Caitlyn Lasater

A short story set within the Collective Galaxy by Caitlyn Lasater

“So that’s it, then? They just take you away? Just like that? I don’t get a say in this?” Lila leans against the frame of the doorway, arms crossed, eyes glistening. “I don’t get a choice in what happens to you?”

I sigh. My hands tremble. I crumple the letter. “Nobody gets a choice. If they’re recruiting people like me, they must be desperate.” 

She crosses the room and sits next to me on the bed, clutching my hands in hers. Her body quivers. If she cries, I might cry. I choke back my tears. Try to play it off.

“But if they didn’t think the outcome was good, they wouldn’t even fight in the first place, right? Not against them. We must stand a chance.”

She doesn’t reply. She sits quietly, focused on her own thoughts. 

After a moment, she stands, unsteady, and heads back to the door. “I will make us a drink.” Her voice breaks. Her footsteps are soft down the hall.

I uncrumple the paper, read it again. Three. They want me today. Two hours.

But I’m no soldier. Not even sporty. The bedroom is lined with accolades of the scholarly sort, not the typical trophies you expect to see in a young male’s room. Poetry. Language learning. Maybe they won’t put me in as a soldier then—maybe they could use me as an officer, or a runner. Maybe my life and skills will be worth more than just cannon fodder.

I push myself up from the bed, feeling its softness as long as I can. The military barracks are designed to make you hard, make you tough. They start with your sleep. 

The main section of the house comes into view as I head down the hallway. Funny how you start to notice every little detail of the ordinary when it’s ripped from you.

There’s the faint divot in the wall where I ran my head through years ago after tripping over the landing. A smear of ink Lila left, chasing me down the hallway laughing because I stole her paint pots. Our names etched in the adjacent pillar. Little things to show how we, our lives and our love, exist. Little things I hadn’t cared for or cherished until now. When I am gone, will Lila look at these little pieces of life the same way I am now?

She’s got her back to me, quiet sobs rocking her shoulders as she stirs the tea. The spoon clinks against the cups, the only noise in the house. Tea’s hard to come by these days. The blockade stops a lot of trade; she used the last few scraps of leaves for me, for us. 

As she turns, the cups nearly topple from her shaking hands. I reach out, steadying her. Her face is soaked with silent tears, soaked with her fears of the future.

I gently take the cups from her, trying to be strong—needing to be strong—for her. “It’s okay. Let me help.” I place her tiny cup down on the counter and take a deep sip from mine. It’s bitter, hints of citrus and aromatic. Brewed with the hands of my Lila. It’s perfect.

“I just want to make sure that you’re happy.. I just want to make sure that you’re okay. I just want-” her body heaves with a sob “- I just want you to come home safely. I want so much for you, for our life… so much could be taken from you. From us.”

“Lila, we can’t think about that. I have to go. I don’t want to but if I don’t… they’ll come for both of us. I have to serve my country when my country calls. That’s the price we pay for freedom.” 

She doesn’t speak; instead, she runs her fingers over the small chip in her cup. Stare at it, there on the table. 

We sit like this, me quietly sipping tea, and her staring at nothing, ruminating on bleak possibilities and what ifs. I want to think about them. I want to think about who will take care of Lila in her old age if I am not there. I want to think about how she will provide for herself if I am gone. 

Instead, I force myself to think how I will be there to tend to her when we are elderly. How the money I earn from war will provide for us for a long time. How she will be laughing when playing with our children, doting on them. The what ifs I want.

The time is an hour from three. The walk to the military base is a long one. 

I put my cup down. It makes a soft tinkling as the spoon settles in it. Lila gives me a teary glance and embraces me. Her arms are tight around me- hurting me with her pain and her anguish. I wish I could bear it for her. She presses her forehead against mine. 

“Come home.”

“Always.”

The door closes just as the sadness from my heart opens, streaking down my face. I shut it with a hard push, shutting away Lila, shutting away a possibility. Shutting myself out, so she may stay in.

The road snakes its way through the mountains, all the way to the peak. The barracks lie near the clouds. Hidden away, like my fears must be. 

