The Paxist

Allan cleared the final beam and stopped crawling, raising his head. A pair of combat boots swam into his muddy view. He looked up the fatigue-clothed body to the DI’s face, a smirk on the camouflaged-smeared features.

Behind him, the rest of the company huddled together, their expressions a single collective anticipation of what was about to happen.

“Glad you could join us, McAllister.” Horton’s sarcasm was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Allan pulled himself from the mud’s suction and clambered to his feet. He slipped once in the slimy semi-solid, going down on one knee before regaining his balance, but was careful not to use the stock of the LX-15 to steady himself. If he misused his weapon, that would make whatever the DI was planning even worse.

“You might like to know if this were a real combat situation,” the sergeant went on, spitting out each word as if he couldn’t bear having them in his mouth. “Your buddies here would be long gone, and you’d either be dead or a prisoner of war by now.”

Allan didn’t answer, jaw muscles rigid to keep the angry retort from escaping.

“Got anything to say for yourself, soldier?” came the expected question in that sweet-as-poison drawl.

The sarge was a Southerner, deep-swamp Georgian and proud of it. Some of the grubs said he exaggerated his accent to point that out.

“Sir! No, sir!” Allan straightened, responding with the expected answer.

“In that case, you’re going to have a lot of time to think about it while you’re on extra guard duty tonight. Maybe eight hours post-stomping will help you be a little quicker next time.” The sergeant looked at the young men behind him. “Fall in.”

They obeyed silently enough, a couple giving Allan sympathetic but guarded looks, other smirking in satisfaction.

Serves you right, McAllister. The words were unspoken but obvious.

“...and,” the DI went on, “to help y’all get to your next assignment as soon as possible, we’re gonna double-time it back to base.”

“Oh, shit...” The words were uttered before someone could stop them.

“Who said that?” the DI demanded.

“I did.” From behind Allan, three men back, came an answer.

They all knew better than to attempt denying it.

The DI stalked over to the grub. Unlike some of the youngsters, this one was as tall as the sarge himself and they stood eye-to-eye. The kid didn’t flinch, meeting that cold blue-eyed stare with one of his own.

The idiot.

“Well, well, Pardee…so you don’t want to jog back to camp?”

“No sir. I mean, yes sir…I mean, uh…”

“Since you can’t seem to make up your mind…not only are you going to double-time it with the rest of us, but you’ll join McAllister for a little sentry duty tonight.”

“Sir, yes sir!”

“All right, men, get to it. Hut-two-threp-four...hut-two-threp-four...”

Halfway back to camp, it began to rain and they didn’t need any more incentive to make them run as fast as they could to avoid being drenched.

In perfect formation, of course.

Later that night, while walking the lines at the perimeter of the camp, Allan definitely had a lot of time to think.

There was no need for sentries. The training camp was in a secret location. No one except a few high government officials knew where, certainly not the recruits brought there in the dead of night. Possibly not even the officers and enlisted personnel manning the base.

Every now and then, he’d see movement at the other end of the line. Pardee, walking off his penance for being so vocal, his tall figure barely visible through the haze of fog steaming off the hot grass.

Allan thought the camp must be somewhere in the Southern Sector of the Federated NorAmerican States. Maybe Louisiana. The soil was certainly water-logged enough. In some places, liquid actually spurted out of the ground when their booted feet pounded it. The days were hot and humid, and at night when he couldn’t sleep, he heard odd, booming noises floating from one of the areas outside the base’s polyconcrete walls.

Lafitte, one of the grubs, said it was a ’gator. He ought to know...he was a Cajun,

from a Naturals reservation located near what was left of La Vielle Nouvelle-Orléans.

Whatever it was, it didn’t sound friendly.

God, I hate this place.

Allan wondered if God was listening, or if…like some of the others in the platoon whispered, God didn’t really exist at all. Just in case He did, he touched the little gold crucifix attached to the dog tags around his neck. That was the only piece of jewelry allowed, a religious symbol affixed to the identification tag every recruit wore.

Why did this happen to me?

He’d always been a good boy, at least he thought so. Going to church, trying to following its teachings. His parents made certain he knew all his catechism, as well as the beliefs espoused by both the Church and the Federation. Hell, he and his girl didn’t even had sex all that much, and they’d been careful when they did.

Why am I being treated like a criminal?

Hauled out of his apartment like a felon and forced to come here against his will?

Allan’s question was merely a voicing aloud of his dismay. Rhetorical, to say the least. He knew the reason.

Because of Uncle Egan, that’s why.

He was paying for his uncle’s crimes, though he couldn’t find fault with anything Egan Rand had done. If he’d been merely a war protester, the Fed might’ve ignored him as they had others, but Uncle Egan took the Church’s teachings one step further—some said several steps backward—returning to the way it was supposed to be centuries before the government stepped in. Rand’s arguments against the Felidan War encouraged hundreds of citizens to make their way to neutral, non-Federation member countries like Middle Africa and the Finnish Peninsula to avoid the Conscript.

His uncle wanted peace and was on the run because of it.

Given the chance, Allan would’ve have run away, too, but there hadn’t even been time to pack a bag before the Conscriptors were banging at the door and dragging him out.

