At the boatman's signal, families jump into the sea. They swim, and the few who cannot swim kick to reach the shore, that illuminated coast, the color in the darkness. As soon as they arrive, they thank God and resume their flight. Pedro and his family lag behind. Aunt Maria is pushed by the current. Pedro has to go and pull her by the arm to overcome the waves. They are the last family to set foot on the sand. The boatman is long gone.
There is a buzzing sound, the propellers, and the breaking of the water by boats. When the family reaches the beach, a dozen drones surround them and point powerful spotlights and loaded cannons at them. An order is transmitted from the machines:
DROP TO THE GROUND AND AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS.
They understand the situation instantly, obey, but already the women burst into tears. Only their youngest daughter was taciturn, perhaps still shocked by the experience of diving and struggling in the freezing water.
They are taken to an immigration center, and separated. Pedro knew the story, his compadre Miguel narrated it to him with the experience of failure. They examine you, interrogate you, humiliate you, put you in cages for a month or two, under the firm surveillance of deceitful indifference, and then deportation. If you are lucky you are thrown out with your whole family, although there are cases of children left in Social Care.
Pedro was determined to keep his family together. In fact, getting caught was a tantalizing possibility in his planning. Under the opaque spotlight of the gray interrogation room, with two officers in front of him, Pedro asks to enlist.
The officers exchange glances. They ask if he is sure. Pedro nods and repeats his intentions in a clearer voice. The officers leave and leave him waiting for ten minutes until a woman in a gray sand-colored camouflage uniform arrives, the Earth Nations Alliance patch standing out on her shoulder. The NCO questions Pedro as to whether he knows the cost. He nods, having studied the consequences multiple times before making the decision to come.
"My family... Will it be all right?"
"They will receive the necessary permits" The woman hands him a digital tablet and indicates where on the screen he has to put his fingerprint. "In addition to work license, house of stay, education for minors, and general guardianship until they are able to support themselves. If they abide by the rules and behave as exemplary people, they will probably obtain citizenship in a few years"
Pedro lowers his head and clenches his fists. That's all you wanted, isn't it? The chance for a better life. If the cost of hope for his people is just him, is there any room for doubt? Besides, it's a good cause. Divine war. War to end all wars. If fighting helps build a more just world for his children, and for the grandchildren he will never know, Peter is willing to sacrifice. He plants his thumb on the tablet.
A full month of intensive training, with weekly 5-lap days at simulation stations (more than that amount is forbidden by the Alliance due to the risk of mental breakdown), and Pedro was ready to fight. A week before his crusade, he was granted a three-day leave to visit family. He spent the mornings playing with his children, the afternoons chatting about the past with his aunt, and the evenings making love to his wife.
On the day of departure, the families of the migrant soldiers gather in front of the houses where they are staying. Pedro kisses his wife, kneels with his children, hugs them, and asks them to behave well and study hard so that no one will cheat them. Pedro takes off from his wrist a needle watch that, as a teenager, a vintage tourist gave him as a gift. The crystal is dented, and the Mario Bros inside are faded, but the hands work and it tells the time, signs of dedicated care. Pedro is calm, he knows they can sell it if life gets tough and the need arises.
Long automated buses, enter the street and open their doors. The soldiers, satchels over their shoulders, say goodbye and march off to meet their destiny. Pedro joins in, and uses every ounce of mental fortitude not to look back. Seeing his family cry would break him down.
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...
Boca Chica, Texas, the new west. The enlisted men occupy a trembling rectangle permeated with nerves and sweat. Soldiers tense, tight, silent, expectant. Someone in the background blurts out a dirty joke.... No one laughs.
The vehicle opens the hatch, the internal mechanisms clang like a bell. The ramp comes out, the light enters, and the stench of fire invades their nostrils. They move forward and step on the dented earth, warm through the thick soles of their boots. To the left and right, more vehicles vomit soldiers onto the field. The ground shakes, it's the cannon fire of ships and artillery kicking up thirty meter clouds of dust, and creating craters capable of swallowing elephants. The tracks of the tanks also shudder, crushing dust, gravel, flesh, and bone.
Pedro runs. They all run. A few sections fall back, but like the swell, they return forward to do the will. Command instructions are dictated from the headsets built into the helmets. The shouts of command mingle with the battle, becoming white noise. Excessive comprehension is unnecessary when the objective is transparent: Onward and to the center. Not a single step back.
Swarm against swarm. The exoskeletons they wear help them keep their legs always in motion, expending the minimum of energy as if their bodies weighed the same as a feather, in contrast, their hearts and stomachs come to feel like iron balls. They keep going, even though their souls cry and kick to break away and escape. Only fortune keeps them from falling into the abject mud and stepping on minefields.
From the enemy barricades, beams of light that are shrapnel whistle in their direction. Hundreds of Pedro's comrades end up dead or badly wounded. Pedro and thousands more, skirting or stepping over the fallen, rush toward the pillars of light. Orbital elevators that have to be smashed to stop the shipments from orbit to earth and vice versa.
Pedro screams, why does he scream? He doesn't know, he just does, and his companions shout with him. The volume of the voices increases as the iron giants appear stinging from the clouds. But before the armor, comes the first trench, small, only 30 meters deep and 10 meters wide. Easy to jump over with exoskeletons. From the trench, the Muskite infantry fires back. The automatons are not yet sighted among them, perhaps they are on another side of the field, perhaps they are waiting at the end.
People scream and fall in half, or turn into a pink mist. Pedro aims the ultra-heavy rifle and responds. He only needs to hold down the trigger, the gun's intelligent sensors trigger the burst only when it detects a live target in range. In a battle where each projectile has an 80% chance of hitting, it is paramount that each side has plenty of spare targets.
The battle of Boca Chica ended with a triumph for the Allied side, and a cost in lives of almost half a million, adding the casualties of both groups. It marked the end of the muskite occupation of Texas, a hard blow for the nobles considering the historical and strategic weight of the area. But as it usually happens, time sweeps the blood under a layer of dust and concrete. The battlefields in Boca Chica were transformed into idyllic suburbs, reflecting the image everyone thinks of when they hear about the "American Dream".
In one of those greenly landscaped houses, two young people, a boy and a girl, search for materials in a closet. The girl stands on tiptoe and takes from the upper level a box which, when held by the lid, opens and spills the contents. A Mario Bros clock falls out and hits the wooden floor with a crunch.
"Fuck" Shee retrieves it, and discovers that the dusty glass is broken, and the Italian plumber's hands no longer move.
"Wow. Where did you get that relic?" asks his high school classmate.
"It's just nostalgic junk. From my grandfather's, I think" She returns the watch to the box, closes it, and puts it back, trusting that no one will notice what happened. "Pretty tacky, isn't it?"
"I like it. And what did your grandfather do for a living?"
"He was... He was a soldier"
"Another fascist, eh"
"Shut up and help me look"
They find the necessary signs to fill out the protest banners. They go down to the dining room table and get down to work. The grievances raised are varied:
HUGS, NOT BULLETS
THE MOON BELONGS TO EVERYONE
LIFE WITH DIGNITY = LIFE WITHOUT WAR
The young man notices that his partner is very quiet while they work, and wanting to break the ice, he says.
"Don't let what I said move the floor.... Fascists run in every family. I had an uncle who also believed in the story and enlisted. You know that. Everything would be easier if they just... Let him run, wouldn't it? I mean, divine war, who believes that crap?"
The girl hides a bitter grimace.
"Less talk, there's a hurry"
"Okay, okay" he laughs and begins to trace.