kitten’s purr by most humans. Eli, who had grown up around the aliens, recognized the sound for what it really was: a menace-filled growl. The sudden, slight twitching of the alien’s right ear confirmed Eli’s initial reaction to the growl. His actions on the march had obviously raised his sergeant’s ire—and it wasn’t a slight raise, either. The Minith was—in his father’s words—royally pissed off. He took a slow breath and mentally prepared himself for whatever might come next. He was meant to feel fear, but didn’t. Unlike most of his kind, he’d been raised around Minith. There was none of the inherent fright of them that they no doubt expected—and received—from his fellow human recruits. They could try to intimidate him all they wanted, but it wouldn’t work out as they wanted. He once again reminded himself that they were the conquered race; he represented the victors. Besides, he’d done nothing he regretted, or wouldn’t do again, in the same circumstances.
“How did these sheep ever defeat us, Twigg?”
The question was posed in a near-whisper, meant only for the other sergeant, but Eli had no problem making out the words even though they were issued in the low, growling-grunt rasp that distinguished the Minith language. The muscles in Eli’s stomach tightened, and he struggled against balling his hands into fists. Not only were the two going against established regulations by talking in their native tongue, they were blatantly disparaging him and his race. He doubted they would be so open with their ridicule if they knew he understood what they were saying. It confirmed his decision to keep that piece of information to himself. Instead, he clinched his jaw tightly, swallowed the need to respond to Brek’s slur, and remained facing stoically forward.
“At ease, Private Jayson,” Twigg commanded. Jayson immediately spread his feet shoulder width apart while clasping his hands behind him at the small of his back. It was a more relaxed, but still somewhat formal position. The major benefit was the position allowed his head and eyes to follow the two sergeants instead of having to focus directly forward. It also allowed him a better view of the map behind the two Minith. It was of the Telgoran landscape, the coloration revealing an area located in the livable band, though slightly more on the sun-side than the cold. The Minith markings and notes on the map indicated military unit locations. One of the units was his.
Eli waited for the training sergeant to begin. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Why did you assist the less-abled recruits on yesterday’s march?”
There was no way he could tell the two Minith that he did it to spite them—to show that humans weren’t soft-willed sheep, as they obviously believed. He couldn’t tell them that he had overheard their conversation, or that he felt they weren’t playing fair with the soldiers that had been placed under their tutelage, or that he had given up his place at the front of the march for one reason: to help his fellow humans stick it to the Minith who wanted to see them gone. No, they wouldn’t take those admissions lightly.
So, instead of telling them the truth, he said, “I don’t know, Sergeant Twigg. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“The march is an individual test, Private. It is designed to separate the weak from the strong. You cheated the test and spoiled the results.”
Eli was shocked. How could you cheat a forced march? The rules were simple. As long as you didn’t take a shortcut, or get a ride on a carrier vehicle, all you had to do was cross the finish line in front of the pacer. It couldn’t get any simpler.
“With all due respect, Sergeant, no one cheated,” Eli stated calmly, though he felt the kernel of anger that had formed in his chest grow hotter. He was a stickler for rules, always had been. He had never cheated at any test, game, or challenge in his life. Push the boundaries of
“How did these sheep ever defeat us, Twigg?”
The question was posed in a near-whisper, meant only for the other sergeant, but Eli had no problem making out the words even though they were issued in the low, growling-grunt rasp that distinguished the Minith language. The muscles in Eli’s stomach tightened, and he struggled against balling his hands into fists. Not only were the two going against established regulations by talking in their native tongue, they were blatantly disparaging him and his race. He doubted they would be so open with their ridicule if they knew he understood what they were saying. It confirmed his decision to keep that piece of information to himself. Instead, he clinched his jaw tightly, swallowed the need to respond to Brek’s slur, and remained facing stoically forward.
“At ease, Private Jayson,” Twigg commanded. Jayson immediately spread his feet shoulder width apart while clasping his hands behind him at the small of his back. It was a more relaxed, but still somewhat formal position. The major benefit was the position allowed his head and eyes to follow the two sergeants instead of having to focus directly forward. It also allowed him a better view of the map behind the two Minith. It was of the Telgoran landscape, the coloration revealing an area located in the livable band, though slightly more on the sun-side than the cold. The Minith markings and notes on the map indicated military unit locations. One of the units was his.
Eli waited for the training sergeant to begin. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Why did you assist the less-abled recruits on yesterday’s march?”
There was no way he could tell the two Minith that he did it to spite them—to show that humans weren’t soft-willed sheep, as they obviously believed. He couldn’t tell them that he had overheard their conversation, or that he felt they weren’t playing fair with the soldiers that had been placed under their tutelage, or that he had given up his place at the front of the march for one reason: to help his fellow humans stick it to the Minith who wanted to see them gone. No, they wouldn’t take those admissions lightly.
So, instead of telling them the truth, he said, “I don’t know, Sergeant Twigg. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“The march is an individual test, Private. It is designed to separate the weak from the strong. You cheated the test and spoiled the results.”
Eli was shocked. How could you cheat a forced march? The rules were simple. As long as you didn’t take a shortcut, or get a ride on a carrier vehicle, all you had to do was cross the finish line in front of the pacer. It couldn’t get any simpler.
“With all due respect, Sergeant, no one cheated,” Eli stated calmly, though he felt the kernel of anger that had formed in his chest grow hotter. He was a stickler for rules, always had been. He had never cheated at any test, game, or challenge in his life. Push the boundaries of
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