We had to adopt a new ethos or lose our very souls.
With our technical ability, we put our minds to the development of non-lethal weapons. Thus came the stun rifle, immobilizing gas and the glue-guns, amongst others. Renouncing killing was our salvation. Though the battle may continue, let us never return to those dark days of long ago where killing was seen as the first, last and only solution.
Ours is a noble conflict.
Extract taken from ‘Towards a New Morality’ by Sister Madeleine
4
By the time Kaspar got back outside, the front lawn looked like a medical convention. Non-wounded guests and dignitaries had long since been escorted off the premises, leaving behind only the wounded friendlies, who were being triaged by one junior doctor, a guy in his mid-twenties with light brown hair and a permanently creased forehead. He had assessed each casualty and split them into three groups – ‘beyond hope’, ‘non-urgent’, and the third vital category, ‘serious but saveable’. Only one person was in the first category: a middle-aged woman who’d had a heart attack when the assault started and the terrorists began lobbing thermal grenades. Either bad luck or bad judgement on the part of the terrorists meant that the ‘beyond hope’ category contained far fewer people than Kaspar had first feared.
It was so damned unfair that none of the terrorists was ‘beyond hope’, because he and the other Guardians only used non-lethal weapons. Each terrorist casualty was allocated their own team of medics. The unconscious ones were put on spinal boards, had central lines inserted and were wired up to heart monitors. Those still conscious were handcuffed. Then everyone was carefully loaded into transports and flown to the Clinic – Capital City’s trauma centre.
Watching the way the terrorists were being handled made Kaspar slightly ashamed of his previous wish that his weapon might do more than stun. His first real-life confrontational situation, and what was his reaction? To wallow in anger and yearn to dish out the same as the Insurgents. It was just as well that the High Councillors set the rules about the Guardians using only non-lethal techniques and weapons, not him. He’d have to watch that in future. In combat, he needed to make sure that he kept his emotions on lock-down.
‘This is surreal,’ he said.
‘What is?’ said Janna.
‘The way we treat the bad guys just the same as our own. In fact, better,’ replied Kaspar. ‘I always knew that was the philosophy, but it’s weird – and kind of wonderful – to see that we actually practise what we preach.’
‘Pardon me if I’m less than impressed,’ hissed Janna. ‘My arm hurts like a bastard and some pointy-nosed heifer with a stethoscope ran right past me to get to a terrorist with an ingrowing toenail.’
‘Let’s have a look,’ said Kaspar.
Janna rolled up her sleeve to reveal a vicious-looking raised blister covering at least a third of her left forearm. The area around the blister was an intense, angry red.
‘You should get that looked at,’ said Dillon.
Kaspar shook his head at Dillon. Winding up Janna when she was already puce with anger was like cheating at Solitaire – a guaranteed win but hardly worth the effort.
‘You think? Try telling that to the medicos. These Insurgents come at us with thermal grenades, we defend ourselves with stun-guns and then the doctors give them priority for treatment.’ Janna was spitting nails. ‘How messed up is that?’
‘It’s the price we pay for being better than them,’ chipped in Dillon. ‘Though I must admit, I wasn’t thinking particularly charitable, non-lethal thoughts when it all kicked off. I would’ve happily killed them all and screw what the Council say. My mum was in the audience.’
‘Is she OK?’ Kaspar frowned.
‘Oh, yeah. She’s gone home now. I didn’t get much of a chance to speak to her, to be honest, so I’ll have to CommLink with her tonight. She’s going to worry about me even worse than before now.’
‘Amen to happily killing them all,’ said Janna. ‘Considering what those animals do, stunning them just isn’t enough. Maybe we could go back to using some of the early non-lethals that the first Guardians used, like the quick-setting plastifoam that often caused death by suffocation.’
‘Or the infrasonic generators that were meant to cause nausea but actually burst your eardrums,’ said Dillon with relish.
‘How about the mood-altering drugs that caused madness and suicide?’ Janna’s eyes lit up at the thought.
