Ever since, I have been a practicing pacifist and intend to stay that way. A man of peace and of progression and advancement. My ideals and dreams, ones I wanted to grow and implement towards the world to make it a better place. No one can take that away from me: my morals, my spirit, my essence and purpose in life. Maybe I won’t have to fight, even on the battlefield. But I have to, the Party and military expect me to, I must do my part to help win. But even then, maybe I could just shoot near the Herculeans and not at them. Kind of just tag along and be there enough to get through it.
“How many of you shot a gun before?” says our Drill Instructor.
Our entire platoon is present. Three hands go up.
“And what were they!”
Tommy, a stalky Georgian, and one of the guys from my unit speaks first, “The Private shot a carbine for hunting once, sir!”
“A carbine?” The Instructor stomps forward facing Tommy and hisses into his face, then speaks very quietly that it’s hard to hear him till he asks the next question. “I am guessing that wasn’t some military grade shit was it?”
“No, sir!”
“I didn’t think so! What decade was it from?”
Tommy remains blank faced. He left high school at sixteen to work his father’s ranch and farmland. He was not the brightest one here, not because he was dumb, but because he was ignorant of having a higher education.
“I said what decade was it from!”
“The Private does not know, sir!”
“Goddamn, you fucking idiot!” The Instructor continues pacing down our two lines. “How many of you are against guns. Or how about, how many of you are those fucking progressive-st, that faint from seeing a raw steak at a restaurant!”
I know better than to answer. So does anyone else.
“Don’t be shy! I want the truth from my soon to be Marines. Honesty, integrity, these are some of the expected traits my Marines are to have upon graduation. So let me ask again, who here is a liberal latte toting bitch!”
The Instructor paces back and forth once more as we stare at the eyes of the recruit in front of us. We take shelter in the fear of each other’s scared shitless pupils. All of us dare not break that eye contact with the man across, as it is the only safe place to look; otherwise you risk the wrath of the Drill Instructor.
“Let me ask one last time, for I know some of you here are. Hell, most of you probably are. I also know that most of you came from those colleges paid for by the government. Sheltered and ignorant to a real day’s work. But there is another side to the Party and this country you evidently don’t know. That is the sweat and sacrifices our warriors made to protect and serve this country! Are any of you worthy enough to become one! So in fact, if I have to ask one last time, all of you will be doing the Crucible twice just so I can sleep soundly knowing I got rid of the weak.”
I doubt he has the authority to do that, but nevertheless, all of us that are applicable raise our hands.
And of course, he bee-lines straight for me.
“Ah, so here is one of you fucking pansies! Were you also part of the disarmament movement?”
“The private was part of that, sir!”
“Good god. The world expects us to win with you fuckers? Let me guess again, you’re a pacifist too, huh?”
“The Private is also a pacifist too, sir!”
The Instructor spits on my boots and makes a tsk noise for a few moments. “There is a vital piece of information you missed there, you were a pacifist.”
How could he really expect me to change? I may pretend and play along. But he would never take my morals away. I would like to see him try.
The Instructor paces again as he talks. “You see boys, this is a different time than when your great grandfathers fought. Shit, we got aliens to fight now! And the movement to create the war machine we need to win against those E.T fuckers is not adequate enough. As in we don’t have the capabilities and resources to fight them completely traditionally. Most of all, we don’t have the time. The President expects you boys to be in fighting condition and on those starships in little over two months. That is a tall order, especially when most of you are fucking pussy’s that don’t know the difference between a rifle, and the dildo your boyfriend shoves up your ass!”
He reaches the end of our row and turns around. “So we have a new weapon. Performance drugs. Stimulants. Drugs that will create the warrior in you that would take years, shit, even lifetimes for most of you to ever achieve. To show how effective these drugs are, our very own pacifists will go first.”
We are summoned forward, I, Isaac, Vance who is also from my unit, and any others that rose their hand. The Instructor turns around to an arena behind him, where quarterstaffs rest in the middle.
“Private Peter and Isaac, you will go first,” says the Instructor.
We reach our sides of the arena, and are halted by the Instructor as an NCO comes to each of us. They carry syringes—these must be these drugs he is talking about—and stand beside us.
“These,” speaks the Instructor to the rest of our platoon watching, “are called Buzz. That’s the basic lingo at least, they’ve got a sophisticated scientific mumbo jumbo bullshit title but you won’t remember it, so don’t worry about it. Buzz will cause controlled anger and mental dedication to eliminate your enemy—at your commanding officer’s digression of course. They will increase agility and stamina, they will remove battle fatigue and second guessing,” he pauses to stare each of us down personally before continuing, “things that will kill you out on the field. They will most importantly, remove the fear you are sure to have of these Herc’s if you were not being aided by these drugs. We don’t know what type of psychological fuckery the Herculeans can do, but these are guaranteed to make you resistant to anything they may try as well. Anyway, without further to do, shoot them up and begin the fight.”
The NCO whispers in my ear as the other does to Isaac on his side. “That Private across the arena is a Herculean sympathizer.”
This is ridiculous. I try hard to not laugh, that I almost don’t feel the needle go in my arm and inject its dose. Isaac is practically my best friend, and besides, he is even more opposed to this war than I am.
The NCO continues his absurd speal, but within seconds I feel a rage growing within inside me. It is a feeling of warmth, of surging energy that I never knew I had before—it feels fucking amazing. Next, there is a buzz as everything zooms in towards me, then out back to its normal shape, but now with a new clarity and meaning. It is my objective. My battlefield to hold and win, and I remember the NCO’s words.
Images of Isaac telling the Herculeans where innocent civilians are hiding pop into Peter’s mind. They slaughter helpless humans in their cellar as Isaac laughs outside.
“That motherfucker,” says Peter.
Peter screams with rage and charges Isaac with his weapon, wishing it was a real rifle so he could kill that Herc lover. Their blows are fast and painful. Peter strikes his side, Isaac lunges at his gut. Soon they are a mess of sweat and bruises. Their noses and lips cracked and bleeding as they cuss and scream, wishing the other would die. Then they are hit with something from behind.
I feel a sting on my back, and suddenly feel lazy and dazed.
“That is DepressTabs my boys,” says the Instructor. “The condensed title that is. It calms you and makes you docile, allowing us to control you after your war rage.”