Excerpt: Journey of a Soul

There had been worse days; she was sure of it. With an unhappy sigh, she opened the next case file on the monitor, headlined by the lengthy title, “Orphan Intake Referral for Northwest Interplanetary Sector.” Then she hit the switch on the com. “I’m ready.”

The tired young woman pulled her face mask back on over her mouth and nose as a second, older woman walked in carrying a small blanket-covered bundle on her hip. The salt-and-peppered social worker also wore a mask, but no uniform, her smart gray skirt suit out-of-place in the lab. She carried a large sealed plastic bag. The young woman barely focused on them, intent on getting her gloves back on. Finally ready, she turned and regarded the waiting service provider and her charge, who was now seated on the examination table.

The child was awake, which made her job difficult. A little boy, about three, she judged with practiced eyes. His dark skin and reddish-brown hair were more startling dressed in a t-shirt in the sterile white room. He looked around with interest, but his solemn regard and quiet manner made her uneasy—these children tended to start screaming at some point.

“Name?” She asked hopefully.

The elderly woman shook her head. “We found him after cleaning up after the Alagar mess. He was under the body of a female, most likely his mother. Her effects are in here.” The woman produced a bag.

Peering inside, the technician grimaced. Bloodstains darkened much of the black uniform, the jacket torn and crisp in the front. She pulled the jacket out, mindful enough to turn away from the scrutiny of the child. The technician could barely make out the label on the left breast, only enough to recognize the Alagar Patrol insignia, despite the blood and dirt obscuring most of the letters. The name plate was gone.

She dropped the jacket back into the bag and focused on the child, his grubby fingers stuck partway into his mouth. She quickly grabbed both his hands, turning them carefully to see his fat wrists. Confident that he wasn’t tagged with a subdermal ID marker she released him before he could tug his arms away.

Now she looked at the caseworker directly and raised an eyebrow. The attack on Alagar was straining them both. The intake system put them both in charge of the orphan, but it was the caseworker who ultimately had to put her signature on whatever decision they made. Without a name or identification leading to a relative, the child had very few options left. He could be sent on to the interagency foster home, which was nothing more than a front for selling children to slavers and other unsavory parties, or he could be sent to the military orphanage on Dalcha-Eight to become cannon-fodder. The third choice was humane euthanasia, usually reserved for the weakest orphans, but after processing nearly a thousand children in the past few days, it was the option fast gaining popularity.

The caseworker knew what the technician was silently asking. She looked down at the toddler again, trying to see his future without running the tests. He had pulled away from the technician and now rested closer to her, with one hand on the thick material of her suit jacket. He unconsciously moved the material back and forth between his fingers, still looking at the technician suspiciously.

The caseworker blew out her breath. “Run him through.”

The technician showed no expression at the order. She was paid to perform the tests when required and if the caseworker was willing to go through the testing procedure, then so was she. She quickly prepared the metallic full-facial helmet and then, gritting her teeth, placed it over the child’s head, continuing in one fluid motion to grab his arms and hold them against the table while the caseworker did the straps to bind him.

Their experience and speed were necessary; they only had a moment of confusion before the boy was fighting the straps and screaming at the top of his lungs. Ignoring the ear-piercing shrieks, the technician loaded the image-ware through the helmet and started the program. The boy jerked abruptly and the crying ceased. She knew what he saw: a series of seemingly random images, some that seemed to flow and other that jumped quickly into view. Brainwave and vision scores quickly started filling the screens.

As he was distracted, the technician deftly scraped a sharp instrument against his forearm, collecting cells and a miniscule amount of blood into a waiting tube. The toddler barely noticed. This tube went into a waiting compartment that quickly processed the samples, spitting out the results in a series of numbers and simple answers along a questionnaire on-screen.

The child was disease-free. The technician blinked as she pulled off her face mask. Rare was it that an orphan of battle survived on the field without develop one of the many plagues that currently ravaged their systems. The caseworker, her mask already discarded, moved in beside her, peering over her shoulder at the lengthy dissertations of the results. The vision and reflex test ended, showing the small boy a tranquil set of flashing lights to keep him entertained while they read the screens together.

“He’s clean…it’s a good start.”

The technician pointed at a particular spike pattern among many. “He’s showing a high reflex score as well.” She quickly calculated the other numbers. “He’s thirty-two months—he’ll be above-average in size—and has a high intellectual capacity.”

“Well,” the caseworker muttered. “Looks like we made a good call. He’ll make officer-status easily, and will probably never see battle.”

The younger woman quickly pulled a special gun-like device from off the counter and fed an uncoded ID tag into it. The brain waves on the screen showed the light patterns had put the small boy into a light sleep. “You don’t know how close you came….” She murmured to the little body with a chrome mask for a face. She painted his left wrist with the glowing blue light coming from the nose of the gun, numbing the area quickly before triggering the new ID just under the skin above the back of the wrist. The caseworker ran a second device immediately over the spot. The main monitor still showed a case file, only this time the title came up “Dalcha-Eight Military Academy Referral.”

