Alien Soldier's Prize

Chapter 1

Auric

            Tonight, the line to use the one holo-call unit is absurdly long. I’m not sure if that is a good or bad thing. It certainly gives me more time to practice but it also takes away from the miniscule amount of time I have to myself at the end of each day.

            Every five minutes, the line moves forward by one soldier. That’s it. Five minutes to give an update or profess your love or whatever it is you have to say to someone on the other end of the line and move on. They are very strict about it.

            But then again, everything is strict around here. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. No one said being in the militia would be easy. There are rules for everything. Even rules for rules. Which I don’t mind. I like structure.

            What I can’t stand is how arbitrary it all seems. Rules for the sake of rules. Troop leaders who are bullies. Pointless drills. Not to mention bad food and lack of supplies.

            Guess you could say I’m not much of a soldier.

            But given how bad things have gotten lately with my family’s finances, I didn’t have much of a choice.

            Five minutes. We move forward one spot in the line.

            I look out over the barracks. A huge platform suspended between the branches of ancient trees. Ringing it, within the branches themselves are the outbuildings, supply sheds and sleeping quarters.

            Once, this was a magnificent piece of engineering. But time and neglect has left it shabby-looking and in desperate need of repair.

            Everywhere I look, my engineering eyes see another fault, another building in dire need of care.

            The ion lanterns have been ignited but some are burnt out or in need of charging. Our supply of ion recharge units has dwindled, like most of the supplies around here. Where there are dark holes, the lanterns have been replaced by old fashioned wood torches.

            It makes the whole place dingy. At least the air is fresh – flowing in from the distant Mountain Kingdom and spiced with the fragrance of the pine needles.

            Five minutes. We move forward again.

            The back of my neck itches. My uniform jacket is old and threadbare and made of rough tree bark fabric.

            Only the best for us soldiers, my brain snaps sarcastically.

            Reaching up to scratch my neck, I feel my spine plates bristle. How I wish I could wear civilian clothes for a day. My skin would be so grateful.

            As my hand falls back down to my side, it brushes against my pocket. I feel the shape hidden there.

            My notebook. Compact enough to be carried everywhere I go, which is both convenient and necessary as I would never leave it in the sleeping quarters. Despite the small size, it is designed to hold plenty of parchment pages. 

I resist the urge to take it out. To scan through the drawings there, dream up new ones to add.

   Instead, I leave my hand dangling at my side, unmoving. No one can know of this habit of mine.

            It’s more than a habit… my mind argues. I ignore it, though it is right.

            It’s a calling. One that I can’t pursue. In order to become a builder, one needs money for an apprenticeship. That is, if you are skilled enough to convince a master to take you on.

            And money is not something my family has. Though we come from a long and noble line of Treetop Kiphians, our nobility does not pay the bills.

            Or give me any opportunities.

            So, here I rot in the militia, biding my time until something else comes along.

            I never ask myself when that will happen. The prospects are just too depressing.

            Five minutes. We move up.

            One more soldier before me. I should practice.

            How am I doing? All right.

            Is there anything new? No.

            How is everyone back home?

            That’s it. Those are the standard questions I can expect to answer and to give. I just hope the five minutes goes by quickly.

            The decision to join the militia was not my own. Since my parents enlisted me, the tension between us has been palpable. Each phone call simply reminds us of this fact. But still, I’m expected to speak to them at least once a week.

            Five minutes.

            It’s my turn.

            The holo-call booth is hot, filled with the smell of clammy breath. With automatic fingers, I enter the coordinates to dial home.

            My mother answers, as expected, on the third notification.

            “Auric,” she says, staring at me through the grainy screen. Like everything else, this is an area where we don’t have the best equipment, naturally. “You look tired.”

            I’m fine, how are you?

            “Hello, Mom. Uh, maybe? We’ve been doing a lot of drills lately.”

            “That’s good. Let me get your father.” She disappears for a moment. There is still an icy coolness between us. Ever since I told her what I really wanted to do with my life, and she told me it was not possible.

            I said some things I regret. I wonder if she regrets anything too.

            My father appears next to my mother. His face is a bit more open.

            “Auric! How are you?”

            “All right. And you?”

            “Oh, fine. My ankle is acting up again. Same old story. Anything new?”

            Like clockwork.

            “No. Well, we do seem to be doing more drills lately.”

            My parents exchange looks. Do they know something I don’t?

            “Well, yes. That makes sense. Given that there are shortages all over and people are starting to question—”

            “What does that mean?” I ask, going off script.

            “Nothing. Don’t listen to your father. Just keep doing what you’re doing. You are making this family very proud.”

            And I suppose my salary helps.

            None of us say that part out loud but most of the meager pay I make for my service is funneled to my parents back home.

            “Uh, yes. Is everyone well, then?”

            The same old. Mercifully, my five minutes are soon up and the call is ended. Weekly duty complete.

            I exit the booth, holding the door open for the soldier behind me, and head back to my sleeping quarters.

            Once settled in bed, I turn my back to the rest of the men, doing my best to shield my notebook and pencil from prying eyes.

            As the minutes tick down to lights out, I sketch. With each line and mark, I feel slightly less tense. On paper at least, I’m building my own world. It’s the only way I can free my mind at the end of each day.