Son of Justice (4 page)

“Fine,” Benson agreed. “What about the other two platoons?”

“Let ’em hang, I say,” Jerrone offered. “Second Platoon is our home.”

Eli considered agreeing—there was serious competition between the three platoons. Each consistently tried to outperform the others, and bragging rights had become an important aspect of their training. But the recent revelation that the Minith sergeants wanted them to fail changed things. The sergeants had turned this into an “us versus them” scenario that removed any doubt over what needed to be done. He had an obligation to let the other two platoons know what was up.

“No, we need to tell them,” he decided. “They can choose to ignore the warning if they want, but we have to let them know. It’s only fair.”

“Hey, whatever,” Jerrone shrugged and turned to head inside. “Do what you need to. I’m off to spread the word to our folks.”

“I can tell that Johnson guy,” Benson offered. “He seems to run things over in First Platoon. Not sure who’s in charge over in third.”

Eli swallowed, suddenly nervous. He knew who the unofficial leader was in the Third Platoon. He’d been keeping tabs on both of their sister units since day one.

“I know who to speak with,” he replied. It was all he could manage, and he suddenly didn’t feel well. For Eli, the sudden absence of self-confidence was an unusual state of being, and he shook off the unwelcome feeling like a coat of dust. “Tell Johnson his folks need to change their socks too. They’ll need those just as much as they need chow.”

* * *

“Private Tenney, can I speak with you for a moment?”

The recruit from Third Platoon looked briefly at Eli, then turned her attention back to the chow line ahead of her. At least twenty other soldiers stood between her and the serving line where their daily meals were slopped out. At least half of the company had already gotten their chow and were seated at the tables scattered throughout the large room.

“Shove off, pal,” the dark-haired private replied with a dismissive tone that easily cut through the growing din of the chow hall. “You’re cute, but I’m not interested.”

It took a moment for Eli to understand what she meant. When the words sunk in, he felt the blood rush to his face.
What the—?
He gritted his teeth and tried again.

“You lead things in Three, right?”

The unexpected question got her attention. She turned her green eyes on him and searched his face. He felt his guts tighten and waited for recognition.

“You know we don’t have leaders . . .” Her eyes dipped to read the name inked on his left sleeve. “Private Jayson.”

“I know we don’t have
official
leaders, Tenney. But I’ve seen how you take charge of the rabble in Three.” The comment caused her eyes to harden for just a moment before realizing he was taunting her. “They look to you for just about everything.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she answered, once again offering him the dismissive tone. For good measure, she added a snide curl of her lip and a casual wave that meant nothing short of “get lost.”

“Yes you do,” Eli snapped, angry at her obstinance. He was running out of time. The first two members of Third Platoon were already getting food plopped on their plates up ahead. “No time to explain how I know this, but we’re getting tossed back into the sand right after chow. You need to get your folks fed and their feet taken care of before we land back in formation in”—Eli checked the time—“twenty-five minutes. And I’d recommend laying off the
chakka
, if you know what I mean.”

Her eyes bore into his—searched for signs of deceit, truth, or something else. He couldn’t tell for sure, but apparently she found what she needed.

“You had better not be mucking with my platoon on this, Jayson.”

“I enjoy friendly competition as much as you do,” he answered. “But mucking with another platoon for no good reason just isn’t my style. We’re spreading the word to our own platoon, as well as to first. Even if they don’t put us back on the hump, what’s the harm in being prepared?”

“Fine,” she said, roughly poking a finger into the middle of his chest. The action nearly caused him to retreat a step, but he just managed to hold his ground against the offending digit. “But you’ll answer to me if we’re not back in the sand before lights out.”

