Peace Warrior (3 page)

The officer pointed to Justice’s left and the stranded sergeant looked over at an outcropping of rock about six feet from where he hung. A large chuck of the rock dissolved into a spray of fragments, several of which stung his face and arms. The bastard fired an explosive round, Justice thought as he felt a warm trickle run from his forehead into his left eye. One of the rock fragments had opened a cut that began to bleed heavily. In a matter of seconds, Justice could not see very well from his left eye.

Justice turned his bloody face towards the officer whose smile was now beginning to include the eyes. The man was beginning to enjoy himself.

The officer smiled even broader and pointed at Justice as if to say, “It’s your turn now.” He then turned to those lined up next to him on the road’s edge and spoke a few words that Justice could not make out but that caused the others to laugh. Like the officer, they were obviously amused with this new-found sport.

“Fuck you, assholes!” Justice spat loudly at the group above. They apparently understood the gist of the words, if not their exact meaning, and their good humor left their faces. They were no doubt remembering the damage that had just been inflicted upon them, and their dead comrades lying on the road above and at the bottom of the lake below.

The officer muttered again and all of the men around him nodded. Justice guessed that he was about to die so he gave them his best smile, held on to the outcropping as tightly as he could and waited for the bullet. The officer raised his weapon and sighted along the barrel.

The smile disappeared from Justice’s face as the round struck his right leg, just above the knee. The force of the round nearly pulled him from the ledge, but he refused to let go.

“SHIIIIT!”

His cry caused a small cheer from the soldiers above him. Justice forced himself to hold onto even tighter and bit his tongue against further outcries. The pain in his leg was a hot fire that drove itself up through his body and into his brain. Stilling himself for what he knew he would see, he forced himself to look down at the wound. To his horror, he saw that his right leg was gone just above the knee. Looking past his damaged leg to the ground below, he noticed a small red patch near one of the holes in the lake’s icy covering. That’s my leg, he realized.

“Oh shit,” he wavered into the side of the cliff so that those above would not hear. “These fuckers are going to play with me.”

He took a deep breath and looked up to the animals above him. They were no longer soldiers, or even men, in his eyes.

The officer moved farther down along the edge of the cliff and Justice knew he was getting ready for his next shot. The officer pointed to his right leg and raised a finger, then pointed to his left leg and raised a second finger. Justice got the message.

The weapon was raised and the shot sounded. Pain slammed again into Justice and he killed the scream that begged to be released from his body. He could not stop the single tear that escaped his left eye and froze to his cheek and he knew that his left foot had just joined his right on the ice below.

“Fuuuck youuu!” he screamed at those above him. Through the fiery pain and anger that threatened to engulf him, he forced a smile onto his face.

“Hahh hah,” he laughed, almost maniacally. “Is that all you got?!”

He received a small measure of satisfaction as a brief look of confusion crossed the countenance of the officer with the rifle. It was short lived, though, as the man snarled and raised three fingers and pointed at his right forearm.

Justice’s mind raced with pain and adrenalin. His body could not take much more and he came to a sudden decision. If he was going to die, he would make sure that the barbarians above remembered his death for the rest of their lives.

With his left hand, he renewed his grip on the rock outcropping and still smiling, held out his right arm as an offering to the shot to come.

He did not have to wait long. The force of the bullet again nearly pulled him from his precarious perch but, unwilling to give up, he held on resolutely and stared in macabre fascination as his right arm disappeared in a splash of red gore. It took a second more to realize that the arm no longer belonged to him, and he stared at the stump that began to pump red just above his right elbow.

Justice realized that he was in shock from the torture and loss of blood, but he concentrated fully on becoming a nightmare to those above him. With a snarl, Sergeant First Class Grant Justice, laughed ferally up at them. To his satisfaction, he saw several of those watching his hideous show step back from the cliff’s edge. One of them got sick and turned away.

“What’s next?!” he yelled in defiance of the officer, who still held his weapon. Justices eyes bore into the man and dared him to finish the job. Whatever caused some of the watchers to turn away did not affect the man holding the rifle. He grinned evilly, raised four fingers and pointed to his left arm. Justice just acknowledged the other’s intent with another laugh and nodded in crazed agreement, knowing he had nothing left to lose but another arm. If the fall to the lake’s surface didn’t kill him outright, the loss of blood would quickly finish the job.

The officer must have known what he was thinking because he shook his head no. Then he raised a fifth finger, pointed to surface of the lake and then to his head. Justice received the message. He would receive a bullet to the head while he lay on the ice.

Justice merely cemented a smile onto his face, looked the gunner in the eye and waited.

The round hit home.

Justice came to on the ice and his first thought was, I’m still alive! His second thought came immediately on the heels of the first, But not for long. That thought was followed by the sight and sound of a foot-sized chunk of ice being blown from the lake’s surface not two feet from his head.