The technician started closing down the intake file, knowing the information would be in the child’s charts when he arrived at Dalcha-Eight. “He still needs a name; that’s your job.”

“I’m running out of names. You think of one.”

The technician looked around the room and her eyes fell on the bag of the orphan’s last connections to his history. She thought of the uniform and its obscured lettering. “Gar… call him Gar.”

“Not very original,” the caseworker commented, but she put the characters in anyway. “This is the last one tonight. I’ll get him boarded with the others, and then I’ll come back to pick you up. Do you want me to bring back dinner?”

The technician stretched and looked at the other woman fondly, her business-like manner replaced with a grin of affection. “That would be great. Maybe something spicy. And don’t take too long; I have a surprise waiting for you at home. You’re going to love it.”

The caseworker arched an eyebrow, a sultry expression passing over her face. “With that type of invitation….” She pulled a third instrument from her pocket and touched the child on the shoulder with it. The blue light flashed brightly and the child’s brainwave patterns went immediately into deep-sleep mode. She pulled the helmet off and bundled the comatose child up in a thermal blanket. With a last glance at her partner, the caseworker maneuvered the child to one side and opened the door.

“Good luck, Gar,” the technician spontaneously called out after them as they headed down the hall to the landing platform of the space station. Then the young woman started cleaning up in anticipation of the coming evening by first incinerating the bag of effects.

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It was an unfair fight. The child stood stubbornly in the center of the training facility, his dark skin dripping with sweat, intently watching the two older boys as they danced around him. He kept his grip on the stave easy. He stayed still, the pain in his side would ease, but he’d only have a shot if he could draw out the fight to let it pass.

“C’mon, y’little whoreson…do something so we can go to lunch,” the one deeply tanned and black-haired murmured, and the other, pale and blond, cackled. They were relaxed and barely making an effort, pacing in front of the young lad with practiced ease. They were both near graduation and had twice the weight and practice as the child.

The boy’s grip tightened at the word, “whoreson,” but it barely affected him now. He had to keep control. Nothing could be gained by acting like a child. He certainly would lose the battle, but he could not afford to lose what little respect he had with the other children watching him from the sides of the bright mirrored room. A change in stance from one of the young men and the child knew his time was up. He smiled at his opponent and made sure the other boy saw it.

“Lookit that, wouldja? What a little brat.”

The larger boy laughed mockingly, but was there also admiration? It would have to do. They both advanced and attacked mercilessly. The boy lost his stave within three seconds, and consciousness after a few more.

The boy was only unconscious for a minute or two, and came out of the stupor in a rush of panic. He sat up, the two boys still laughing at his puny effort. A quick glance around showed the boy that his efforts had paid off—the other children had joined in the laughter, but it was forced, and more than one regarded him with respect.

The boy noticed a movement beyond the two large teenagers and immediately stood, ignoring the dizziness and shock of pain at his temple. He was saluting sharply before the others realized why. The other dozen or so children immediately followed his lead in a hurried rush, including the two officer trainees. The intimidating figure nodded absently at the silent children as he sauntered past, his turquoise uniform jacket pressed immaculately.

The child had never been this close to an officer, always seeing them from afar during ceremonies or in training vids. He was surprised to see this particular officer, now close to him, was not as grand or menacing in his appearance, with a paunch and graying hair at both his temples. Still, the man exuded authority and the boy remained still even after the two near-graduates snapped off their salutes. The officer’s cold silver eyes met the boy’s dark-brown ones.

“Name, soldier.” The man’s voice was deep and serious.

The boy finished his salute. “Gar, sir.” He unconsciously tried to emulate the gravity he heard in the other man’s voice.

The officer’s lips twitched. “Age?”

“Eight and three months, sir.”

“Do you know where you’re from?”

Now the boy hesitated. “No, sir.”

“Too young to remember your parents?” The man did not show any sympathy—Gar did not think the officer would be capable—but he did hear an interest in the gravelly voice.

“Yes, sir.”

The officer turned away as if the boy was forgotten and Gar felt a little disappointed. Perhaps he was wrong. Just as the elder man was about to exit the training room he called out, “keep an eye on that one.”

The two elder boys held still until the door closed, cutting off the brisk sound of the officer’s boots on the hall floor. Then they relaxed their stance and glanced at each other before turning to Gar.

The boy could not help but feel a cold knot in his stomach, but the blond boy laughed instead, all mockery gone. “Relax, kid… it’s a good thing. Let’s get you cleaned up; you’re bleeding everywhere.”

The small boy touched his face in shock and his fingers came back wet and red. “A good thing?” Gar asked hopefully.

“Don’t think you’re going to get away with anything,” the dark-hair teen grumbled as he grabbed Gar’s shoulder and propelled him toward the showers. Then he called out behind him, “Come on, show’s over; everybody get washed up for lunch.”

Gar allowed himself to be taken into the shower room and from there to the infirmary. He couldn’t stop smiling, though. He had been here for five years and any change was monumental in his young eyes.