Thursday, May 15, 2008

The Book of War, Short Story written by Ali Soeherman



This short story was written by and made him of finalists and winners of Langstaff's Ninth Writing Contest 2007-2008.


Six and a half billion people inhabit this good Earth; doctors, chemists, priests, and murderers alike. All of them stuffed into the same grand book of life, free to write what they please on the blank pages stamped with their names on them. Most of these stories, frankly, are bland and unoriginal, one hardly distinguishable from another and are most often filled with petty conflicts, trivial grievances and less-than-impressive plotlines. However, every now and then a page would stand from the rest, sometimes even a full chapter; a grimly profound masterpiece, not short of dark imageries and weighty emotions, unique to the others down to its very core. This chapter, this black defining summary of the great book of humanity, bears the title “War”. Incidentally, if war was a textbook of its own, I would be one of its authors.

As proud as I may be on the triumphs of my past career, the tiny drop of humanity still coursing through my veins has always made me feel at least partly responsible for the atrocities being committed around the world. Believe it or not, taking into account the man that I am, sometimes on one of those dead-still, moonless nights I often lie awake in my bed, thinking to myself “Why am I doing this? I have become the devil’s messenger. I have become his right hand, reaching to the masses and delivering his seemingly limitless supply of love. Why am I doing this?” Some nights I even try to relive my entire life, trying to remember the forks on the road, thinking to myself that I should go back and walk the other path. But being the man that I am, I always wake up the next day embraced by my vast, golden Victorian suite and come to a swaying realization. On those mornings I realize that the position as the devil’s advocate had too many perks for me to quit the job anytime soon. What irony. The men destined for hell are the ones who have tasted the sweet honey of heaven on earth. This, however, was irrelevant to me at the time. After all, I reckoned, how much could the real heaven possibly charge for admissions?

My name is John Ares, Chief Executive Officer of Ares Enterprises; leading manufacturer and distributor of small military hardware for the Ministry of National Defence in the whole motherland. To some regret, I was not the one to have started this giant of a corporation. In fact, I didn’t do much in the way of earning most of what I possess; it was mostly inherited money, blood money. Ares Enterprises is merely the empire my gone-but-not-forgotten mentor I called my father left for me. I was never given a choice, really. As the only son, I was the crown prince of his rule, the carrier of his bloodline and he made sure that I would never forget it. From a very early age, I was educated in such arts as philosophy, literature, law and, most importantly, business. My father kept an intricately detailed routine for the next twenty years of my life even since before I was born. Well, that is to say I wasn’t really born, rather I was engineered; merely another investment that would outlive my father and carry on the glory of his name. After all, as far as I know the Ares family has been running the show from generation to generation all the way to the very beginning. Hell, if Cain had a few dollars, we probably could have cut him in on a good deal.

Much like how my dynasty planted its roots during the Great Wars of the last century, the seeds of my company are ripening today due to yet another commercial excursion. In short, my country currently has a certain misunderstanding with one of its overseas neighbour over the bleeding of oil on a once thought to be barren piece of land. Naturally, one side claims, while the other counter-claims. Thus, it only makes sense that, as a global powerhouse, no preparation by my state is enough preparation and considerable measures have been taken. Hence, as of today, the merchandises are flying off the shelves seconds after arriving from the conveyor belts, while orders are flying in like a fast-food drive-through. Would you like a super-size? How about a combo package? And if the fundamentalists claim that I am no patriot, but merely just another green-eyed opportunist crook, they’d be wrong. I’m not just any other crook; I’m one of the originals. For one, unbeknownst to the government, Ares Enterprises comprises of exactly sixty nine branches worldwide, lending a helping hand to anyone and everyone in need. Because when you are everywhere, you are nowhere. No flag, no cause, just business. Understandably, many of my countrymen despise me for that philosophy. Even the only person whose opinion mattered to me called me a scum for it on our most recent meeting; it was the last word he ever said to me.

