Hey everyone. Just did a revised edition of the story. Though it needed it. But anyway, this is the newest story by me. Future chapters may be co-authored. If so, I will update you on that. I don't say it in the story, but this is Dib POV. Sorry if there's any confusion. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated.
Gray, that's all there is; stark, barren, lifeless sky. A cold mass of indistinct misery hangs in the air, like spring fog in the early morning; heavily pressing down on a person, making it hard to breathe beneath my usually stiff collar. Hushed voices whisper in the corners amidst the sorrowful weeping of the women huddled in the crowd behind us on this early summer morning. The men have come as well, and so have the children, and the small infants the parents bear in their arms. Sad faces, the lot of them. No one smiles to see this. Not happy, for sure, but it will be a day they and the history books will long remember. And they can tell their grand-children, and those great-grandchildren of theirs not yet born, that they were here on that day of mourning, that day of grief, that day of humiliation, that day when the freedom so cherished amongst all peoples of every nation, creed, and vestige, finally expired amidst the foul tempest of time and the brutal stomp of the tyrant's heel. Our spirits poor, decrepit, and broken-this is what it is like to be defeated.
I stand here, now ready to witness it as well. I am dressed in a uniform that I have only worn for the past three weeks, but one which is untainted and unspoiled, still as new when I got it. The cloth colour, as vibrant as the day I had pulled it from the plastic sheath it had come folded in. Any other day or hour, I would have been proud to have worn this; but how much does a uniform mean to a defeated soldier? What honor can he derive from wearing the insignia of a regiment that has been completely wiped out? Does the man next to me possess that right? Do any of them possess that right? Do I? Inadequacy flushes my senses as I prop my new steel helmet upon my head, and pull on my uniform shirt-tail. The rough wool rubs harshly against my sweat-laden palms as I trail the neatly sewed seam along the edge. I give it a firm tug and snap my shirt into place, making it crease along chest; my two ribbons on the left bob slightly but fall back into place upon my breast. I never can get them quite straight enough...
A cold wind blows slightly to the east. It swirls some small pine cone leaves over the patio floor. I follow their little dance as they pass over the perfectly polished shoes of the man to my left. There stands the general. His face is expressionless, a listless complexion of what he once was, his cheeks hallow and colorless to his mild countenance, his eyes constrained and faded from many long and weary nights of leaning over his wide oak table; looking over the countless maps and charts in his dimly lit office these past few weeks. The creases on his face are noticeably larger than when I had previously seen him. He is not the man I had first met, but he is a seasoned veteran, that's for sure. He is old, perhaps too old for much more soldiering. We all called him "Old Dog"…He is still here, though. A vestal remnant of the once-glorious time not so long ago when he was a much smaller piece in an army that was undefeated and feared the world over. Now the legacy is gone, and it has ended with him. He has to be the one to bear his name as the one who brought us defeat. But the men still love him, and he loves them back.
He was a father to each of them in battle. He knew exactly the strengths and weaknesses of his own troops, and understood what each soldier needed. He placed such great confidence in them. He knew they could accomplish anything, but he did not ask any more of them than he would ask of himself. He was a brother in desperation. He never let his men go hungry, never sacrificed them needlessly. He was expedient and frank, and did his best to keep morale high. But most importantly, he was a friend in times of burden. Not afraid to get down with the men in trenches and dig himself. He toiled along with them. Every misery, every toil, every mind-numbing minute of battle, he was right there with them. And the men loved him for it. So it must be a great pain that he bears in his chest right now, weighing deeply on his mind as he seemingly recalls all those bright faces that once stood before him, but he'll never show it. He looks down at his boots, his firm brow roiled as if in deep contemplation, but deep down in his bosom, I know he weeps. Not for himself or his own shortcomings, but for the men who he had staked his soul and body behind, and those widows who lament the tragic turn of events in this misfortune of war, the likes of which has never been seen. He does not show that which troubles him, but from the corner of his wrinkled eye, I see one solitary tear roll down his scarred and battered cheek and land forlorn on the concrete below.
If ever there was a greater compromise of relations to the humility and forbearance of that benevolent general who stands to my left, it is the lieutenant who stands to my right. A stalwart man, rigidly defined and textured, he towers over everyone in a sort of comely way. He has round cheeks and a hard nose and eyes of vibrant blue hidden underneath the shadow of his officer's cap. He stands straight and alert, his chest swollen out and his arms by his side. Feet together, eyes forward, at attention. He is proud; even in defeat. He has to be. He is the only one left. Surviving alone grants a dignity all its own, I suppose, or maybe he is just too stupid to realize his own good fortune. It is a mockery for him to stand in such a dignified pose at such undignified an hour. The man is a derision to his comrades. Not even a man, I should say, but a lifeless machine, yes, that fits him better. He doesn't think. There's no sign of understanding in those eyes of his, just obedience. He obeys, that's all; blindly following orders. How much I wish to yell at him to stop the charade, the damn simplistic game he thinks he's in, but I won't. It simply isn't my place, and on a day like this, there's enough to worry about besides him. No matter how much of an ass he is making of himself.