Eli did his best to ignore the finger drilling into his chest. He sorely wanted to produce a witty, but sarcastic response to her threat, but all he could think of was “Oh no. I’m so scared.” That didn’t seem like a response any self-respecting adult would give, so he bit his tongue, offered her a weak, closed-mouth smile and nodded. The finger pushed angrily into his chest for another second, then was gone. Without another glance in his direction, she was off to the front of the chow line. He watched as she intercepted the first few members of her platoon and issued quiet instructions, then began working her way backward. Eli released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, then turned to return to his own platoon, lined up at the rear.

All in all, it had gone much better than he had expected. Private Adrienne Tenney was passing the word to her team.

Best of all, she hadn’t recognized him.

Then again, twelve years was a long time, and he wasn’t six years old anymore.

A forced march is a grueling test of mind over matter. There are two simple rules: keep moving until you reach the end, and reach the end within the time allotted. That’s it. Armies have been doing it for thousands of years.

For the most part, the Alliance Defense Force version of the forced march was little different from previous versions. Everyone carried the same amount of weight, everyone traveled the same distance, and had the same amount of time to finish. The experience was as much a mental test as one of strength and endurance. The keys to success were as simple as the rules: Don’t give up. Push through the pain. Beat the pacer.

The pacer was a new twist. Earlier armies used timed finishes, or had sergeants bringing up the rear, to determine who made the cut and who didn’t. Eli and his peers had the pacer—a mechanized device that hovered at the rear and move at a steady, controlled pace. The shiny metallic orb floated a meter off the ground and identified the wash-out line for the marchers. Every five seconds, it issued an ominous, tinny
beep
to alert those it was nearby. Anyone who failed to cross the finish line before the pacer, or who fell behind the orb for longer than ten seconds, was deemed unfit for service and sent home. For those currently present, home was Earth. Overcrowded, peaceful, boring old Earth. The same planet that millions of men and women—mostly young adults—were trying to leave.

Eli found it strange that humanity had never really tried to leave their planet through their own will and engineering. They were content to grow and expand across the face of the planet, using up the resources as if they were limitless. Until they realized there was something else out there—something more. Military service was the primary method of escaping the socially compliant existence that had become the norm for a life on Earth, and training spots were as coveted as they were few. The need for soldiers was greater than ever, but skilled fighters who could train recruits were scarce. As a result, washing out of training meant spending the remainder of your life performing rote, undesirable tasks that no one else wanted. Washouts weren’t selected for engineering, admin or leadership positions. The feeling on Earth was you had your chance, and through your own fault, wasted it. With sixty billion people to care for, second chances at a plum assignment were as common as blue unicorns.

Left . . .

Left . . .

Left, right, left.

A kilometer into the second forced march of the day and Eli—though tired and sore—felt strong. He had something to prove, not only to himself, but to the three Minith who wanted to see him and his kind fail. For him, proving he could take whatever they threw at him was all the motivation he needed. He put his head down and trudged against the hot, swirling wind that battered relentlessly against his body. It was an invisible force that did its best to hold him back and keep him from his goal. Lowering his head made it harder to breathe the overheated air, but it helped protect his face from the ever-present sand bites. It was a trade-off that he gladly made.

The three platoons had started the march in loose formation, but that quickly fell apart once the march began. As usual, the trek became an individual event—every person for themselves. The fast moved to the front. The slow dropped to the rear. Those who moved too slowly would eventually drop behind the pacer. If they fell behind for more than ten seconds, they washed out.

Left . . .

Left . . .

Left, right, left.

Eli was in the zone. His head was down against the wind, and he was pushing relentlessly forward.

And then he wasn’t. His momentum slowed as he fully considered his position and the position of those behind him. As he thought about the alien sergeants, and their desire for human failure, his temples began to throb and his heartbeat—already elevated—increased. Anger. Resentment. Disgust. All of those emotions and more began working their way through his being as he thought about his fellow recruits. They deserved a chance to break out from the overpopulated world they had so recently left behind. They didn’t deserve to be treated like cattle or sheep by a cadre of alien underlings who had already been defeated by humanity. By Eli’s very own father, no less.

