Son of Justice (7 page)

Except for the massive herds of the orange-colored
ninal
beasts, the bleak, uninteresting landscape keeps most of Telogra’s inhabitants firmly entrenched inside their living and work spaces. Few care to venture outside, and those that do, usually cut their visits short.

The exception, obviously, are the soldiers of the Shiale Alliance defense forces. They traverse the Telgoran surface voluntarily, and they do so regularly. Housed in thousands of large, concrete buildings placed strategically near the mining bunkers, the soldiers—human and Minith—adapt to the conditions as best they can.

Eli was thinking about his need to adapt to the windy, sand-blown planet as he followed the stone path that separated his barracks from the dozens of others that had been erected a kilometer east of Mining Bunker Thirteen. Bunker Thirteen was the official name, of course. The inhabitants not-so-lovingly referred to their Telgoran home as “Titan City” in deference to one of the main heroes of the Minith Wars. Titan was now Earth’s Emissary to the Telgorans, and lived with the natives in their underground system of caves. The bunker was one of the original five mining sites on Telgora, and it was rumored that Titan had fought there.

Eli smiled at the thought. He was one of the few on the planet that knew the “rumor” was true. When Eli was ten, “Uncle” Titan himself had described in exquisite detail the battle plan that the youngster’s dad had drawn up to defeat the Minith on this planet. That battle had taken place just before Grant Justice and his army had taken the fight on to Waa. The need to protect his identity from those around him—human and not—settled onto his shoulders even more firmly with the memory. Now that he had begun the process of being just another name on the training list, it was doubtful those around him would understand if the truth came out. He wanted—no, he needed—to see this through on his own, without his father’s influence hanging over his every move. He hadn’t realized until just recently, that not being tied to his father’s legacy was . . . liberating. For the first time in his life, he was free from the heightened expectations and constant scrutiny that came with having the name Justice.

He halted outside the door and took a deep breath before lightly tapping. He heard a muted voice call out “Enter” in Minith. Eli ignored the alien invitation and tapped again. His second effort was rewarded with the appropriate English Standard, and he pushed his way inside the tall, wide door that identified the office as belonging to a Minith.

Inside, he found Sergeants Twigg and Brek standing behind a large, plain desk. The room was painted purple—the aliens’ preferred color—but was otherwise barren except for the desk, a large (again, purple) chair, and a map of Telgora on the far wall. Eli noted the highly scuffed path that circled the entire room. It was no doubt a result of the Minith’s characteristic need to pace. Every Minith office he had ever been in—and he had visited quite a few—seemed to have a similar path. The two sergeants appeared to have been studying the map, but both turned as he entered the room.

Eli approached the desk, whipped his body smartly into the human version of attention, and announced, “Private Jayson, reporting as ordered.”

Sergeant Twigg released a noise that might have been confused with a kitten’s purr by most humans. Eli, who had grown up around the aliens, recognized the sound for what it really was: a menace-filled growl. The sudden, slight twitching of the alien’s right ear confirmed Eli’s initial reaction to the growl. His actions on the march had obviously raised his sergeant’s ire—and it wasn’t a slight raise, either. The Minith was—in his father’s words—royally pissed off. He took a slow breath and mentally prepared himself for whatever might come next. He was meant to feel fear, but didn’t. Unlike most of his kind, he’d been raised around Minith. There was none of the inherent fright of them that they no doubt expected—and received—from his fellow human recruits. They could try to intimidate him all they wanted, but it wouldn’t work out as they wanted. He once again reminded himself that they were the conquered race; he represented the victors. Besides, he’d done nothing he regretted, or wouldn’t do again, in the same circumstances.

“How did these sheep ever defeat us, Twigg?”

The question was posed in a near-whisper, meant only for the other sergeant, but Eli had no problem making out the words even though they were issued in the low, growling-grunt rasp that distinguished the Minith language. The muscles in Eli’s stomach tightened, and he struggled against balling his hands into fists. Not only were the two going against established regulations by talking in their native tongue, they were blatantly disparaging him and his race. He doubted they would be so open with their ridicule if they knew he understood what they were saying. It confirmed his decision to keep that piece of information to himself. Instead, he clinched his jaw tightly, swallowed the need to respond to Brek’s slur, and remained facing stoically forward.