I haven't the right to, after all; no matter how much of a pompous buffoon he is. He had seen combat. I had never left the confines of the general's office. Who was I to say how he should act? Maybe it was his way of acting brave. I was just an orderly; no more. That is the only reason I am here. Out of the thousands of others, I was chosen for desk work. Maybe it was random, maybe it wasn't. Maybe they looked in the file on me they no doubt had stored in some top secret bunker deep underground and saw my credentials and assigned me here. Whatever the case may be, I am here. To my fortune or misfortune, that was not for me to decide. As I ponder over the vast expenditure of all these things I think to myself that perhaps, dying gloriously in battle would have been preferable to this. In one brief instant of time, we had seen everything we had known before crumble into dust before our very eyes. Now all that was left were the ashes kicked into our mouths by our enemies. We'd have to beg in the gutter, groveling like beggars for mercy from the invaders. It was a day nobody wanted to see. Was it all worth living through?
Some had decided that it wasn't. On our way here, we stopped at one of the last outposts along the front that was still managing to hold out against the enemy's ceaseless onslaught. He welcomed us, gave us food, told us a great lie of how they were resisting the enemy with all possible gallantry and that they wouldn't take another step back, but then we told the commander of the garrison our orders to surrender. He changed; almost instantly if I remember right. He started shaking and trembling, enough that we thought he was ill. We helped him find control, but the life seemed to vanish from his very eyes. After his short fit, however, he summoned all the other officers and gave them a speech on what had happened. He preached to them about duty to their leader and their responsibility to the homeland. When he had concluded, he invited us and his officers to retire with him and we started drinking one of the last bottles of brandy; giving toasts and hurrahs as each man drank to his courage. Then he and his officers retired into the other room, and each man, instead of facing the shame of surrender, chose to end his life with a bullet through his head, and died to a man. We rushed in, only to see the brutal carnage. It was horrifying to see their cold bodies lying there, bent down in a cold stupor with their life force all over the walls; their eyes wide open, as if staring at us. I feel nauseous just recalling it, needless to say, I lost my stomach a little bit later. We hadn't the time to give them rights, and God knows they deserved them as much any person. So we did what we could, placing some napkins we had found over their heads and going on our way, visibly reminded how much the burden of duty meant to each of us.
That was three days ago, and I still see their blank, morose stares every time I shut my eyes; those cold, lusterless pupils glaring wide open. The general told us they did their duty as they saw fit; but isn't our duty to live? Doesn't each of us have a responsibility to stay alive, even while in captivity? Though, I confess, I could not imagine what drove those valiant men to seek death rather than life. What kind of noble obligation they felt so strongly for that ending their lives was the only alternative. Were they brave to have done what they did? Or, was it just a coward's way out? Should we feel ashamed for not following their lead? I feel a deep sorrow over the whole affair. Not because of the men, but because the families left behind. Mothers and fathers are now without sons, sisters without brothers, lovers without sweethearts. And then I think on my own family. My sister and my father at home, bidding me a tearful farewell just three weeks earlier as the drums of war beat in the distance. My sister, more than any, who I had never seen once shed a tear, wept bitterly to see me go. It was all a bit much at the time and I edged away after giving her an embrace. I left them alone to go and fight the foe, thinking myself proud for what I did. Now? I feel nothing; a numbness. And if I had the chance to go back at this very moment, I wouldn't withdraw from her embrace, not for anything; not for the world.
In the present, time seems to creep languidly on. Neither the beasts of the surrounding forest nor the fowl of the air seemed to make any noise. The bitter hush and silence of this barren location in the middle of nowhere is unnerving. Why does it have to be here? Why in the middle of the remotest part of the world? It doesn't seem to fit the expectations of a conquering army, to have the surrender signed in a place of no significance. The only people gathered to witness it are the few people who live in the village, who were informed at the last minute that their Siberian town would be the place where Earth finally submitted to a foreign ruler. It was all too much. I anticipate their arrival, but I hate every minute before they show up. As much hate as any man who has to surrender his home must hold within. Damn them all. The one courtesy they could pay us was to be punctual.