‘Or my personal favourite, the spray that incapacitated by causing diarrhoea,’ laughed Dillon.
‘Ooh, that must have been nasty.’ Janna’s nose wrinkled at the idea. ‘At least stun rifles require less clean-up.’
In an attempt to change the subject, Kaspar pointed out that not everyone flitting about the lawn was a medic.
‘Wow, they’ve got a TV crew here. That was fast.’
Vivian Sykes, veteran of a hundred bloodbaths, picked her way through the carnage, stopping every few steps to deliver some words of on-camera wisdom.
‘ . . . yet another illustration of why they won’t win. In spite of their provocation, their relentless nihilism and their savage attacks on our people, we in the Alliance hold tight to our principles: that we can defend ourself without descending to the level of animals, that a war can be conducted rationally and without losing our essential humanity, no matter how evil the enemy. This is Vivian Sykes for Daily Report, at the Guardian Inauguration Ceremony outrage.’
Later, in the barracks, Kaspar and the other Guardians sat drinking beers in front of the TV in the recreation room as they watched the rest of Vivian Sykes’ special report. The Guardians who had saved the day received barely a mention, fifteen seconds if that. The rest of the ten-minute report was filled with commentary and images of transports arriving at Capital City’s Clinic, the hi-tech trauma centre where Insurgent prisoners were always taken for treatment. Unconscious terrorists were carefully unloaded before being whisked away to operating theatres, or tucked into neat beds in brightly decorated high-dependency units.
‘Oh, please,’ snapped Janna. She threw a beer can at the TV and leaped to her feet.
Kaspar watched as she stormed out of the room. And a major part of him couldn’t blame her.
5
Kaspar lay in bed; he was exhausted but his mind was buzzing too much to allow him to sleep. He was a low-grade Guardian, a rookie, a grunt. What did he know about issues and causes? He’d joined up to serve and protect the Alliance, plus he loved the idea of no two days panning out exactly the same. The prospect of working on his uncle’s farm, where one year was pretty much the same as the five years that had gone before, had filled him with dread. Hell! His uncle’s idea of excitement was to grow a larger than average melon that he could display as a 3D holographic image on the farm’s website.
‘What do we do if we are attacked?’ Kaspar had once asked his uncle when he was about seven or eight years old.
‘We activate the emergency alarm and we go to the shelters,’ had been the reply.
‘Is that it?’ Kaspar had puzzled. ‘We just abandon the farm to them and hide?’
‘Better than getting killed.’ That had ended the discussion as far as Uncle Jeff was concerned, but even at that young age Kaspar hadn’t been at all convinced that his uncle was right. Surely if that was the case, then they were all just victims-in-waiting? And as he grew older, Kaspar couldn’t shake the feeling that he was meant to be more, do more than just be an agric walking around with a virtual target painted on his back.
Uncle Jeff was full of tall tales about the Insurgents and what they did to their captives.
‘Kaspar, don’t argue with me,’ he snapped with exasperation one night over dinner when Kaspar had questioned another one of his incredible stories. ‘The Insurgents are evil incarnate, and those who associate with them can’t help but become evil themselves. Why d’you think the Council have ordered that no one should ever touch them using bare hands except specially cleared medical staff? Th
ey are unclean and just one touch could infect us with God alone knows what.’
‘But, Uncle, how can someone just touch you and . . . ?’
‘Kaspar, are you calling me a liar?’ Uncle Jeff asked softly.
‘No, sir,’ Kaspar said hastily. He knew from bitter experience when to back down – like now.
‘You’re a smart boy, but you don’t know everything,’ said Uncle Jeff. ‘The Council know better than most what the Insurgents are capable of.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We don’t question the Brothers and Sisters of the Council in this house. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Uncle Jeff allowed himself a smile now that his point had been made. ‘We are farmers, Kaspar. That is all we are and all we need to be. It is not our place to question the High Council. They are wiser than we will ever be.’
Kaspar didn’t answer.
Uncle Jeff regarded him for a moment, then sighed.