“At ease, Private Jayson,” Twigg commanded. Jayson immediately spread his feet shoulder width apart while clasping his hands behind him at the small of his back. It was a more relaxed, but still somewhat formal position. The major benefit was the position allowed his head and eyes to follow the two sergeants instead of having to focus directly forward. It also allowed him a better view of the map behind the two Minith. It was of the Telgoran landscape, the coloration revealing an area located in the livable band, though slightly more on the sun-side than the cold. The Minith markings and notes on the map indicated military unit locations. One of the units was his.

Eli waited for the training sergeant to begin. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Why did you assist the less-abled recruits on yesterday’s march?”

There was no way he could tell the two Minith that he did it to spite them—to show that humans weren’t soft-willed sheep, as they obviously believed. He couldn’t tell them that he had overheard their conversation, or that he felt they weren’t playing fair with the soldiers that had been placed under their tutelage, or that he had given up his place at the front of the march for one reason: to help his fellow humans stick it to the Minith who wanted to see them gone. No, they wouldn’t take those admissions lightly.

So, instead of telling them the truth, he said, “I don’t know, Sergeant Twigg. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“The march is an individual test, Private. It is designed to separate the weak from the strong. You cheated the test and spoiled the results.”

Eli was shocked. How could you cheat a forced march? The rules were simple. As long as you didn’t take a shortcut, or get a ride on a carrier vehicle, all you had to do was cross the finish line in front of the pacer. It couldn’t get any simpler.

“With all due respect, Sergeant, no one cheated,” Eli stated calmly, though he felt the kernel of anger that had formed in his chest grow hotter. He was a stickler for rules, always had been. He had never cheated at any test, game, or challenge in his life. Push the boundaries of the rules, or think outside the box of accepted norms? Certainly. That was his nature, and one of his strengths. But to disregard the boundaries to win or get ahead? Never. “Everyone finished ahead of the pacer within the time allotted.”

“True, Private,” Brek growled. “But you carried another’s burden. And you were carried over the last segment of the course. Neither of these facts is acceptable. Corrective actions must be taken.”

The threat was evident in the statement and in the manner in which it was delivered. These two Minith were considering removing him, and anyone else who received help, from training. He bit down on the spray of angry words that threatened to spill forth, took a deep breath, and gathered his thoughts before replying.

“The rules of the march as they were explained by Sergeant Twigg to my unit were very clear,” he replied, enunciating so that his words wouldn’t be misunderstood. “‘Finish ahead of the pacer within the time allowed.’ To my knowledge, Sergeant Twigg, nor any other training sergeant, issued any further rules or limitations regarding the march. Am I mistaken? Perhaps a review panel should be assembled?”

The two Minith soldiers exchanged looks. Brek’s right ear twitched and Twigg released another of those purr-growls. Eli had touched a nerve with the assertion and, in doing so, had quietly issued his own indirect threat. Despite how much the two might want him and others gone, they had to justify every washout to a formal review panel made up of Telgoran, human, and Minith overseers. In most cases, the review was a formality—a rubber stamp placed on the scores of washout cases that passed their desks each month. On the other hand, an occasional case was challenged by a recruit and overturned. Based on his knowledge of the Minith—and of his sergeants, in particular—he had no doubt that they’d do whatever was needed to avoid scrutiny by their superiors. As such, the mere hint of a challenge—and a justifiable one, at that—would probably be enough to dissuade them from taking action.

After a minute of quiet contemplation, Twigg finally spoke.

“No. You are not mistaken. No further limitations were issued.”

The giant alien soldier’s massive hands clenched into large fists and both ears quivered. If the sergeant was royally pissed before, he was thoroughly beside himself with rage now, and Eli knew he had made an enemy—if not for life, then at least as long as he was in this training detachment.

“Thank you for reminding us of the criteria. Going forward, we will be clearer on specifics.”

