Illustration © by Kevin James Hurtack 2006
Seeds of Hate
by Arthur Sánchez © 2006
"Here's the first of them," the sergeant said as he wrestled a crate in through the open flap. A hot, dusty wind blew in behind him and the canvas walls of the tent seemed to shudder at the announcement. "And Sir," he said as he laid the box down on the table, "they are live."
"How many does that make?" Lt. Ahmed Kaffashan asked as he looked at the dirty, battered foam box. It made his stomach tighten just being near it.
"We've located fifteen so far," the sergeant replied. He was a small but stoutly-built westerner. Most of the recovery teams in this region were. Lt. Kaffashan, being an easterner, wasn't really familiar with them. He could never remember the sergeant's name.
"Very good," he said in a confident tone, "have your men take all the appropriate precautions. We've got plenty of time. No need to rush."
"Yes, Sir." The sergeant gave him a sharp salute and then was gone. Ahmed hesitated a moment before moving slowly towards the crate. He'd read about these things when he was at the Academy. But he never imagined that he'd actually find one--let alone fifteen crates of them. Long ago somebody had struggled to build a cache of weapons so powerful that he could impress his friends and terrify his enemies. But now nobody wanted anything to do with them.
"Hey, Ahmed! You in there?" A voice shouted from just outside the tent. Ahmed, who had his hand on the box, jumped.
Lt. Joaquin Delgado pushed aside the flap of the tent and caught sight of Ahmed's startled face. "Whoa, sorry guy, didn't mean to scare you." He came in with his hands raised, as if surrendering.
Ahmed glared at his best friend and roommate. "Damn it, Joaq, this is a live munitions site. It is not a good idea to go around scaring people like that!"
Joaquin grinned. He loved ruffling Ahmed's composure. It wasn't easy to do so he regarded it as a badge of honor when he got the upper hand. "I take it from your professional demeanor that you found something? So what relics were they hiding here: Bouncing Betties, SAMs, a few Smart Bullets?"
Ahmed shook his head. Joaquin could be such a jerk. "Worse, Emote bombs."
Joaquin's grin suddenly disappeared and the handsome young westerner looked intensely interested. "No kidding. Those things were banned over fifty years ago. The U.N. made everybody destroy their stockpiles."
Ahmed nodded his head. "And for good reason. They trained kids to use these, Joaq. Imagine, a weapon that feeds on the energy of your emotions. The more fear and hatred you can generate the more powerful they became. Then somebody figures out that children can generate the strongest hatred and it becomes a free-for-all. They used to have death squads made up of eight-year-olds." Ahmed shuddered at the thought.
"Geez," Joaquin said with a nod, "how the hell did anybody live in a world like that?"
"I don't know. But they did. And do you want to know the kicker?" he said with a thin smile. "These things are still viable. Fifty years after the world forgot them and they can still take a life." Ahmed had once again approached the crate. He was staring at it as if he'd expected the bombs to jump out at him.
"So, you open it yet?" Joaquin pressed.
"I was about to inventory the contents. Care to join me?" He meant it as a challenge.
"Hell, yeah," Joaquin answered as he stepped forward. "But," he hesitated, "I came by for a reason--other than to see your handsome face, of course."
Ahmed didn't even bother to respond to the jab. "And that is?"
"General Andrews is coming to inspect the site. Front office figures it'll be good public relations. I was to tell you to make sure you had something impressive to show him. But, as usual, you're one step ahead of me."
Ahmed didn't like the implication that he was showboating. Munitions Recovery was a risky business. More soldiers died from accidentally setting off old ordnance than from any other form of duty. Recovery teams were highly specialized and sadly unable to meet the demand.
"Well you can tell those pencil-pushers in the front office that we're not running a tour company," Ahmed said with a growl. "If they want to keep the General entertained they should order up a few holo-programs or maybe let him fire off the big guns. That always impresses the brass." Ahmed felt the imposition was unreasonable--especially now.
"Whoa," Joaquin said, "us pencil-pushers are just trying to give you grunts a heads-up. No need to get personal."