‘Kas, I know that sometimes this life must seem . . . mundane compared to the lives your parents led. But both your parents asked me to keep you from harm if anything should happen to them, and I intend to keep my word.’ Uncle Jeff placed a hand beneath Kaspar’s chin to raise his head. ‘Your mum and dad wanted nothing more than to keep you safe. Your mum even made me promise to only let you eat food grown or produced on this farm and to drink only the water from my well. As a child she wouldn’t drink anything else. I’ve kept my word all these years and I’m not going to break it now. So I will teach you everything I know and you will take over the farm when I’m gone. OK?’
‘Yes, Uncle,’ Kaspar replied, lowering his gaze in feigned obedience.
But that was on the outside.
Inside, Kaspar’s mind was racing. Uncle Jeff obviously derived pleasure from drawing ice-cold water from his very own well at the back of the farmhouse and preparing meals made entirely from produce grown on his own farm. Not that Uncle Jeff ever drank just water himself! During the day, he drank fruit juice – usually melon, or whatever he could whisk together from leftover fruit and vegetables each morning. With and after dinner, Kaspar’s uncle drank melon brew, which was so potent that his breath after one glass could blister wood. Kaspar had only tried it once. It was like putting pure acid in his mouth. After that he’d been happy to stick to well water.
Uncle Jeff prided himself on his self-sufficiency. The highlight of his year was finding a cheaper alternative nitrate-rich fertilizer for his melon crop. But those highs weren’t anywhere near high enough for Kaspar. Kaspar wanted to serve the Alliance, not feed it. His uncle might be happy to be a farmer until the day he died, but the thought of following in Uncle Jeff’s footsteps made Kaspar break out in a cold sweat.
‘That’s not going to happen. I’m going to make something of my life,’ Kaspar had promised himself.
Looking back, he now understood that with his tall tales and his scaremongering, Uncle Jeff had, in his own unique way, been trying to protect him. But it had backfired spectacularly, making kaspar ever more determined with each passing day not to grow up to be a reflection of his uncle. Every thought and action Uncle Jeff had was reactive, never spontaneous. His uncle never put a foot wrong because he never put a foot out. Kaspar wasn’t going to live like that. He was going to be pro-active, make his own choices. He was determined to make a difference.
Ironic really that his uncle should so revere the High Council and the ideals of the Alliance but not want to personally defend those ideals. And because Uncle Jeff didn’t want to directly defend their way of life, he thought that Kaspar shouldn’t either. Well, luckily the law stated that Kaspar was his own person from the age of sixteen. It was unusual to be accepted onto the Guardian training programme so early, but not unheard of.
He’d made it and there was no turning back.
6
The day after the attack was hell. Pure hell. It was as frenetic as the previous day’s combat had been but without the option of firing back at your tormentors. It started when Vivian Sykes was granted a rare interview with Brother Simon for breakfast TV.
‘Brother Simon, it must have been terrible,’ said Vivian earnestly, in her best ‘voice of the people’ tone.
Brother Simon nodded. ‘That the Insurgents would try to attack me at the Guardian Academy just shows a new level of desperation on their part. It also proves that we in the Alliance are winning this war,’ he said, his practised smile reassuring.
‘You were pulled to safety by a Guardian – Honour Cadet Wilding.’
Hoots and cheers filled the mess hall. Kaspar barely looked up at the screen across the hall. He tucked into his breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, his cheeks flaming.
‘You got a name-check,’ Janna called from across the table. ‘You’re famous!’
‘Yeah, right,’ Kaspar murmured, just before a bread roll hit him on the side of his head. He ignored the blow and carried on eating. It was just Kaspar’s luck that the mess hall was full to overflowing with Guardians wolfing down their breakfast before their daily duty assignments were given out.
‘Guardian Wilding was magnificent,’ said Brother Simon. ‘From out of nowhere, he flew across at me and pushed me behind the parapet. He definitely saved my life. He was very brave, a credit to the training all Guardians receive. Guardians of his calibre are the reason why the Alliance will prevail and the Insurgents will fail.’ Brother Simon was now in full flow.
