The Story of the Soldier

The first part of my "Stories of Slaves" project. I wrote this in my high-school Creative Writing class. (#) represents a footnote

Now it is my turn to share. I am Pallaton, ex-sergeant of the Lancian Army. I never thought about my future before the events of one certain day, but at one point, it was quite promising. I had completed my full course of military training by the time I was fifteen. Less than one year later, I was earning medals in combat. Yes, I was a fantastic soldier, both wise and skilled. However much honor exists for the military in Terran(1) culture, there is more to be found serving Lance. I would have lived a proud and noble life in the military, and not even death would have disappointed me.

However, on that one certain day, there was something greater than death that bid me to abandon my way of life and escape to the wonderful, humble servitude of this glorious mansion.

 

“Sergeant Pallaton?” the Lieutenant spoke to get the soldier’s attention.

“Yes, sir?”

“How old are you now?”

“Eighteen, sir.”

Lieutenant Kyrsan smiled, but still faced forward, never turning his eyes away from the potential danger ahead.

Technically, this was combat. Although there was no front line or open engagement for almost fifty kilometers, this light forest could conceal any number of enemy infantry. These two men were scouts, investigating for any hostile presence in the forest. Feeling safe, they had just begun to chat, but never let their guard down enough to discontinue sweeping their range of vision for movement of any kind. If imminent danger appeared, the two were confident that their training and instinct would give them fair warning to defend themselves, even with the distraction of conversation.

“You’re progressing quite well. You remind me of myself. If you’re anything like me, you’ll be a lieutenant too by the time you’re my age.”

“Twenty-one, sir?”

Lieutenant Kyrsan nodded, his thick jaw descending to his muscled chest.

His smooth, grey skin was disturbed by the presence of numerous minor scars about his exposed arms, neck and face. Pallaton bore no scars, an unusual sign for a soldier. It could mean that he was a coward, which was not true, that he was exceptionally skilled, which definitely was, or that he was just lucky, which could not be told.

“Hold up,” Kyrsan said, stopping himself and Pallaton in unison. “See that up there?”

“I see it,” answered Pallaton in a voice only one level stronger than a whisper. “It looks like a civilian house.”

“Well, the civilians here aren’t too friendly towards us, are they?”

“No, sir.”

They approached the one-story house with caution, rolling their steps to muffle the sound of their combat boots. It was composed entirely of timber boards, even the trapezoidal roof. No windows peeked in their direction; a flimsy but wide wooden door stared at them as the only visible entrance. Buzzing at one corner was a cheap gasoline-powered electrical generator of Terran design.

Lieutenant Kyrsan pressed his shoulder against the outside wall on the right side of the door. Pallaton did the same on the left. They each drew an enormous 25mm Titan pistol from their respective holsters on their hips. This was the largest handgun to ever be used by any military force.

Poised at the door, Kyrsan raised his left hand and spoke in the military’s one-handed sign language. “Wait. Walk around. Look inside.”

Pallaton nodded and shifted around the wall, sure to keep one side pressed against it for cover. Plucking a mirror from his pocket, he used it to peek safely around the corner. No enemies in sight. He glanced back once at his lieutenant before sliding around the corner. There was a window on this wall. Pallaton kept his back tight to the wooden boards as he approached. He held up the mirror to reveal the interior of the house. Wooden floors, wooden walls, wooden furniture. There were a few electrical appliances such as kitchen equipment and light sources; nothing military or otherwise threatening.

One threatening, non-electrical object was present: a loaded crossbow mounted on the back wall. A dark-skinned man stood only a meter away from it, drinking a beverage from an artfully carved cup. One other door hid the rest of the house from view, possibly to a bedroom, as no other sleeping quarters could be seen.

Pallaton shuffled back to his commanding officer. With his left hand he said, “Two rooms, one visible. One person, almost armed, unsuspecting. Suggest dynamic entry.”

Kyrsan nodded, approving. He took a position before the door and Pallaton stood next to him. He counted with his fingers, “Three, two, one…”

Upon the point in time that should have been “zero”, the door was crushed off its hinges by unison kicks from the two solders. The man who stood inside reacted with practiced initiative; he wasn’t as surprised as either Lancian would have suspected. He abandoned the cup and turned to place a hand on the crossbow. With their sights already trained on his torso, the two attackers fired their titanic pistols simultaneously, shattering twin gaping wounds in the dark man’s back. He first was forced against the wall from the gunshots before crumpling to the floor like a ragdoll.

Merely a second later, Lieutenant Kyrsan was storming through the other door with Pallaton close behind. It led, as expected, to a bedroom. Nothing threatening existed there. No more enemies or hazards were present, so why was a dark glow still at the base of Pallaton’s skull? Suddenly it grew; an extra soldier’s sense was crying out, “One more, behind…Now!”