We wait patiently. Now, the lieutenant has started to flex his legs as we wait for them to arrive. The fog around us gradually begins to lift as the minutes tick away, until the sun, just beyond the horizon of tall fir trees, dissipates it entirely. The cool breeze of the morning turns into a hot, sweltering humidity. Hot, steam-like air radiates against our faces as the sunlight illuminates the darkness. The crowd begins to become anxious, their near-silence replaced with an assortment of low, anxious talking. We aren't sure what's going on. Is it a delay? Nobody can tell. They didn't say how they would reach us here. The anxiety of it all is maddening, like waiting for an ax to come down. My annoyance turns into rage. Why don't they hurry up!
After another 10 minutes of bated suspension, we finally hear an approaching vehicle, a lone muffled crackle barely piquing the ears. It is the distinct sound of an engine that can be heard, piercing the broken silence like a knife, loudly cluttering as it approaches. It continues on, coming ever closer, until several others join suit. They are farther off, but they join in the chorus of gyrating turbines pumping on steel and oil. Soon the first one appears. A greenish-gray motorcycle rounds the corner of the mud-laden main street of the town and sputters onto the central square in front of the mayor's mansion where our present host has assembled. The rider bobs viciously as the bike awkwardly ascends the low spots along the road. The loud engine kicks and writhes as the driver puts on the brakes, causing it to come to a complete stop. He kicks down the lever and dismounts his vehicle, leaving it to idle like an exhausted steed.
He is a strange creature, the first of their kind I have ever seen. His face and body are partially obscured by his goggles and the flowing trench coat he wears, but you can tell without a doubt that he is not of this earth, to the amazement and intrigue of all the villagers present who have never seen a foreigner, much less an extraterrestrial. The aberrant creature removes his goggles and helmet nonchalantly, his manner cool and collected, revealing his peculiar appearance. He has bright green skin, his face square in dimension with no visible nose or ears upon it. Instead, he has two wide, red eyes that cover most of his face and two indiscreet antennas on the top of his head that seem to act the part of both of those aforementioned human appendages.
He walks to us; his stride and pacing professional if not somewhat relaxed. He doesn't grin, merely nods to acknowledge the general's presence as he approaches him. He halts in front of him and shakes his hand. "An honor." He murmurs. An honor indeed, no doubt he'll be promoted for being here on this glorious occasion. "The convoy will be arriving shortly." The old general nods his weary head and gives the soldier a faint salute, half-heartedly raising his hand to his eyebrow. The soldier snaps a salute back, then does an about-face and proceeds back to his commandeered vehicle where he stands at attention. I gaze through my peripherals at the lieutenant, who is still standing at his post like a constipated statue.
"One and the same..." I mutter.
Soon, the rest of the entourage arrives. Two beige, rather-antiquated cars round the same corner the scout had come from. They are long, open-air cars that seat about four people each, including the drivers of each car. Inside of these cars are the assembled leaders and important figures of their top military. A truck follows close behind, no doubt filled with soldiers. I peer around the wide vehicle to see if any more would be coming. No more are to be seen. This can't be all, can it? Surely, they were going to bring more men. I scoff. Perhaps they don't care if any of them live or die.
The cars pull in in front of the mayor's mansion while the truck pulls around to the side. The enemy generals and field marshals exit their vehicles, gathering in a casual group in front of the promenade. I look to the far side of the building, where the truck has come to a stop. The back is let down and squads of fully armed soldiers jump quickly to the street below, forming into filed rank beside of the building. The group of generals approaches and we perform as we had we had been told, snapping our heels together and saluting our victors who stand before us. The general addresses them, "Sirs, I have been instructed by my superiors to relinquish my entire army to you, speaking on behalf of the will of my country and my planet, both of whom at this time wish to conduct a peace with yours." Several of the generals look at each other, perplexed. They whisper amongst themselves, until the one in front finally decides to step in for the rest.
"As you wish, Sir. We will discuss terms, then." He says in a low voice. "As the vanquished, you are given approximately one earth day to fulfill this pledge of surrender. Do you agree?"
"I do." He says, letting the words choke in his throat.
"Then let us proceed." He motions his baton to the mansion behind us. He nods and we about-face and walk to the entrance. A rare event, as any other time we would have marched.
The crowd disperses in front of us. The villagers move to one side or the other, creating a corridor by which to get through. We walk into the doorway, our guests following us. We lead them to a large room where the papers have all been neatly arranged and we stand at our seats. The victors look around at the room, gazing at the murals and portraits neatly hung on the wall behind each chair, with candles attached nearby. It is a plain room, but it fits the time and occasion for which it is needed. It will suffice for the work ahead. When the guests have been seated, we then sit. What follows is an intense moment of awkwardness. We sit face to face with them, staring at our foes, and nobody is quite sure how to begin. I sit in my seat, nervously fidgeting with my hands under the table.