“Son of a bitch,” Justice muttered as he lay unmoving. The fucker was trying to finish the job. He had no feet and no arms and the fucker was still taking shots at him, trying to take his head off also.

“He can’t have it,” Justice vowed and raised his head to look around. The first thing he saw was a bloody boot and he realized it held his right foot. A portion of the leg was visible above the boot and he caught a glimpse of the word “Warriors” from his team tattoo.

The second thing he saw, less than a dozen feet away, was one of the large holes in the lake’s surface. It seemed a lot larger than it had from above and a plan quickly formed. The lake… he had to make it to the hole and to the lake below it.

He tried to move toward the hole and found, to his pain and surprise, that he could move using the stumps that were left of his arms and legs. He began to edge toward the hole. He edged toward the hole as another, more rational part of mind, argued against the attempt.

I’m dead anyway, what difference does it make if I freeze to death, bleed to death or get my head blown off?

But he knew there was a difference. It was a difference that counted. If he died from blood loss or from a bullet to the head, it would be the gunner’s doing. But if he made it to the hole, it would be his choice, his decision and not the officer’s. For Justice, it was enough of a difference to silence the weaker part of his soul, the part that cried out for peace and surrender, for an end to the pain and misery.

He began dragging his body toward the hole in the ice and another chunk of frozen lake exploded next to him. He ignored the agony that was his body and the ragged stumps of his arms pulled while the stumps of his legs pushed. He moved slowly at first but, as the decision to act settled more firmly into his being, he picked up the pace and clawed wildly at the ice in desperation and need. He was halfway to the hole when another round punctured the ice beside him. He thanked God that the officer was a piss poor shot and looked briefly at the place where the shot hit. He saw the blacked crater of ice and saw a bloody hand, his hand, lying next to it. That’s my hand, he thought, and clawed even harder at the ice with the bone and muscle that once held it to his body. The rage drove him faster.

Only four feet to go. He felt a jolt as a round struck him somewhere beneath the waist, but he did not slow down or pause to examine the wound. The only thought that drove him was the lake, the lake, the lake.
Got to get into the lake.

The bloody, ragged stumps that were once his arms and legs continued to pull and push his torn body toward the hole. His mind was no longer an active participant in the process of reaching the dark water beneath the ice and the victory for which it stood.

Two feet. Another round took more of his right arm; it was gone now, nearly to the shoulder but he was close enough he knew. He could see the calm water now. Already a thin film of ice and snow had begun to cover the hole and he wondered briefly whether it would be enough to keep him from his goal.

He threw himself forward, past the ragged edge and the thin crust gave easily beneath his weight. His head, his shoulders, and then the rest of his broken body entered the frigid water.

Learn to shoot, asshole! I beat you.

He laughed, suddenly eager for the darkness and death that waited below. His lungs filled and he sank.

CHAPTER ONE

Earth formed its Leadership Council more than three hundred years before the arrival of the Minith.

When the human wars ended and Peace came to the world, each of the six remaining Major Cultures sent a representative forth to speak for its citizens. In so doing, the Leadership Council was formed. In the initial years, the Council floundered in a lack of cooperation and self service as it fought to right the wrongs caused by so many bloody wars and endless years of fighting between the remaining cultures. Culture Leader faced off against Culture Leader at the Council’s table as each sought only to better the lot of his or her own kind. War had left them scarred and untrusting of each other and arguments broke out often as old differences renewed daily.

But as the decades passed, the struggles for dominance churned sufficiently through the lengthy process of healing and recovery until, at last, the Council’s representatives began to change as the world about them changed.

As the soldiers of the old wars died off, their children and the orphans left in war’s wake took their place. In time, the soldiers’ grandchildren and then their great-grandchildren took their turns at leading the world and, with each successive generation, the changes became more pronounced. The Earth began a steady evolution toward a safe, gentle place where each Culture and each individual was respected. Eventually, the members of the Leadership Council stopped their internal squabbling and tendered genuine interest in each other’s suffering. For the first time ever, the Earth’s population was viewed by its greatest leaders as a whole, with each separate group contributing its own unique strengths, abilities and traits to the benefit of all. Their power was channeled into easing the pain and suffering of the less fortunate, regardless of their race, background or location in the world’s previous command structure.

Earth became a planet where peace and understanding were cherished above all else. Scenes of violence, civil disorder and even personal outrage became acts of the rarest kind, abhorred by all but the most antediluvian humans.

At its peak, the Leadership Council cared for their world and all its people like a doting Mother on a newborn. In turn, the members of the Council were loved and praised by those they represented. There was no higher honor anywhere in the world than to be selected by one’s Culture to be a representative on the Council.

But the Council’s peak was now twelve years past.

