PARADE DAY

Lucas Cheng
Sep 3, 2018 · 14 min read

LISA’S MEM LOG

1500HRS

01092057

Today is parade day!

This is my favourite festival of the work year. My mother brings me out to the big road outside our house to watch the soldiers and the machines. I have always wanted father to come along, but I have not seen him since I was very young. Mother says he is away on important work for the republic and we might not see him for a long time. Some years she feels sick and says she has big headaches but I force her to bring me anyway.

Today the sky is a little less grey than usual. Maybe it is because I am in a happy mood, or maybe more cloud-seeding bugs were sent out because of the parade. Anyway, I am wearing my blue polka dot dress. It is my best and favourite one, as it is pretty and does not have many holes. I have worn it for every parade day since Aunt Vasya made it when I was four. She had to save so much cloth and almost got caught by the textile people, but she loved me so and I was a good niece to her.

We make it to the small alley that will bring us to the main road, and already we can hear the clamour and thumping of the parade. Look at the crowd! My mother picks me up and she elbows her way through a dense pack of factory workers that give us bad looks. I give my best smile and keep apologizing to them, since I do not want them to hurt us. Soon we secure a gap in the crowd where we can see a small slice of the parade. I grip mother tightly as my mouth slowly falls open…

The whole road is covered in black from end to end. There must be thousands of soldiers here! Rows upon rows of them, wearing perfect black uniforms with shiny boots that reach to their knees. They bounce and march in unison and kick their feet high into the air. In their arms, they carry strange guns that look newer and better than the ones I saw last year. I cannot see their faces as every soldier wears a strange white mask like the ones in operas. I try not to look at them as they are scary. At the head of each block of soldiers stands one that is taller than the rest and wears different clothes. According to my mother, he is called an “officer” and a soldier has to go through very painful training to be one. They march proudly and wear black masks that are twisted into snarls. They also have beautiful gold lanyards that dangle across their uniforms. Instead of guns they hold a sword in their right hand: one that shines with the light and sings with the soldiers!

After what must have been an hour of soldiers marching by, the parade transits into features of special units and vehicles. The female announcer’s voice cries over the city’s loudspeakers every now and then, introducing each special unit with gusto and excitement. I wonder to myself if she feels exhausted shouting like that for so many hours…

“Special Shock Commandos, Regiment ONE! The best and the fiercest men the REPUBLIC has to OFFER! They have gone through years of gruesome training to earn the RIGHT to fight and DIE in the crimson sashes of the SHOCK COMMANDOS! Please, comrades and families, put your hands together for the men that have survived and thrived in training conditions that would KILL a normal person! Clap now comrades!”

The last line of the earlier soldier contingents has started to turn off into another road. The road seems empty for now, silent if not for the screams and applause of all the people around us. I stretch my neck to look up the road, searching for crimson sashes and large men. There! I see the first of the shock commandos rounding the bend. My eyes grow wide and I clap with joy. The men wear polished red armour, topped off with a crimson sash across each chest-plate. These are the largest men I have ever seen, easily twice the height of the tallest factory worker in our housing commune. They do not march like the others, but instead stride slowly in perfect time down the road. Their faces are completely covered with a helmet resembling a mirrored ball. When I look into one all I see is the big crowd reflected in its surface, and I feel awed and vulnerable. They carry bright banners that alternately flash our republic’s flag and their unit’s logo. The announcer says something about this unit being deployed to fight rebels on another planet and coming back with no dead commandos. She starts to talk about the battles and my mother tells me to cover my ears.

We watch large vehicles and tanks drive down the road for the next hour. Some of the tanks are as big as small buildings and look very powerful indeed. I watch the vehicles drive past with silent admiration until something near the back of the convoy catches my eye.

It seems to be a large rectangular block trailing the other vehicles. It glides forward slowly, without wheels. It is covered in smooth black surfaces. As it nears our segment of the crowd, the walls on the side slide open to reveal rows upon rows of screens, each showing the flickering image of a confused person.

“The latest in prisoner of war management! The MIND cage! The forces of the republic need not spare precious rations and necessities to captives anymore! Great minds have thought of a way to store consciousness in an EFFICIENT carrier! We shall now PUNISH and EXTRACT information with minimal maintenance, for TIME ETERNAL!”

The faces in the screens seem exhausted and gaunt. I remember some of mother’s friends in the factory looking like that after they have not eaten in many days. Their eyes are wild, gazing into the air, searching the crowd for something that is not there. I did not see this during last year’s parade. I start to feel excited as I think about more new things we will see in the parades next time.

“Mother, the republic is innovative and powerful. We will win all the wars on other planets and we will be safe. Is that true, mother?” Mother does not want to meet my gaze, but instead stares sadly at the mind cage that is floating by.

“I… I would suppose so.”

I turn back to the mind cage to try and see what so upsets her, but freeze as I see one of the faces stare at the both of us. The man on the screen has a shaved head and scars across his mouth. He looks old indeed, and has glazed, wrinkled eyes. I do not know why but it reminds me of a young man made to turn old. He has a patchy beard across his jaw and seems to be saying something. He… I start to feel scared and upset as he looks familiar.