Kaspar’s cheeks burned as Dillon, who was seated next to him, smacked him heartily on the back, nearly pushing his spinal cord through his chest in the process. Kaspar glared at an unrepentant and grinning Dillon.
‘Hear that!’ said Dillon. ‘You’re a credit to the Guardians.’
‘Someone pass me a sick bag,’ said Mariska.
‘Make that two,’ agreed Dillon.
‘Guardian Wilding is certainly a chip off the old block,’ said Vivian, her smile filling the screen.
Kaspar’s head snapped up. His blood ran cold. No . . .
‘I don’t follow,’ said Brother Simon.
‘Guardian Kaspar Wilding is the son of the famous guardians RJ Wilding and Kristin Jaeger,’ preened Vivian.
Shit! Kaspar stared at the TV screen, stricken. His heart plummeted. He might have used his parents’ names in his Guardian application interview, but he’d made damned sure not to mention them to anyone else since – not even Dillon. No way did he want special, or even different, treatment because of his parents. But now that cat had well and truly clawed its way out of the bag.
Brother Simon’s acutely surprised response went unheard as the Guardians in the mess hall burst into ironic cheering. Some dropped to their knees and started ‘worshipping’ Kaspar with cries of, ‘We’re not worthy, we’re not worthy.’ Ford and Ian began flailing their arms around and shouting, ‘Save me, Kaspar. Save me!’ Pauling fluttered his scraggy eyelashes at Kaspar and asked, ‘Can I have your babies?’ and Bryan and Dillon dropped their trousers and asked him to autograph their backsides.
‘And thus it begins,’ Kaspar muttered sourly. How he wished that Vivian Sykes could’ve kept her colossal mouth shut.
And that was just the start.
A request for a photoshoot with Brother Simon and a one-to-one interview with Vivian Sykes came through within the hour.
‘Aw, c’mon, sir. Do I have to do this PR crap?’ Kaspar protested.
‘Hell, yes! You better believe it,’ replied Voss. ‘TV laps this stuff up. The good citizens of the Alliance get to see what vicious bastards the terrorists are and what selfless paragons of virtue we are. It reminds them to support us and to give us information. It boosts recruitment too. So if Vivian Sykes asks you to do naked juggling while riding a unicycle, you’ll bloody well do it. Are we clear?’
After that, the rest of the day’s events left the sight of Dillon’s hairy buttocks as the highlight. The joint interview with Brother Simon was painful, to say the least. Kaspar only spoke when directly addressed, b
ut even so Brother Simon was overly deferential. Brother Simon gushed, Kaspar squirmed. Vivian Sykes flattered and oozed. Kaspar tried to be self-deprecating, but that just made her ooze more. By 1500 hours, he was praying for some fresh terrorist outrage just so he would have an excuse to leave.
By the time Kaspar hit the sack later that night, his image was plastered all over the place and, as Voss had predicted, they had rushed out a new recruitment advert featuring the reluctant superstar. Kaspar lay in bed, exhausted, and dreamed of Vivian Sykes – but not in a good way.
7
After one week of being a Guardian, Kaspar was feeling rather nostalgic for melon farming. While the rest of his squad were deployed on regular duties, he was doing his eighth school visit.
‘Oh, come on, sir. Please?’ he pleaded with Voss over the CommLink. ‘I’ve already missed two intelligence briefings and a civil defence exercise. Everyone else is getting up-to-speed tactically and I’m attending coffee mornings and talking to school kids about my combat experience. All three minutes of it.’
‘Suck it up, Wilding,’ replied Voss, sympathy entirely absent. ‘We all have our assignments and yours is currently Public Relations. You should be pleased. Media Affairs say that you are really wowing the crowds, particularly the old and ugly demographic.’ The commander laughed heartily at that.
Kaspar wasn’t going to give up, not without a fight, or a severe whinge at any rate. ‘Sir, they’ve even taken away my gun,’ he complained. ‘They said carrying a real stun rifle into schools was too dangerous, so they issued me with a realistic replica that I can let the kids handle.’