Ahmed's head snapped around but the look on Joaquin's face revealed that he really wasn't insulted. Joaquin was just jerking him around again. "Look, dot-head , I've got work to do. So don't--"
But Joaquin wasn't about to let him get in a shot for free. "Whoa, you camel-jockeys are the ones with the problem. A guy tries to do you a favor and you immediately--"
"W.O.P.," Ahmed declared with a grin.
"Wet-back," Joaquin fired back.
"Harrummph!" A voice interjected from behind them.
Both soldiers turned to find General Andrews standing in the doorway. The grizzled old veteran looked thoroughly displeased at what he was witnessing. "Am I mistaken or did I just hear two of my officers exchanging racial slurs?"
Ahmed was the first to react. He immediately stood to attention and saluted. Joaquin followed his example. "No, Sir!" Ahmed replied. "We were, we were..."
"We were discussing the colorful terminology used by antagonists during the last Great War," Joaquin offered.
The General strode forward and stood in the center of the room. He was a big man with a ruddy face and small dark eyes. He was also more than twice their age. "Is that so?" he declared decisively. "Then that might explain why you were using most of that 'colorful' terminology incorrectly." Then a scowl crossed his face. "There's no point in insulting a man if you're not going to do it right." Both Ahmed and Joaquin exchanged glances. The General was taking their verbal exchange seriously.
"Sir," Joaquin attempted to explain, "we were just joking. Lt. Kaffashan and I are old buddies. Really, we didn't mean any of that."
The General, though, didn't seem convinced. "It may all seem like fun and games right now," he said. "But the seeds of hatred are easy to plant and difficult to root out. It doesn't take much for a joke to become an insult and an insult to become a slight. Nations have gone to war over less. History teaches us that ." He gave each of them an admonishing glare.
"Yes, Sir, understood, Sir," Ahmed offered. He glanced at Joaquin who echoed his agreement.
The General nodded his head. "In my day, using such terms were grounds for discharge--joking or not. Today, happily, we live in a more enlightened world. Command would probably only want you to take three weeks of Ethnic Sensitivity Training." Both Ahmed and Joaquin blanched at the thought of three weeks of the agonizingly dull classes. "I suppose, though," the General said with a sigh, "we could satisfy protocol by performing a Level Three Apology Ceremony--a lot quicker and a lot less painful than a full class. Don't you think?"
The implied threat of having to retake the Ethnic Sensitivity Training course was enough to motivate the two men. They immediately turned to face each other.
"Crossed Arms Apology?" Ahmed asked.
Joaquin nodded his agreement. "I'll go first."
The two men crossed their arms in front of them and then reached out to hold each other hands. The 'Double X' their arms formed was to symbolize the interconnected weave in the fabric of life. At least, that's what they were told. Ahmed always thought it was intended more to hamper fistfights than to symbolize a thread.
"Lt. Kaffashan," Joaquin intoned in his best ceremonial voice, "I apologize for any insult I may have uttered and for any hurt I may have caused. We are brothers. And like a brother, I can sometimes," Joaquin paused as he tried to remember the exact wording of the ceremony. "I can sometimes be insensitive but that does not mean I do not care."
Now it was Ahmed's turn. "Lt. Delgado, I too apologize for my hurtful words. They were said without thought and that thoughtlessness is a defect I will strive to mend. I ask that you forgive my insensitivity."
They gave each other a nod and then shook their hands three times. They then released their hold and hugged.
"Now then," the General said, grinning, "doesn't that feel better?"
Both men smiled sheepishly. They'd done the ceremony dozens of times before and, oddly enough, it did make them feel better.
"Good. We must strive to avoid hatred at all costs," the General lectured them. "For hatred is a terrible thing. It burrows into the soul and it festers. I should know. I saw it in action. You're both too young to remember the Great War but I was a child when they signed the peace accord. It was a different world then--a terrible time." The General paused and looked off into the distance as if he could see those days displayed upon the canvas walls of the tent. Ahmed and Joaquin wisely remained silent.