Just then, a bright flash erupts from somewhere down the lines of soldiers and I am flung from my mother’s arms.


CAPTAIN KIYOKO

FORCE COMMANDER, STORM PROTECTIVE TEAM

PARADE DAY MEM LOG

1615HRS

01092057

The parade is going smoothly.

I have deployed all my men and machines to critical areas and we have unobstructed over-watch capabilities along the entire route of the parade.

I am stationed on the roof with a high-powered rifle, my radio assistant by my side and a console of monitors in front of me with feeds of all surveillance points.

I scroll through the route reports of all my men and see nothing amiss. The fifth, and last parade before my Storm tour ends and I can finally rotate out to somewhere more exciting and fulfilling. Maybe even an off-planet firebase or a shot at the expeditionary patrols. Being a Storm commander is meaningful and important for the republic, yes, but the longing for the thrill of battle…

“Sir, special units and vehicles are coming in now. The commando crazies are leaving the main boulevard and will turn off to Anaheim road shortly. We can pack up after the vehicles roll by.”

“Noted, operator. Good work on the comms. I’ll get you a drink at barracks later for not bothering me with gossip and small talk. Most of the other radio-heads…”

The radio-man chuckled. “I know how you Storm officers work. Me? I’m just hoping we can wrap this up so I can go home early today and see my kids.”

“Don’t rub it in, operator, I don’t have kids for a rea-”

I cut my sentence short. I lean forward and call up the feed that is covering the Shock commando unit as they near the turn towards Anaheim road — also the junction where the crowd is most densely packed. One of my sentries has pinged in that a commando is starting to fall slightly out of step. I blow up the image of the feed and zoom in towards the errant soldier.

The man clad in red looks no different from the rest of his elite unit. His movements, however, seem slightly off-kilter. After years of experience I know that anything out of the ordinary is an indicator of great danger in this republic. Just as I am about to deploy the Anaheim patrol for intercept, the commando shifts his hand along the banner and turns something along its shaft.

All I see is a flash of light and I am sent flying across the roof.


LISA’S MEM LOG

1615HRS

01092057

As I stare into that man’s face, my vision goes white and I am blown into the air by a sudden force.

I do not feel any pain, but I feel confused and my face is warm. I cannot hear anything. All I can think about is how fast I am tumbling into nothing, not being able to tell which way is up or down. After a short while I land on the ground and feel the impact of the fall shoot across my back.

I start crying out for mother, my faint voice mixing with muffled bangs and a low rumbling, as if I am listening to everything underwater. The white blur in my eyes goes away and I can feel something wrapped around me; like I am still being carried by mother. I look down and see her arms around my shoulders. They look badly burnt and torn.

All the blood goes from my face as my surroundings return with clarity. Her arms are wrapped around me but I cannot see the rest of her.

I start crying and gasp for air.


After a long time, I rub my tears from my eyes and slowly stand up. I can see better now. The road is destroyed and people are lying all around. Many auto-cars are on fire and some of the soldiers are shouting things at each other. The parade is no more, and everything looks like a nightmare to me. I can hear guns firing and more booms from far away. I see a small wall with iron rods poking out at weird angles and run to hide behind it. I feel safe and hope the soldiers find me soon.

I shriek and press myself against the wall as something big and red falls in front of me. It is one of the commandos that passed by earlier. My breathing becomes very fast as I realise the commando is dead. He is sprawled on the road with big burn marks in his red armor. His mirror head is shattered and I can see his face inside. His skin is white and there are robotic circles where a person’s eyes should be. I notice a smooth stretch of skin instead of a mouth, as well as weird metal wires and tubes sticking out from his head. I shut my eyes and do not know if I am screaming or not.


CAPTAIN KIYOKO

FORCE COMMANDER, STORM PROTECTIVE TEAM

PARADE DAY MEM LOG

1630HRS

01092057

I come to and immediately know what has happened.

Instinctively I reach for the comms set at my ear but realise that the small headset has partially melted and fused to the side of my face. It does not work.

My retinal display is flickering and glitches static in patches. I look around for my radio operator and see the top half of him lying a few metres away. The air smells burnt, reminding me of a past deployment on a planet with frequent electrical storms.

I feel the rush kick into my bloodstream as my mind flicks to combat mode. Every muscle in my body tenses up and I jump to rappel off the rooftop.

I reach ground level in a few kicks. I flick my rifle’s safety off and realise I have not felt like this in years.


From what I can make out from the blurry readouts on my frazzled retinal display, most of my Storm teams have been decimated by the blast. A sizeable number of soldiers on parade have been reduced to nothing but scattered limbs and pieces of armour. I begin the difficult task of physically pulling together fighting-fit soldiers and remnants of Storm patrols to organize whatever form of squad I can. I dodge and sprint my way through bursts of sniper fire from windows high above, and frantically search the dead for any ammunition or weapons I can collect.

I do not know how the rebels have organized an ambush of such a scale. I cannot even begin to comprehend how they managed to insert a bomber into a contingent of shock commandos.

Nothing like this has happened in our republic for decades.

The iron will of the republic has long since crushed any form of organized subversion.