His name was Joseph Valens; I called him Joey for short. We go way back, Joey and I, all the way to high school. Even since he was young, he always had an undying flare burning inside him, an unshaken pride and firm determination to serve his country well: patriotism. As we grew up, his sense of nationalism also grew, along with my own sense of… well, commerce. Understandably, when the war broke out recently, the Oil Wars as they called it, the both of us saw the doors of opportunity wide open. My friend Joey, being the hero that he was, wanted to jump on the first train headed for the nearest military camp, backpacks ready for the black parade. As a friend, it was my duty to save him from himself; I had to stop him from signing his name on that binding piece of paper. After all, he was my life-long comrade, my pal, my brother. And so, we had a talk and he listened intently to my words, never interrupting once, his thick eyebrows raised and lowered as I narrated my pitch. It wasn’t easy to convince a man of his calibre, but eventually we came to a somewhat uneasy understanding. With that, I felt secure at the thought that nothing that I couldn’t afford losing was at risk any longer. However, this reassurance only lasted for so long, until everything shattered into irrecoverable pieces on that fateful evening.

His name was Joseph Valens. He is dead now. I am Joey’s killer. I remember that night like it was taped and I’ve been rewinding it in my head for the thousandth time. He unexpectedly came into my office one evening, while I had just concluded a meeting. As my two associates left the room, I saw Joey’s eyes fixed intently on them as they passed, as if he were trying to set them ablaze with his mere glare. At that very moment, I knew exactly how serious the situation had become.

“It’s them, isn’t it?” he asked as he turned to stare at me coldly. “I could smell their foreign stench from a mile away,” remarked Joey without a hint of emotion. I said nothing.

“I know what you’re doing, John. You betray your nation and stand against your own brethren just so you can carry around a fatter pocket…” he said, spitting every syllable as he spoke. “And to think I was ever friends with a traitor. You’re- You’re scum, John.” And with that, he turned abruptly and paced swiftly out of my office, away from the confines of our friendship.

I stood there motionless for the longest time, shell-shocked by Joey’s reaction. There was no point in going after him, the damage had been done. I was dead to him, a traitor. Joey knew that the two gentlemen from my office were agents from the enemy state. He also knew that, to my everlasting shame, I had shaken their hands, promising them overnight shipments of merchandise from my nearest base of operations. Up until that point, I often viewed myself as a referee: it didn’t matter which side won as long as I get my paycheck. Suddenly the game is just not that simple anymore.

I knew that Joey had enlisted himself not long after the incident and had been sent overseas to defend his nation’s pride; it was as if he were ripping apart the agreement that we had and throwing it on my face. Like a worried mother, I had been rigorously attempting to reach him through any medium I had available, vainly trying to stitch back the shattered pieces and make amends. However, it was too late.

It was late at night, already a month into the war, when I read a report over the web, claiming that, to date, over one hundred and thirty of our men were killed in the Oil Wars. I felt a sudden rush and restlessness as I combed through the military report on my monitor. “No… no… please don’t,” I whispered as I scrolled down to the list of names. Then, I felt my heart skip a beat and I sat there motionless, eyes empty as five words leaped from the screen, echoing into my mind: ‘Private Joseph Valens. Status: K.I.A.’. My dearest friend, the only family I was left with, killed in action. I felt a flame slowly burn within my chest as I read those words and a single drop of tear ran down my cheeks; Judas’ tear. If the reaper was the one who took my friend’s life then I must have been the one who handed him his scythe. Thus, my eyes opened and I was determined to make it right – for Joey.

By morning of the next day, Ares Enterprises has shut down all productions and halted all shipments of arms, permanently. The government, still dealing with its deadly stalemate, was swift to act. It sent messengers after messengers to have a word with me, one more antagonistic than the previous. When it was apparent to them that negotiations were futile, they deployed their minions to round me up and detain me and to assume control over my company. I really didn’t care any longer, I was simply numb, but at the same time content at the thought that I was no longer shackled to the prisons of their system. I smiled every time they beat me in their dungeons for my crime of insubordination, my crime of free thought, of not basing decisions on their interests. I even smiled when they uncovered my dealings with the enemy state, I simply didn’t care; I felt liberated.

And so, John Ares’ chapter is about to come to an end. On death row for treason, they gave me ink and paper to record my last words. Just so they’d have a confession note that would legalize them in the taking over and re-opening of my company, I suppose. I can’t stop them, I can’t change human nature. There has always been and always will be a gun, in one form or another, ever since and as long as we consume the fruits from the tree of greed. That is what my friend Joey taught me, he managed to knock my fruit away from me. My only regret is not being able to burn the whole forest down to the ground before I depart. No one man is able to erase the chapters of war and turn over a fresh page, I suppose. And so, six and a half billion people on Earth. My question is, how many would it take to permanently close the great book of war?