Taking that cue, Pallaton turned in his place, almost leaping into the air as he directed a spinning kick into the startled surprise attacker. A butcher knife spiraled through the air and clattered to the floor a safe distance away. And the girl, knocked off her feet, held her possibly broken ribs as she remained where she fell: sitting on the floor with her back against a wall.

Kyrsan smiled and chuckled amusedly at the sight. “Well done, Sergeant,” he said. “She almost got the jump on you and cut your spine out" but look who’s at whose mercy now.” He laughed some more, much to Pallaton’s annoyance.

“Kill her,” Lieutenant Kyrsan ordered.

Pallaton did not; he remained in the position he took immediately following his impressive counter attack, his feet in a balanced stance and his heavy pistol held in both hands aimed at the failed ambusher. She must have hid inside the blind spot just to one side of the window where his mirror did not reach during his inspection.

“Kill her,” the Lieutenant reminded him. “She attacked you; she is an enemy.”

Still, Pallaton did not. He did not know much about her race, but she absolutely could not be more than fourteen years of age. Already her body was blooming into that of a fine woman. Her beautiful dark grey eyes held much fear as they gazed past Pallaton’s gun into his face.

“Or…” Kyrsan spoke in a sing-song tone. Although he was behind and out of sight, Pallaton could easily imagine his eyebrows being raised in dramatization. “Or do you want her for yourself? The spoils of war, you know.”

He took an audible step forward. Pallaton interrupted his motion. “Stop.”

“Did you just give your commanding officer an order?”

Pallaton said nothing. Kyrsan abandoned his last sentence and chose a different tone. “She attacked you first. You have the right to kill her.”

“Then I will waive that right.”

“I order you to kill her. If you do not, I will shoot you both.” Kyrsan’s voice had grown in strength to a shout by that sentence. Certainly his own gun was raised. Pallaton continued to look at the girl. He doubted she could understand his language, but did she still understand the argument around and regarding her? Did she understand that Pallaton was on her side?

Silence. Then gunshot. The crown of the girl’s lovely brown forehead caved in with a mess of gore. Pallaton turned on one heel, one hand on the monstrous pistol, swinging his one arm out to his side in desperate attempt to aim faster than his one remaining enemy could.

Another gunshot. Pallaton spiraled to the wooden floorboards, bleeding from a wound in his head.

Lieutenant Kyrsan lowered his warm gun and placed it softly in its holster. What a shame. The boy was eighteen; he had so much promise, but he had to waste it all on a girl who tried to kill him. Did he honestly think that there was a chance she could live? That he could save her? Look at the results: a bullet in each skull. With a heavy sigh, Kyrsan casually abandoned the building alone.

 

With a deep, surprised gasp, Pallaton awoke. Still lying down, he raised his hand gingerly to the wound on his temple. The heavy bullet had merely clipped his skull, cracking the bone, certainly causing brain trauma-- but unbelievably, he was alive. Kyrsan had failed. He rolled over and then saw more blood-- blood that wasn’t his own-- and remembered that he had failed as well.

He slowly pushed himself up to his knees, drops falling from his head. A pulsing agony above his eye constantly reminded him by how narrowly he had evaded death. Even so, he successfully crawled on his knees as he approached the enemy he fought to protect: the innocent warrior.

Those fluid, grey eyes remained shocked awake, unbecoming on her graceful, egg-shaped face. He gently closed them with his fingers. He also propped her body so that it sat more upright against the wall and closed her sweet lips. The gaping wound which cursed her crown bled no more, so with his short sleeve, Pallaton wiped the crimson stains away. She looked decent now, so Pallaton closed his eyes and improvised a soldier’s prayer.

“You fought bravely; it is a shame courage could not save you.”

Upon its conclusion, Pallaton was suddenly disturbed; he did not know her name. He patted down her body, searching for identification. On her left wrist, he felt something. Pulling back the sleeve of her light-brown tunic, he saw a leather bracelet strapped to her wrist. There were two words on it in two languages. One was her native one, which was alien to Pallaton, but the other was written in Stellar(2). KIIVA, it read.

“Kiiva,” he said, untying the leather straps and removing the name from her slender wrist. “I will remember you.”

 

Author's Note

(1) "Terra" is the official, interstellar name for Earth.
(2) Stellar is Pallaton’s second language. It is the most recognized by all space nations, much like English is on Earth today

Reviews

[mariah]

amazing story. very sweet and the charaters seemed very real and lifelike to me. great work :)
-mariah

[I Am Svetlana]

You told a great, heartfelt story...but some soldiers do choose to not follow orders at times, but others do and then take their own lives soon after due to feeling the guilt of what they have done. Perhaps that is what this soldier did that took his own life...perhaps he couldn't handle the pressure or thought of killing that young girl and just forgetting about it. So, maybe killing himself was a way of bringing himself back to her, to keep her safe in the afterlife.

[Coyote Poetry]

I enjoyed this tale. The story got better with each line. I like the characters and the storyline. Soldiers must follow orders. I like the desire of protecting the young girl. A very good ending to a sad story. A excellent story.
Coyote