Something has changed.

But why?


Random hypotheses and speculations flash through my mind as straggler teams and I fight running gun battles for the next few hours (or minutes — in battle one never knows). I know I will be punished severely if the recovery team spots these seedlings of doubt when they fix whatever is under my hood after the battle.

I try to purge them from my mind and hope I can cite battle shock or some other dramatic, half-believable excuse.

We soon manage to clean up most of the attackers and responder drones have already turned most of the sniper nests into blackened pits of corrosive gas. For some strange reason, all the rebel corpses I have come across have serialized numbers branded into their left forearms. They seem relatively fit and muscular — unlike your average malnourished, gaunt and disease ridden factory worker turned rebel. Maybe the resistance has changed.

Maybe it’s something else…

Curb your ‘battle shock’, you idiot, my subconscious hisses.


I lead my band of soldiers to a small alley to regroup and try to patch our comms network. Just then, I notice a girl of about 8 or 10 slumped beside a concrete barricade. Her entire body is covered in soot and severe burns and I do not know if she is dead. I walk over to check her pulse and step over a broken shock commando.

So much for elite.

The girl is alive, but seems to be slipping in and out of consciousness. I pick her up in a fireman’s carry and set her down in the alley.

“Sir, we have comms. Recovery teams incoming. ETA 10 mikes.”


- EPILOGUE -

LISA’S MEM LOG

0800HRS

ERR2: Datestamp lost

I think it has been a week after the big explosion and the big battle.

I am lying in a clean white bed in a nice hospital. I have many needles in my arms and most of my burns have started to heal. Most of the days have passed by in a blur. I sometimes still dream of the blast and wake up crying, but I am happy because I feel safe most of the time.

I still miss mother a lot and scream when I see her arms in my dreams, but the nurse-machines always zoom by and help me go back to a sound sleep.

Most of the other people in this ward are children my age. In fact, when I am brought to other rooms within this building I cannot see any adults or parents around. Maybe it is a children’s hospital and all the adults are put in a different place.


I have started to attend classes with the other children in my ward. Something I find strange is that some of them do not seem to be injured or burned at all, so this ward may not just be used for victims of the blast like me. The classes seem fun and we are shown many exciting footage of the republic’s forces in action. We are also told about the big farms and factories producing many things outside the city. I do not know where I will go after my burns heal but for now the hospital seems like a fun and nice place to stay.


CAPTAIN KIYOKO

FORCE COMMANDER, STORM PROTECTIVE TEAM

MEM LOG

1015HRS

06092057

I’ve made it. I got my wish.

I ship offshore within the next week.

Somebody somewhere has mentioned that I did “exceptionally well” in the battle after the blast, and would be “well-suited” for a senior command tour in a combat zone. Somebody somewhere has also got me a citation ribbon and I am a very happy man.

The only thing that perturbs me is the ugly-as-hell fuse wound on the left side of my face. At least they managed to get the melted earpiece out of my skin. Do people like battle scars?

There’s something else that has been nibbling away at my mind. Like some annoying rat making rat noises while trawling around my immediate memory. They made me sign a form stating that I would, from that moment on, refer to the attackers at the parade as “rebels, agents of subversion, enemies of the republic or any combination of words to that effect deemed suitable by your immediate superior,” less I get thrown in military jail for life. Who would think to do so otherwise? I thought I would be used to paranoia by now.

Whatever, no big deal.

I sign forms all the time.


POST-OP MEETING

CLASSIFIED LOG

XXXXHRS

XXXX20XX

SECURITY DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR

APPRAISAL OF SUB-GROUP “ALPHA PROJECT GROUP”

“You see, chairman, Alpha’s genius and cunning has proven beautifully successful this time.”

“Operation Pontius was of my thinking and conception, no?”

“Ah yes, but you see, Mr. Chairman, Alpha came up with the execution and process of the… parade’s disruption. Do not be quick to determine that I am discrediting you, sir, but I am merely stating that Alpha deserves some form of handsome recognition after the success of Pontius. As you do too, obviously.”

“You slimy prick, Mr. Winston. But I’ve got to hand it to you, your boys did good out there. Very subtle. Nobody knows except the bunch of us in this room and the chancellor himself.”

Mr. Winston felt a sense of relief. But he also knew that any compliment from the Security chairman was rare in coming and was always given to subordinates with an unsettling sneer.

“Yes, thank you so much Mr. Chairman. Also, Alpha has begun the task of distributing the appropriate propaganda to majority classes of the republic. Public opinion against any and all suspected perpetrators seem to be passionate, to say the least. Factory communes in identified districts will never know what hit them, or why everybody else in the republic doesn’t seem to care. I have already sent Cleaning teams to these districts and we shall begin some very… messy business at exactly 2100 hours tonight.”

“Very well then, Mr. Winston. Thank you, and thank me, for freeing up a little breathing space in our idyllic republic. You can collect your documents and go. I will honour my end of the bargain and see to it that Alpha is destined for bigger and better things. Also, that your boys get centralized heating in their block.”

“Always a pleasure, Mr. Chairman. Always a pleasure.”

-END-

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade