A Serious Man

An impromptu ball game breaks out at an Insurrectionist outpost.
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It was the only time Groves ever saw his commander cut loose and truly enjoy himself.
Careful not to step too far into the makeshift court, Groves leaned against a Warthog chassis and watched half a dozen young men and women dart across the metal tarmac, tussling over an orange ball and struggling to dunk it into one of two hoops set up on either end of the playing field. Panting and sweating in their grimy combat fatigues the kids—and they really were kids, each and every one of the Bloodhounds—called out taunts to their opponents and encouragement to their teammates, shouting with unfettered laughter even when an opponent scored a goal.
And there in the middle of them all, laughing and shouting right along with them, was Venter. The very man who plucked them from bombed-out villages and war-torn cities and trained them to give their lives to the Insurrection towered above his charges, waving his arms like a maniac and grinning with wild abandon behind his sweat-soaked beard.
It was like watching a completely new person, as if one of the child soldiers had grown several feet and sprouted a beard. Commander Venter never waved his arms or cavorted among subordinates. Groves had seen the man stand rock solid in the middle of a firefight, remaining eye unblinking as friend and foe alike died all around him. He never broke composure, never joined in the ribbing and banter of the other rebels, never so much as indulged his child trainees with even the hint of a smile.
And Venter never laughed.
He’d even taken his eyepatch off.
Groves looked at the ongoing game, half amazed at the transformation in his superior and half envious of the sheer amount of fun he and the kids seemed to be having. One particularly boisterous girl—Ragna, Groves thought her name was—gave a wild throw that bounced the ball square off Venter’s head. A brief hush fell over the game. Ragna dropped into a defensive crouch, arms raised as if she might have to fend off a coming attack.
Venter just barked a sharp laugh. Catching the ball in both hands, he threw the ball to the other side of the court to score another goal.
The children cheered and the game went on.
Other rebels stopped what they were doing to watch the game. Patrolling guards unslung their rifles to stare alongside Groves at the spectacle. Venter made no effort to shoo them away or disguise the game at all. His enthusiasm didn’t change in the slightest. He was in his own world, just the court and the ball and the young fighters scampering around him.
Tomorrow he’d be back to pulverizing them on the training mats, running them through grueling combat drills to turn them into killers for the Insurrection. But today he laughed and romped alongside them, scrambling after the ball with reckless abandon.
At times like this Groves really couldn’t understand his commander at all.
It felt as if he’d been standing there for ages when Venter finally took note of him. Something shifted in the man then, as if a metal rod suddenly slid up into his spine. He straightened, dropping the ball into a boy’s hands and striding over with an intensity that made Groves want to turn and run in the opposite direction.
“Well?” Venter demanded, wiping sweat from his brow. He wasn’t even panting. “What is it?”
“Sorry to interrupt you sir, but we’ve got an urgent transmission from command. They have new orders about the newest offensive on—”
For a moment he thought Venter might hit him. Fire flashed in the commander’s eye and his fists clenched down at his side. Venter’s jaw worked furiously. “Transmission from command. Of course. And they’ll be wanting more bodies to throw on that bonfire.”
He and Groves both looked over to the ongoing game. The Insurrection didn’t spare Venter the extra food and supplies needed to house and train these kids out of charity. They relied on Venter to deliver them a product. A young, effective product that pulled a trigger and took a few oonskies with them to the grave.
How many of these games, Groves wondered, had Venter played with children before sending them marching off to die? How many of the children on the court now wouldn’t be there the next time one of these sessions convened?
“They wanted you ready to brief ten minutes ago sir…”
“It can wait.” Venter turned abruptly on his heel and dismissed Groves with a wave of his hand.
“Sir, they—”
“It can wait,” Venter growled. “The bloody Insurrection will survive another twenty minutes without me. It’s lasted this long, hasn’t it? They can give me this much. Hell if I haven’t already given them everything.”
“Right.” Groves nodded and took a step back. Anything to get away from the strange, raw creature inhabiting his commander’s body. “What should I tell them--?”
“I’m building morale.” Venter didn’t spare him another look. He strode back to the game and in the next instant his anger had melted away and he was laughing and playing right alongside the children once more. Tomorrow he would order some of them to die without a moment’s hesitation. Perhaps it would comfort them then, to know their master had wanted to laugh with them just once before the end.
He was such a strange, serious man.
Category:The Weekly