The urge to say “you’re welcome” was strong, but Eli resisted—this time. His understanding of the need to keep his mouth shut at inappropriate times was often overridden by his inability to do so. But he was learning. Besides, he was in enough hot water already with these two without pressing his luck.

* * *

Even now, two days after the meeting in Twigg’s office, Eli remained cautious. He knew he had barely escaped the confrontation with the two sergeants by the slimmest of margins. He couldn’t imagine returning to Waa as a washout. The humiliation and disgrace—in his own eyes, if no one else’s—would have been too much to take. For as long as he could recall, his entire life had been focused on an eventual life in the military. When other children were outside playing, he spent his time—thousands of hours—studying military history. He knew more about ancient battles and campaigns, both human and Minith, than most people knew about the most recent war.

As the son of the greatest military mind in the Shiale Alliance, he had had the best weapons, fighters, and trainers at his disposal, and he had taken full advantage of the unique opportunities he was given. He balanced his mental training with an intensive, well-balanced regimen of exercise, running, and martial arts. Those efforts, when combined with the genes of his parents, had given him the toned, well-muscled physique and the knowledge of a well-trained soldier. Albeit, an unproven, inexperienced soldier.

After the tense meeting, Eli had tried to refocus his efforts on remaining in the background, but it was no use. The opportunity for keeping a low profile had evaporated. Despite trying to recapture his place as just one more human among a platoon of humans, the eyes of the Minith sergeants always seemed to search him out and study him. He could be standing in the chow line, marching in formation, or working through the next training assignment with his fellow recruits. Whenever he looked their way, they seemed to be looking back.

Like now.

Eli stood inside the fighting ring. Sweat dripped from his body. His arms were beginning to tire, and the welt across his chest—the result of a well-timed strike from his last opponent—was beginning to throb. The ever-present sun and wind beat against his bare torso, and he needed a drink of water badly. But the rules were clear. If you won, you remained in the ring and fought.

In his right hand, he loosely held a wooden sparring staff. At nearly two-and-a-half meters in length, and five centimeters in diameter, the Minith weapon was meant for much larger hands than his. The weight of the thing called for larger muscles as well. Nevertheless, the hours upon hours of sparring with his Minith teachers on Waa had made him an expert in its use. The recruit he faced, a large, rough-looking private from Third Platoon named Crimsa, seemed less sure. Crimsa hefted the weapon in his right hand, testing its weight and balance just like the previous six foes Eli had already bested.

The remaining recruits in their battalion—nearly 150 in all—formed a large, human circle around the two fighters. Many were armed with their own staffs and given instructions to contain the two fighters to the ring. Eli had learned the hard way to remain well away from the outer ring. Some of his peers from the other two platoons took their responsibility a little too seriously. Several of their blows to his back and legs would no doubt leave ugly bruises for the next few days.

Sergeant Brek stood beyond the circle, his large head and ears clearly visible over the heads of the much-shorter humans. He waited patiently for the two contestants to signal their readiness to begin. Eli had already nodded in Brek’s direction and waited for Crimsa to do the same.

Apparently satisfied with his inspection of the staff, Crimsa finally nodded his own readiness to Brek. The sergeant clapped his hands, signaling the start of the match.

Eli stood his ground and waited for the other man to make the first move.

He didn’t have to wait long. Crimsa lifted the Minith staff over his head, held it at the center with both hands, and began to twirl it slowly. Eli grinned. The movement was a standard two-handed spin that was a key technique of the Minith when battling with the staffs. Crimsa had been trained at some point in the past. Eli immediately raised his own staff and began his own two-handed spin, matching his opponent. Crimsa’s spin picked up speed as he charged.

For a fraction of a second, Eli considered allowing the other man to land a blow. If he ended up on the ground, the match would be over, and he could leave the ring. But he discounted the notion just as quickly as it entered his mind. It wasn’t in his nature to voluntarily cede a match, regardless of how sore, tired, or thirsty he was. If he was going to leave the ring, it would be because he had given it his all and been fairly beaten.