Now, he, Allan Malcolm McAllister, as the only known relative of Egan Rand, Paxist, though himself registered as an HD, a Hostilities Disapprover, was now paying the price…as a Federation draftee.

His first day in camp set the tone for those following. He was in line with all the others, dressed in his Federation-issue fatigues, duffel bag resting by his left ankle. The sarge was going down the line, comparing names on the screen of his hand unit with the little holographic ID tags hanging around each recruit’s neck.

When he came to Allan, he stopped. “Well, well...who do we have here?”

Thinking the man actually expected an answer, Allan replied, “Allan Malcolm McAllister, sir.”

“Did I give you permission to speak?”

“Well, no, sir, but I...”

“Then keep quiet, recruit.” He turned to the others. “Gentlemen... ”

Even that word was delivered with a modicum of irony Allan would learn was the sarge’s normal speaking voice. Odd how Southern accents fitted themselves so well to that mode of delivery.

“We have here the relative of a very famous personage...or infamous, I should say. Mr. McAllister is the nephew of…Why don’t you tell us, Mr. McAllister?” When Allan didn’t answer, he leaned forward and went on in a stage whisper, “You may speak now, Mr. McAllister.”

“Egan Rand.” Allan supplied the name as quietly as possible.

“What?” The DI cupped one hand to his ear. “What was that? I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Egad Rand,” Allan answered, louder.

“Egan Rand. That’s right. The traitor who thinks we should love the Felidans instead of killing them. Who wants the Federation to stop the war and welcome those murderous aliens with open arms.”

“I don’t think that’s...”

“I don’t care what you think, McAllister. Isn’t your uncle a fugitive from Federation justice for preaching sedition by urging our young men not to enlist?”

“Yes, sir, he’s a fugitive, but that’s not exactly...”

“Well, then?”

“If I could explain, sir.”

“Oh, by all means, please.” Horton made a permissive gesture. “Explain.”

“No one knows why the Felidans attacked Ferris Alpha. My uncle thinks we should find out the reason. Maybe the Felidans feel they were justified. He thinks if we know why they did it, it might be resolved without a war…”

“Well, now, that sounds reasonable enough, doesn’t it?” That slow, deep accent fairly dripped sarcasm. “Love thy neighbor. Now, I know that’s what Christos taught, and it’s what each of you dewey-eyed innocents heard when your Mamas took you to church every Sunday, but in that Bible each of you were issued along with your LX-15, it also says, An eye for an eye and Do unto others…”

Spittle flew as the sarge ranted. Allan blinked to keep from being struck in the eye by a globule. He forced himself not to flinch, didn’t dare dodge or reach up to wipe his face, just stood there, feeling the bit of wet trickle down his cheek.

“Quite frankly, I think we ought to take a couple of dirty laser bombs and drop ’em on Felida and wipe out all those murderous bastards…” He broke off to survey the young faces a moment before continuing, his tone now mild in shocking contrast to his previous angry one. “However...use of those type of weapons was banned at the Jovian Covention of 2120, so we’re going to do the next best thing. We’re going to use our gunboats to kill as many of ’em as possible. As for you…” He swung back to Allan. “As a little reminder to keep your mouth shut and not spread any of your uncle’s crap, drop and give me fifty.”

“Fifty what, sir?” Allan didn’t move.

“Are you smart-assing me, McAllister?”

“No sir. Fifty credits? I don’t have that much cash...”

“Fifty push-ups, you idiot. Now!”

While the rest of the company marched off to the barracks, Allan flung himself to the ground and performed the requested callisthenics, calmly counted out by the corporal.

That was only the beginning.

It seemed no matter what Allan did, how badly or how well, it aroused the sergeant’s ire. Apparently his mere breathing was an infraction of the rules.

As he turned his head, a trickle of water dripped off the down-turned brim of his boonie, splashing inside the collar of his poncho, and running like an icy rivulet between his shoulder blades all the way to his butt-crack. Allan forced himself not to shiver.

On the other side of the fence, he could see two lights approaching the spot where Pardee stood. In a few moments, the light that was his patrol-partner began to recede, heading to the barracks. One light took his place, the other came toward Allan.

His relief.

For tonight, for a few hours at least, his ordeal was over.

* * *

The Terro-Felidan War began when a Felidan gunship laser-strafed a Federation settlement on Ferris Alpha, obliterating the entire camp and killing all of its forty-eight personnel.

Generally any kind of hostile action required an immediate communication to the Terran-assigned ambassador of the planet in question, a wait for an explanation, followed-up with direct negotiations to the ruling contingent itself, and then a declaration of war if clarification wasn’t satisfactory.

In this case, Felida had no ambassador to Earth, being a non-Federation member and never having applied for affiliation. In fact, few people from the planets of the Solar Systém had ever seen a Felidan. The only information known about the aliens were that they had evolved from feline origins. As far as anyone knew, Felida had never tried to contact the Federation in any way

In view of those facts, the Federation dispensed with the formalities, declared open hostilities, and began formal recruitment procedures for this, their first war with a non-human species.

They’d been fighting for eight years now.