"The war raged for nearly a century," he said. "Entire generations had lived their lives in fear. The worms of distrust and anger were deeply embedded in our societies and when men finally regained their sanity it took years to root out the hatred. Why, the first thing the U.N. did was retrain all the soldiers." He looked at them now, passion filling his face. "We needed it the most. We had been on the front lines of the killing and the destruction. And none of these 'ceremonies' either," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "We had to undergo psych analysis, personality profiles, hypno-therapy. All racial and national bias had to be erased if peace was to be preserved. I spent three years with a speech coach just working to eliminate my regional accent. And cosmetic surgery was mandatory for any soldier who was going to deal with the public. The face of the new military had to be homogenized and sterile. After all that had happened, people needed to know that they could trust us. That we were untainted."
Ahmed and Joaquin were fascinated. The senior officers rarely spoke of what it was like to serve in the old days. "Did you have cosmetic surgery, Sir?" Ahmed asked.
The General chuckled. "Can you guess what continent I was born on?"
Ahmed and Joaquin exchanged glances. The General had always seemed slightly European to them but then his complexion was a bit sallow. He could easily have some Asian heritage. He was broad, like an American or an Australian but that could have been the cut of the uniform. He wasn't very tall. Both men shook their heads. Neither would hazard a definitive guess.
"Didn't think so," the General said with smug satisfaction. "I wouldn't have made it this far if you could. Being ethnic wasn't acceptable thirty years ago. You boys are lucky. You didn't have to give up your heritage in order to get your commissions." The General hesitated, a momentary twinge of pain crossing his face. Ahmed and Joaquin were about to ask if he was all right when he saw their concerned looks and turned sharply to face the crate. "So, what do we have here?" He asked as he flipped up the lid without any concern for his own safety.
"Emote bombs," Ahmed warned. "Over fifty years old."
The General stopped. "Really? Why I haven't seen one of these since the war. Nasty buggers." He reached inside and pulled out one of the pineapple-shaped bombs. "Were you ever told how these things work--" The bomb in his hand began to beep. "Oh dear," he said, looking down at the weapon. "I seem to have activated it."
Ahmed looked at Joaquin. Once activated the bombs couldn't be disarmed. They had to be detonated. But so long as the energy level was low, they could still walk it out to the firing range and explode it behind a bunker. "Sir, if you'd come this way. We can--"
The General looked at them and the bomb in his hand began to beep louder. "Odd," the General said, almost as if he'd detached himself from the meaning of those sounds. "It's supposed to feed on hatred. I shouldn't be able to make it go faster." With those words the beeping increased in speed. "I'm an officer in the U.N. Forces," General Andrews told the bomb. "I am free of racial bias." The bomb's response was to go faster still.
"Sir!" Ahmed interjected. "Perhaps it would be best if you didn't think about it."
The General looked at Ahmed and Joaquin as if seeing them for the first time. "Not think about what?" The beeping of the bomb began to slow down. Then he looked at it again and the sound sped up. "Damn."
Ahmed was the one to make the connection. "Sir, you said it yourself. It's a more enlightened world. Whatever you're feeling, whatever you're remembering, it isn't valid any more."
The General gave Ahmed a blank stare. "I don't know what you're talking about." The beeping became louder. "I was a child," he said to the object in his hand. "I was not responsible for what I was taught. But I have been cleansed and I no longer have those feelings." The bomb, however, seemed to disagree. It began beeping so rapidly that the sound almost melded into one long continuous scream. It was reaching critical mass.
Joaquin nudged Ahmed and the two of them began edging their way backwards towards the flap. The General had rediscovered some forgotten emotion regarding the war--that was obvious. But since Ahmed and Joaquin each represented a side in that oft remembered conflict, they had no idea which one of them could help and which one of them would make it worse.
"Sir," Ahmed said as he risked a final attempt to salvage the situation. "On which side were you?" But there were tears in the General's eyes. Ahmed just couldn't tell if they were out of frustration or anger.
"Side?" he whispered. "Sides didn't matter. All that mattered was that it was them or us ! All that mattered was winning! Those godless animals were--"
The bomb in General Andrews hand issued one long shrill whistle before going critical. Ahmed and Joaquin both dove for the entrance. Fifty years of peace, dozens of years of training, and the hatred still festered, still lurked beneath the surface. They couldn't blame the General, he had been a child, all they could hope now was to get clear of the blast.
The End