I’m not used to walking so far. Just around the area, but never this far. Never this high. The few times I ever climbed the peak were on our pilgrimage, taken once every ten years. I was a child then, climbing with ease, no fears to weigh me down. How brave I had been then. My mother trailing behind me as I leapt from rock to rock, balancing as only children can. Then, I climbed for peace. Now, I climb for death.

The pathway broadens. A large arch marks the military grounds, surrounded by snow laden boulders on all sides, save the entrance. The barracks are cold steel. Sounds of skirmishes break out across the area. Feet beat into the ground in marching exercises. A handful of other draftees wait around the arch. Some, like me, choke back their worries. Others, like Lila, have their grief written in the creases of their faces.

A huffing officer comes and cranks the gate open, ushering us newcomers inside. “Hurry, hurry, you’ll be given brief weapons training, a few orders training, and then sent for dinner and bed. You must learn fast because we are expecting to be deployed any day.”

I step through to my new normal. The officer leads us to a washroom where we rinse ourselves clean of our old lives and fears and dress in the garb of the military unit: a set of all black body armor with the stars stitched in the arm. I emerge with my new comrades. Our names haven’t been put on our uniforms yet. 

“Get a move on! Over here! Now!” Barked commands from the left. Weapons training. I jog over to the target range, receive my gun, and try to aim. The bullets miss every target.

“You better learn to strike them before they strike you, soldier. You’ll be just another body if you don’t. They won’t hesitate, and neither should you.”

Great advice. I exhale and squeeze the trigger again. A ping alerts me I’ve hit one target, just below the vital area. 

He teaches us to reload. Teaches us to fire again. And again. And again. My mind wanders to Lila. What’s she been doing for hours? Is she already missing me? Is she brewing a final cup of tea?

I miss my target some more. I hit below the vital area some more. I am yelled at some more, threatened some more.

Fearmongering. Brainwashing to hate the enemy. I shoot them, or they shoot me.

The officer changes our weapons from a large gun to a smaller one, a pistol. This one charges through my wrists, already weak from the larger weapon. More yelling. More missing targets. Maybe they won’t give me a combat job since I’m so bad at it. 

A few pings of bullets hitting metal. But not from me. The range begins to grow dark. Spotlights flick on, flooding the entire base with blinding light. I pull the trigger and hear a solid thump. Right on target, center of the head. My first deadly shot. 

My heart sank. Not dummies the next time. Kill or be killed, remember?

Supper came. We shuffle into a large, steel building. Thousands of us. A small bowl of broth for all the work we did during the day. The blockade hurt everyone, even the military apparently.

“Hush, hush now! A notice from our general!” A video projects onto the screen in the center of the hall. Most quiet down, but some still chatter under their breath.

“No training, but they expect us to fight?”

“So that’s who we are fighting for.”

“I heard that we are the last wave of soldiers- the last hope.”

The face on the screen opened its mouth, a booming voice bombarding the room. “Welcome all new recruits and hello again to old soldiers. As you know, we have been attempting to aid our neighbors to the north in the second Great War, but that has garnered the attention of the enemy. Should they choose to strike in our homelands, we must be ready. You must prepare to fight at a moment’s notice, and you must take down the enemy. Our way of life is jeopardized should they gain the upper hand. We do believe, with the united front, that we stand a chance of winning this war. But you must be prepared to face an enemy and destroy them, for they will surely destroy us. Don’t let them gain the advantage.” The face vanishes from the screen. The whole hall is silent now, even the few chatterboxes. We eat the rest of our meal in silence. 

The newcomers are taken to our barracks by another lower ranking officer. Small. Cold. Cramped. I toss my newly-acquired weapons onto the weapon rack and wait. The others trudge to bunks, picking at the thin mattresses and blankets. I wait until one is left, then step forward to claim it. The officer leaves us to gather our thoughts and sleep.

“I’m Rourk.”

“Dann.”

“Petyr.”

Quiet mouths mutter names. I stay silent. I don’t have much to say. I’m afraid if I speak, I will let forth the turbulence eating away at my insides. I don’t want to upset others and make enemies of my comrades.

I climb the chilly ladder. I don’t want to be here.

I crawl onto the lumpy, musty mattress. I don’t belong here.