The current Council, which consisted of four women and two men, were still the most powerful and influential humans on Earth, but they no longer controlled the interests or well being of their planet or its people. Earth and all of its people and Cultures were locked in the chains of bondage by a race from another world -- a race of cruel slavers.

This morning, the six members of the Leadership Council took their seats quietly, without preamble. They were alone and, as they did every third morning, they settled in to begin the business of leading the sixty billion men, women and children of Earth.

As was tradition, the Leader Elect, Primo Esteval, waited patiently for the other members to look toward him to begin. The even number of members required the Leadership Council to elect a leader from the group and they did so every five years. This responsibility was most recently bestowed less than a year before, by a five to one ballot, on Primo Esteval, representative of the S’mercan Culture. Esteval had been the lone nay vote in the election, casting his own vote for Sabatina Sabontay, the Urop’n representative.

A modest man, Esteval often jested with the other members of the Council that it had been a fixed ballot. The rest denied the claim and adamantly stated – often behind sly smiles and winks of their secondary eyelids – that it had been a fair and just ballot.

“This session of the Leadership Council of the Members of the Peaceful Earth is begun,” Esteval intoned in Earth Standard language.

Like all humans for the past two hundred plus years, Esteval spoke Standard from early childhood. Unlike his own culture’s language, Standard seemed stilted, pretentious and overly formal. The formality had purpose, he knew. It was meant to help overcome potential misunderstandings and thereby foster Peace. But it was not natural for him. Esteval often imagined the old kings and queens of ancient Engl’n as they conversed in similarly regal tones.

“Member Suyung, what is on the session agenda for this day?”

Suyung Trey, the As’n Culture representative, cast her dark brown eyes around the table as her small, delicate hands adjusted her prepared notes. It was a stalling tactic and all of the other members knew it; Suyung was prepared for the request as always.

“Leader Elect Esteval, yesterday we received a communication, via human courier, from the Minith Minister of Production.” Suyung paused, and Esteval noted how the news registered with the others at the table. The Musl’n representative, Quasan Alla, bowed his head and Esteval knew that he was offering a prayer to the culture’s God.

Unlike the earlier years of the Minith domination when the council had received almost daily directives from the aliens, this communication was the first the Council had received from the Minith for almost a year. Everyone at the table knew it could not be good news and, when Peace settled among the group, Diekela Mamun, the Afc’n Culture representative, cleared her throat and looked to her diminutive counterpart from the As’n culture. Diekela was large, dark and dressed colorfully as was her Culture’s way. When she entered a room, heads turned. She exuded an exotic mixture of intelligence, pride and gentleness.

“How much?” she asked. Her normally deep voice seemed strangely hushed and Primo Esteval noted a slight waver. It mirrored his own inner voice.

Suyung lowered her eyes and hesitated, clearly not wanting to answer.

With each previous communication from the alien production minister, came an order to raise production; and with each increase more and more humans were forced into slavery for the Minith. Already, the needs of the sixty billion humans that made up the native population of the planet were barely being met in order to meet the Minith’s requirements.

“Member Suyung,” Esteval prompted. “Has there been a demand for increased production?”

Like all humans, Suyung had been raised to be peaceful in all respects and her voice betrayed none of her internal emotions.

“The Minith are requiring a twenty percent increase in all areas,” she responded quietly. “Effective with the next cycle.”

Everyone at the table drew quick breaths. Several whispered Peace mantras.

Randalyn Trevino, the N’mercan Representative, struck the top of the table with her pale white fist. Had the act been under different circumstances, the members of the Council would have been taken aback at the show of violence. As it was, they barely registered the act.

A twenty percent increase in the quotas that they delivered to the Minith meant that nearly fifty million more men, women and children would be pulled away from serving the needs of their fellows and be given over to the needs of the alien race. Teachers and their students, carpenters that built and maintained their shelters, scientists that were working on improving all of their lives – all would be needed to meet the latest demand. Even worse, the Council knew that a twenty percent increase would require them to divert workers from the sub-farms that supported hundreds of thousands of families.

The Urop’n representative, her transparent lids opened wide in the darkened chamber, looked around the circular table to Quasan Alla. The Musl’n representative acknowledged the look with a slight nod, and Quasan raised a hand to signal the Leader Elect. He received a silent bid to proceed.

“Member Sabontay and I would like to know where the resources for this twenty percent are to be found,” the robed man began. “We also wish to point out that our two Cultures bore the weight of the last increase.”

“Your concerns are recognized Member Quasan,” Esteval replied. He turned to Sabatina and nodded to her as well. “As are yours, Member Sabontay. The resources will be obtained through a mutual agreement of the Council, as you know. The Council is aware of the contributions of your respective Cultures.”

Esteval met each representative’s eyes as he responded to the concerns.

