.
“Castador
is nineteen. That makes you fifteen. And you are not supposed to be here,
either.”
“Permission
to speak freely, sir?” I asked. I still considered myself a soldier.
“You
don’t need my permission,” said the man. “You’re not legally supposed to be
wearing that uniform.”
“Are
you going to send me home, sir?” I asked.
He
shook his head like he was bewildered why I would even ask. Like I should
already know. I hated when adults did that. Then, all of what I thought was
kindness seemed to evaporate from his face, leaving behind something menacing.
“Now,
why would we do that?” he asked. “I told you, you’re not supposed to be here. If
it was known that you are here, we would have a lot of problems.
There would be questions. We don’t want that. So, we have absolutely no
intention of revealing to anyone outside the chain of command that an underage civilian
illegally enlisted using false credentials, and we sent him into combat.
There’s the public’s faith in us to consider. So, you have our full support,
Private Castador Pollock. That’s all.”
Wanting
to believe something is worse than knowing you’ve been lied to. At least,
that’s what I thought, when Captain Krafft left the room. The door lock
clicked. I was obviously a prisoner, here on their terms. If I wanted to stay,
I’d have to follow the rules. But actually, that wasn’t really any different
from how it was before. There were rules. If I didn’t follow them, I’d get
punished, and if that didn’t take, then court martialed. And they would have
found out anyway. And who knows, maybe that would have gone down worse. But
worse for me? Or worse for them?
I
know this sounds crazy, but I did want to stay.
I
really did believe we were doing some good over here, and there was nothing for
me at home. Being here actually meant something. It was the only choice I ever
really made for myself. I knew it wasn’t mine to make. But I made it so. Now, I
felt robbed of that. Krafft had made it clear they had their reasons to look
the other way, and it had nothing to do with me.
I
didn’t know what time it was, but I was tired. Eventually, I slept. In the
morning, Krafft came back. He had a contract with him, readied on a paper-thin digiflex
sheet for me to sign.
“I’m
supposed to read this with you and explain every section,” he said.
We reviewed the contract.
I
was never to speak of this to anyone, ever. If I did, it would invalidate my
veterans’ benefits, and the military would erase all records of me and deny it
ever happened. Another section stated that when I did return to Homeworld, when
my cycle was over, I was required to attend therapy. I asked Krafft about that.
I said I didn’t need therapy. There was nothing wrong with me.
He
acted like he was being made to explain water to fish.
“Look,
you send kids to war, ninety-nine times out one-hundred, you’re not much good
for anything else after that. There’s no one in the chain of command wants to
be responsible for kreeging up your life. So, you finish your cycle. You go
back home. You see someone. You move on. Not a kreeging choice, Private. It’s a
consequence. You skipped the line. Now you pay the price.”
“They
didn’t mess up my life, though…” I said, careful not to use a two-syllabary
word like “kreeg” before a superior officer. “Sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have
interrupted. But no one did anything to mess up my life, sir. I chose to
be here.”
“Why?”
he asked.
“To
serve my planet,” I said. Obviously. I mean, didn’t he know that? Wasn’t he
wearing the same uniform as me?
He
sighed, frustrated, and said we’d talk later. He said I’d be transferred soon,
to another Howler. They wanted to pass me back through the same field hospital
they pulled me out of. Like I was fresh from a fight. I felt like I was being
smuggled.
I
got back to my unit at the front, and everything was normal again.
My
days were grey and red. I didn’t sleep well, but I never wanted for action. And
when my cycle was over, I still didn’t want to go back. There was still nothing
for me. But I knew they wouldn’t let me re-enlist. Not for two and a half more
years, anyway. And even then, probably not. They know who I am and what I did,
and I don’t think they would let me be a soldier again.
The
thought did occur to me that I was untouchable. A scandal, just waiting to
break loose and ruin their reputations. Dangeboy. I could’ve taken advantage of
that, lorded it over them, like a brat. But I’d be hated for it, and I’d have
hated myself. I was still something of a patriot, and I couldn’t bring myself
to sully the glorious flag of Homeworld with bad behavior unbefitting a soldier.
So, when my red slip came, I quietly boarded the transport ship and made the
journey home.
I’ve
tried to move on, but Krafft was right. After that, I really wasn’t much good
for anything else. Not for lack of trying, though. I’m just a rotten kreeg-up.
I’ve
had thirty-seven jobs in eight years, and just as many stints on unemployment.
None of these jobs lasted more than six weeks. I’ve washed dishes and cleared
rubble and taken out the trash. Sure, there’s work, but what else is there?
I’ve
heard there’s others out there, and they’ll take you if you can fight. They
have ships, they’re not bound to any planetary authority. They’ll take you, and
if you play it right, they won’t ask too any questions. They have their
beliefs. Their causes. I’m open to whatever. I just want my life to mean
something again. So, these people, well, it’s just a matter of time. I’ll find
them. And I’ll be a soldier again.