I pull the thin blankets up over my body. I belong with Lila.

I rest my head against the tattered pillow. I am not a warrior.

Sleep is difficult. The scattered snores and breathing of the others tell me I’m not the only one awake late into the night. Is Lila awake now, too? How many other sweethearts, lovers, left behind lie awake sleepless, worrying over the fate of the ones they hold dear?

But all of this is supposed to protect them. Keep them safe from the enemy. Maintain our lives. Our livelihood. Yet, killing, murdering.. Just the thought makes me feel empty, hollow. War comes from the hate of those who are different from ourselves, whether by looks, ideology, wealth, culture. It boils down to hate. We are capable of such great love. I see it. Feel it myself towards Lila. But we cannot love those we deem different.

I roll onto my side. I don’t belong here in this war.

Morning. I watch as the light breaks across the barracks, a soft glow trying to warm the hard steel. The same officer from the night greets us, gets us from bed for another day of training. A hearty breakfast of broth and vegetables. I don’t eat most of it. My stomach is in knots. I give it to Rourk who wolfs it down. 

Weapons again. This time, I manage three pings in a row. The overseeing officer seems happy with me and gives me an encouraging pat on the back. My stomach twists even more. The doors open. A seasoned platoon of soldiers gallavants in, hoisting up weapons and eyeing us.

“A demonstration for you.” One grins and pushes Petyr back from his station. We move aside for them, watching with shock and awe as they take down target after target, vital after vital. Not a single miss. “You’ll need to fire like this, or you’re dead out there. This enemy is smart. Cunning. And they will not hesitate to kill you if you defend our way of life.” The grinning one fired another round into the heads of 6 targets. “Practice.” They give us back our weapons.

I miss every shot.

Three weeks of training. Three weeks of weapons drills. Missing targets. Looks of disdain. Three weeks, day in, day out. I think about Lila. I think about leaving.

Day one of week four we begin trying vehicles, machines. I’m given orders to begin pilot training. Maybe I can hit a target with a bomb since my aim is so far off with regular guns. Simulations guide me through the various controls. Side stick. Deployment. Missile lock. 

I manage to take down an enemy. 

“Maybe this is the correct assignment for you after all.”

I learn rolls, dives, turns. Spotting the enemy. Tagging the enemy with sensors. But I learn it all from a computer. How different will it be when they send me up into the sky? I am one of a hundred pilots stationed here on the mountain. One hundred to fight for our freedom. Or are we fighting against the enemy’s freedom?

Supper with new faces. I sip my broth and drink the remnants of a grassy tea. It’s bitter. It’s tea. But it isn’t Lila’s tea.

The face projects again. Daily propaganda is never amiss. Gotta convince us that the enemy has no face, no feelings, in order to stamp out their future. 

A distant rumble. Thunder. A storm over the mountain.

The pilot next to me sighs and puts his bowl down. “I left my clothes out. Forecast didn’t call for rain.”

“Eh.” I shrug. “The mountain weather is strange. One minute it’s sunny, and the next the whole place is covered in fog.”

He nods his head in agreement. A whisper of rain rings on the roof as we continue to eat. Thunder rocks the building, rippling my broth in the bowl. The officers shout for us to return to our barracks and bunker down for the night. Storm must be pretty bad. I leave my broth and tea for the cook staff to clean and leave, raising my eyes skyward. Lightning dances across illuminating our pathway to bed. Rourke rushes ahead of me. His feet splash at the ground, tiny little bomb blasts it. 

I clamber up to my bunk, thin mattress scratching at my back, and rest. The thunder keeps me awake, but the rain lulls me, like one of Lila’s fingers brushing my hair away from my face. Lucidity.

I watch the sun rise and the rain subside through the window. Everyone begins to stir as the morning bells ring. Breakfast is mush. Groggy spoons clink and clunk against bowls. 

An officer approaches me. “You’ll be on a practice flight today. Excited?”

I smile. I nod excitedly. I slurp the remnants from my bowl. I feign joy. 

I don’t want to fly. I don’t want to fight. I want to be at home where I belong. I don’t want to be brainwashed into killing those different from me. 