“No one here wishes inequity in meeting this new burden,” he intoned. The Standard language sounded overly formal when discussing such personal issues, but could not be helped. “The sacrifices of your Cultures, as well as those of all of our Cultures, will not be discounted in whatever ballot comes to vote.

“Member Suyung, was there a penalty contained in the latest communication?”

All of the members leaned forward.

In the earlier days of Minith control, the Council had argued against each quota increase and, on several occasions, the humans had failed to reach an established quota. The Minith monsters had quickly learned, though, that these shortages could be prevented by retaliating against the human food processing centers. After the second missed quota, a month after arrival of the alien race, Minith ships had targeted and destroyed a hundred of the human sub-farms. The Council, knowing that they could not afford additional losses, had met each quota since – but not without paying a terrific penalty in human life and suffering.

“For each percentage we are short in the quota,” Suyung informed them in a voice barely above a whisper, “the Minith will destroy thirty of our sub-farms.” Her normally unaccented Standard wavered with a hint of her native Culture-language.

“Thirty? For
each
percent?” Randalyn Trevino, the N’mercan, asked. Her quiet voice held a hint of anger and the other members drew back, surprised at the outburst. Randalyn often expressed strong emotion when their discussion turned toward the Minith, and Esteval feared this latest news might push her into violence.

As if sensing their fear, the N’mercan representative gathered a deep breath, lowered her transparent set of secondary lids, and assumed a classic tranquility pose. The act did much to dispel the other Council members’ anxiety and they visibly relaxed while the Culture representative tried to calm herself.

“It is time to act,” she said. The Culture Leaders knew what was coming and several of them shook their heads. “We cannot allow them to control us any longer. We must proceed with the experiment.”

“Never, Member Trevino,” Diekela Mamun, the Afc’n, replied. Her voice sounded calm and strong, but Esteval detected a slight undercurrent of doubt. “We do not know where this will take us.”

“It is too dangerous,” Quasan Alla contributed.

“What if the Minith discover what your Culture has been attempting?” Diekela asked. “How will they punish us if they learn what your scientists are doing?”

Esteval knew the N’mercan Leader was fighting to maintain Peace. After a few moments, Randalyn responded, her voice devoid of any emotion.

“Diekela, you know as well as I that the Minith care nothing for what we do as long as our quotas are met. They do not think that we are capable of resisting them.”

“That does not mean that it will always be that way,” the Afc’n delegate replied. “Besides, it is against Minith law for us to work against them. Do you dare risk angering them and bringing more of their violence upon us?”

The N’mercan was undeterred. The Minith’s demands for increased production strengthened her position and she pressed forward.

“Fellow Members, I have never hesitated to express my views with you. You know that I struggle with Peace more than any other at this table. But I promise you that I am a firm believer in Peace and know that it is how we must live our lives under normal conditions.”

The N’mercan Culture Leader pushed herself from her chair and began a slow pace around the table.

“But these are anything but normal times,” she continued as she paced. “We have been turned into slaves by a race of alien barbarians who care nothing for our race, our Cultures, our beliefs. In fact, our beliefs have merely allowed them to enslave us without a struggle.

“Hundreds of years ago, we did away with war. We defeated our violent emotions and made this world one of Peace, one where no one feared for their lives or for their property. It became a world where we lock away the violent and sow goodness in those who remain. But now…”

Randalyn paused to massage her temples and Esteval wondered if his friend was feeling well. Before he could ask her if she was okay, she pressed on.

“Now we struggle as a race enslaved.” Her voice rose slightly and her pace increased. “Our people struggle daily to make quotas that cannot be met! And when they are not met, our oppressors destroy our food supplies, which further hinder our ability to meet their demands.”

The N’mercan’s pace quickened and the Standard flowed to match her steps.

“We are dying as a race and all I’ve heard lately is how we cannot risk the ire of the Minith. Well I say to you that by not acting against our slavers, we welcome their violence and their power over us with open arms, led like the ancient lambs to slaughter. And for this, there is no need.

“I assert that violence, created by the hands of Peace-loving humans, has a place in our world.”

Gasps circled the table and heads shook in denial.

The promotion of even the mildest form of violence by a Culture Leader was taboo and cause for immediate dismissal. The N’mercan was advocating fighting the Minith. She was crying for war. Esteval knew her words would either sway her fellow leaders, or they would be her undoing.

“I assert that violence, used against the Minith, is the only way in which we can truly free our people!” Randalyn pushed onward. “Distinguished members of the Leadership Council, let us proceed with the venture that my Culture has undertaken. The salvation of our Cultures – of our world – depends upon our liberation from these alien slavers.

“We have a chance to end the misery of our people. We cannot throw that chance away because we are frightened about what
may happen
if we act. Instead, let us embrace our only chance because we know what
will happen
if we do not.”