Finally, the general tries to break the dead-lock. "Gentlemen, could I interest you in some brandy?"
The alien generals look at each other, unsure if they should respond. With not a word spoken between them, they break view with each other and all nod their heads approvingly. The general beckons a servant standing at the door, who then disappears into the other room and reappears holding a bottle encasing a velvety red liquid. The servant hands around the glasses and begins to pour. I eye the brandy bottle, looking it over; and then, I recognize it. It is the bottle we had retrieved from the dead officers.
Suddenly, the image of their dead bodies inspires a burning hatred to rise up in my chest as we continue to glare at those pompous commanders sitting on the far side of the table, drinking down the brandy that had passed the lips of those brave men. I want to hurt them. Not just hurt them, kill them. But not instantly, no, I want to make them suffer. It would be easy enough. We were not allowed to bring weapons to this meeting, but I did. I have a pistol, small enough to hide undetectably in my boot. I could gun each of them down and have one bullet to spare. It beckons me as my hand slowly reaches beneath the table. I pass my hand over my boot and feel its stamped steel frame along the inside of the leather. One, thin string-pull away, and I could unleash death upon them. But then I think about how much more pain and suffering I will put my people through. All the countless lives that would be lost in retribution. For what? For these replaceable geezers in their uniforms? It isn't worth it. At least, not yet. I let my anger subside as I slowly slide the gun back into the holster, discreetly out of view.
The aliens drink their fill, and when they are done, they are more liberated to begin the talks. "You have treated us to your fine spirits," the apparent leader says, "and we thank you. But now let us move on to what must be done."
"Very well." The general says. "Whenever you're ready." He has a great deal of determination in his voice. He may have been defeated, but he certainly isn't out of the fray. He conveys seriousness and certainty, as any commander would on a battlefield.
"You mentioned in your communication about prisoners..."
"Yes." He answers expediently. "I want all prisoners to be decently treated, as is specified under the Geneva Convention."
"We don't know of this 'Geneva', but we do have the Galactic Contract of Military Engagement, which specifies treatment of prisoners." He takes our said addendum and flips through the pages, putting his finger on the passage when he finds it, and begins quoting, "...all prisoners, regardless of rank or station, are to be given fair and equal provision and be provided decent quarter. If a civilian is caught wearing the uniform of a soldier and is taken prisoner, said civilian is granted no leniency for provision under the code..."
"I have no civilians in my army, Sir." The general interrupts.
"We are merely pointing out our law," A fat alien on the left responds, with many a wheezing cough.
"In such cases," the general responds, "we shall reach wherever it may be. For right now, the lives of my men are my concern. We will discuss civilian matters later.
The aliens are taken aback his abrasiveness. I smile at their faces, which look as if somebody told them that something had urinated in the brandy. "I will be frank with you," the leader says, "since you appear in no mood for diplomacy. It was never our goal to come here to your planet to conquer. It was necessity, however, that drove us here. Since none of you are united, we had to find a way to seek your assistance collectively by another route."
The lieutenant, now perplexed, speaks up, "Assistance?"
"Yes, assistance. We will leave you here, undisturbed, governed by your own leaders, to live in peace, if you provide us with what we want."
"What do you want?" the general says.
"We want troops."
The general responds in the gravest of tones. "You came all this way, expended all these resources, killed all these people, and you wish us to pay tribute with our own troops?"
"Yes. In return, you may have all those things, as well as access to Irken technology."
The general eyes him with a great deal of suspicion. "Why?"
The leader responds candidly, "We need friends. Not just friends, allies."
"You mean vassals." he says.
The smile vanishes from the alien's face. "In more or less of a way...yes." We all stare at him coldly. He sees the impact of his words and huddles his arms down, as if trying to reassure us, "Look, these are the most lenient terms I can offer. Anything less would be treason..."
A minute passes by and the general sits with his head stooped low, pondering the terms. At last, he answers. "I will have to consult with my superiors."
"No!" he chastises, "We want your response now." He slides him a piece of paper. "Sign it, or we'll lay waste to the rest of the planet."
The old general looks over the paper, reading each line carefully, his pupils shaking lightly as they pass over the small print. When he finishes, he bows his heavy head and shakes it several times. He grudgingly takes the pen in his hand and puts his name down on the paper. "It's done." he says.
The lieutenant and I both stand up to place our signatures as witnesses. He takes the pen and quickly jots his name down under the general's. He places the pen in my hand, and I hesitantly start to sign, my hands shaking with rage at the degradation. I neatly swirl the letters out, and hand the paper to the servant, who hands it to the aliens. They each sign it themselves, and then stamp it with a red seal. It is final. We are now slaves...