I do as I am told.

The sky outside is bright as I am led to the hangar. It’s on the far side of the base. Plane debris litters the ground outside. I step over a shredded piece of body armor. First time flights must not end well, judging by the state of the area.

My hands shake as I sit in a cockpit for the first time. I know the gears and knobs. I know the exercises. Simulated gears and knobs and exercises. This is real. I put my hand on the side stick. I’m sweating. I remove my hand, jerk it back, a reflex- it feels so wrong. Someone counts down and I taxi my way to the small strip. 

I’m rattling in my breaths. I can’t keep my fingers from twitching, can’t keep my palm on the side stick to control the screaming machine below me, around me. Lila. I think of Lila.

The plane roars and skitters, like my heart did the first time I saw Lila.

Pressure on my neck, my head, like her hugs after I come home.

A fall in my gut, like the day I left home.

I’m airborne. I’m flying. Like when she told me she loved me.

I will do it for you, Lila.

I land without incident. My body is electrified, tense. A rush. A thrill. It’s raining again. Distant thunder rocks my plane as I am guided back. The lightning makes the runway shine. An officer pops open my hatch. “Well, how was it?”

I want to scream and rage and cry about it. I want to laugh and squeal and shout about it. I open my mouth and consider how to react.

“It was like the simulations.”

“Well, that’s why we have them. Get some food and head to bed.”

Two more days of rain. Two more days of real flying. This time, I’m in a squadron. Five of us practice our turns, our rolls, and launch paint missiles at targets far below, pretend enemies to replace the real ones I will soon be forced to slaughter. I hit my targets. It’s getting easier to kill.

And I’m scared of that.

Dawn breaks. Rain breaks. An alarm breaks the silence. No, not rain. “It’s not rain.” Cries break across the camp. “It’s ash.” 

“Ash from the village?”

“Ash from the mountain?”

“Ash from a fire?”

“Ash from the atmoshield.”

The sky flickers and electrifies, thunders. The shield protecting our area, decimated. Destroyed. Hulking figures caught in flashes between the electronic pulses, ready to bring their wrath upon us. Ready to kill or be killed.

Panic sets. I’m scrambling for my armor. 

“To the skies! To your weapons! We fight!”

Shatters of electric pulses break across the barracks. EMPS?

I slip in the mud and ash. I taste it in my mouth. Bitter. 

But not tea.

My plane is ready. My squadron is ready. We slip and slide into our cockpits. My stomach is in my heart. My heart is at home. I can’t breathe. Oxygen mask on. We taxi, we take off. Below, a firefight. Transports landing. Transports shooting. Screams. Bodies.

My plane screams.

I scream.

“Engage!” Barked orders that sound like a squeak.

A ship in front of us- the main ship. Black as the ash falling around us. A white bird, talons extended, dancing on the belly of the ship. Talons extended to grasp the world in its clutches, carry it back to its nest, and let its young devour it.

My Lila.

We turn in formation, launching missiles. 

I miss. I hit. I miss again. I’m hit again.

I’m going down. There’s ash everywhere, even inside my plane. Fingers scramble for the eject before I’m crushed into the ground. I find it, launch myself into the sky, nothing but my parachute to save me from the impact of death.

Flashes of guns below. Mowing my army down. Moving as a unit. All movements synchronized. 

We scatter; they flank.

I land on the outside of the perimeter they set. Ash everywhere. Bodies everywhere. I choke and scream. 

I hear them speak, the enemy. I wish I had a gun.

“Do you wish to serve the Collective? Do you wish to serve here as we serve on Earth?”

I hear a single “Never!” from the group of the living.

I hear a single gunshot. 

I hear several gunshots.

I hear nothing save for my own ragged breath, my own pounding heart. 

A hand grasps me, turns me over. 

Eyes centered on the front of the face. A small protruding nose. White teeth behind pink lips. A thin body, bipedal, arms holding a gun at me. Long hair pulled back away from the face. Female. Human. Enemy.

“And you, soldier? Do you wish to serve the Collective?”

I think of Lila. I think of our future. Of our life together. Of our freedom.

“No.” I say.

The human smiles.

I think of my Lila.