AN OFFICER OR A GENTLEMAN
A Resonics Short-Short
by
J. R. Calvo
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
J. R. Calvo
An Officer or a Gentleman
Copyright 2010 by J. R. Calvo
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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There are a few people I’d like to thank.
Kassie, for loving me, for giggling with me, for everything you do. Jon, for our myriad of late night sessions, random phone calls, and emails. Paul, for being a partner in crime before I knew my way, and for helping me live the dream. For your friendship and inspiration, I thank you.
This story scraps the surface of what is to come. I will release a series of these short-shorts to set the stage for the first novel of The Resonics Chronicles. Stay Tuned.
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AN OFFICER OR A GENTLEMAN
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KARL HARTMAN
YEAR: 518 AR
What does it mean to be the good soldier? Must we shirk all ties to become the perfect weapon, or is it those very ties that make us trek onward? Weaned on the legends of their fathers and uncles, many answered the call to join the newly formed Paladins. And Newman welcomed them gladly. For how easy it is to claim the oldest reason... the Gods made me do it.
Karl Hartman stood at the edge.
The edge of the Thunder Fields, and the edge of the conundrum in his mind. Do I join? His eyes closed, he felt the warm winds lap against him, the grit of silver imbued sand tickling his cheeks and settling on his two day scruff. People helping people, they say. Protect and serve the innocents, they say. Karl felt torn between joining a cause not his own or to condemn his sister to debauchery at the hands of these twisted rebels. Was he to be Paladin Hartman or Kara’s brother, Karl?
Clutched loosely in his hand lay a brochure for Newman’s Paladins depicting a man riding inside a metal behemoth rescuing someone from a fire. The metal construct resembled the body of some massive ape-like athlete with the cockpit at the heart. Karl mused at the specifics of these Mechanized Armors. Four paces tall, chest maybe a pace wide, that’d make the arms taller than a man! It’s got to be a trip to pilot.
His daydreaming cut short as he noticed a dust cloud erupt some miles away. His wide grin echoed back to his childhood when first he saw this. A rocket, no more than half a pace long was launching up into the dark clouds above. Trailing behind it was a cable connecting to the power battery below. He jumped as a fierce bolt of lightning contacted the rocket, streaming down to the thirsty cells. These were the namesake of the Thunder Fields, and such cells blanketed the sand. The bolt only lasted a breath, but it always served to make him chuckle. What better creature is there than man? We can ride metal, and capture the very elements! I'll make you proud, Uncle Nate, when I don the red like my father. His path clear, Karl spun walking a bit taller back to that recruiter’s office.
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“…and then sign here, and here. Perfect. Good man, Hartman. Now head down that hallway and see Sergeant-Paladin Richter.” Hartman didn’t see the ravenous grin cross the recruiter’s face as the last recruit of his quota walked down through the double doors. Karl didn’t see the crying widows two floors beneath being handed flags from freshly carved coffins. Hartman didn’t see anything except, the scarred bear of a man, Richter smile broadly, “Welcome to the core, recruit.” A few drops of ink, and his life belonged to them.