Instead of pushing forward toward the finish line, he slowed, turned around, and began a slow backward walk. He stared back along the path he had already crossed, his eyes searching for and taking in the sight of his fellow recruits. Fellow humans.

He had been moving well, staying strong, well ahead of the pacer. Unfortunately, there were plenty of others—from all three platoons—who weren’t doing as well. No one had fallen behind the pacer yet, but several were beginning to lag. If they didn’t pick up their pace, it was just a matter of time. Scenarios ran through his mind and his feet stopped moving altogether.

He suddenly understood that this march wasn’t just about
his
success. It was about the success of his race. It was about meeting the cruelty of their Minith trainers head on, and showing them the true nature of mankind.
They lost the Peace War
, he raged.
We didn’t.
Eli decided it time to remind them that they had been beaten a dozen years earlier, and would be beaten again in another dozen years, if necessary.

Before he could change his mind, his feet were moving again. Only this time, they—and an anger that seemed to grow hotter with each step—carried him
away
from the finish line. This time, they carried him toward the pacer. The wind—now at his back—was a welcome nudge aiding his movements.

“What the crud are you doing, EJ?” Benson passed Eli going the other way. Eli didn’t answer; he just kept moving toward the back of the pack.

He passed several more recruits and all of them looked at him as if he’d lost his senses. For all Eli knew, he had.

Flock the pacer and flock the Minith!

First, second, or third platoon—it didn’t matter. These were his people. It might be crazy, and he didn’t know how, but he was going to do whatever he could to help those at the rear of the pack.

He passed Private Tenney at the midway point and she stared at him as he got close. Eli stared back, suddenly not caring if she recognized him. He was who he was and wouldn’t deny it if challenged. His father had beaten the Minith in war. All he had to do was beat them on a forced march. And to beat them, he had to save every human he could from washing out.

It took only a few minutes to reach the back of the pack where he noticed four recruits, two women and two men, struggling. The pacer was less than a quarter of a kilometer behind them—close, but still too far away to hear the dreaded warning tone. That was good, but one look at the group told the story. With nine kilometers left to go, there was no way this group would make it unless they moved faster.

He slowed and waited for them to reach his position. Each looked up at him as they neared. Fear, pain, and desperation were written clearly across their faces. Surprise and curiosity at his approach quickly followed. He offered a single nod to the group as they reached him, then turned around and settled into the wind beside them. His legs and feet told him what his mind already knew. Their pace was too slow. They had to pick it up.

“What . . . are you . . . doing?” one of male recruits asked.

“Did any of you eat the
chakka
at dinner?” A chorus of “yeses” confirmed his suspicions. They either hadn’t gotten the word or had disregarded it. “Well, do you regret it now?”

“Yeah,” was followed by two “uh huh’s,” which was followed by, “never eating . . . that stuff again.”

“Glad to hear it,” he replied. He wanted to chastise them for putting themselves—and now him—in this position, but wasn’t certain if now was the time. Instead, he lowered his head and picked up the pace just a bit to see if the group matched his step—was pleased when they fell into the new, but still-too-slow rhythm. He couldn’t resist a slight, teasing rebuke. “I’d hate to think I came back here to help your sorry asses unless you learned your lesson.”

“Not sure how much . . . help you can give,” the female recruit next to him said. “Just a . . . matter of . . . time.”

“True . . . we’re pacer bait now,” one of the men added.

“Is that what you all have been discussing back here? How hopeless things are?” None of the four responded, but he could tell that they’d been thinking it, if not actually saying it out loud. He tried walking a bit quicker but only two of the four kept up with the faster pace. The other two dropped back and didn’t try to close the widening gap, so he slowed back down to match their pace. Eli took a deep breath to release some of the anger that had delivered him to this point, and thought about what he could do to get them to move quicker.

“I’m usually at the front of the pack,” he tossed out to the four. “Would you like to hear how I do that?”