The Captain

My apprehension grew as we approached the estate. The building’s angular facade sat juxtaposed with massive ionic columns scorched and pitted by the aftermath of a hundred incendiary blasts. Even intact these columns would have been gaudy eyesores, totally out of place with the structure behind them.

How typical. In every corner of Earth that the Martians now occupy, find the most ostentatious display of architectural nonsense and you’re sure to find a Martian.

My instructions were clear: come alone, come unarmed. My team, this army, this whole damned planet was my responsibility, so while I knew they couldn’t come all the way, I relented when they insisted on accompanying me to the rendezvous point. We swept the area for Martian soldiers before approaching, and to our surprise we found none. I held up one hand and my companions stopped while I pressed on, crossing the detritus of this god-awful war I sought to end, here and now, once and for all. I opened the door, and as I crossed the threshold I caught the distinct scent of…

“Split-pea soup?” the Captain offered. “I have it on good authority that it’s one of your favorites.”

The simple furnishings and understated decor seemed to be a different place entirely from the garish exterior I’d just mentally excoriated the Martians over. Drop ceilings, standard wall-to-wall on the floors, and an open floor plan into an equally simple dining room and what might be a galley kitchen were it not for one side being an island rather than a wall — more a nuclear family’s starter home than home to the leader of the military occupation of Earth. The Captain, as he insisted on being called, was wearing a black apron over a loose white button-down shirt and jeans, stirring a steaming stock pot, his back turned to me.

Split-pea soup is deceptively simple, yet as many variations exist as there are connoisseurs who prepare it. “My mother’s split-pea soup is one of my favorites,” I replied, hopefully not too defensively.

“Of course, and please forgive me if this doesn’t live up to your expectations, I’m merely attempting to be hospitable.” He brought the ladle up to his lips to taste, considered the flavors, grabbed a pepper mill and gave it two twists over the cauldron of bubbling green. “That should do it.” He ladled some into a bowl and handed it to me.

I smelled it. “Did you use oregano or—”

“Marjoram,” the Captain interrupted. “More of a delicate flavor.” He quickly added: “You’re not allergic, are you?” I shook my head, and carried the bowl over to what I assumed was my seat at the table in the adjacent dining room. I eyed the bowl hesitantly, the bouquet of familiar savory seasonings beckoning to me, but my instincts kicked in - don’t trust the food you’re given.

The Captain must’ve seen this change in demeanor; next I knew, he’d walked over spoon in hand and taken a spoonful of soup from my bowl. He took the bite, a look of satisfaction on his face. “You needn’t worry, General. I’ve added nothing to this dish that I wouldn’t happily eat myself.” He turned his back to me and strode off.

One spoonful and at once I’m seven, sitting at the kitchen table, my mother lovingly showing me how to demolish a saltine cracker over a decidedly disgusting-looking bowl to adjust its consistency so my undeveloped palate could better appreciate this delightful dish.

This version required no saltines. Having given up on concepts like structural integrity after hours simmering in a bath of chicken broth and aromatics, the smoky ham showed no resistance to the edge of my soup spoon. I could die happy having eaten it.

The Captain ladled some into a bowl for himself. “Such a strange way for us to finally meet, no?”

My chef du jour was not wrong; in another context, I’d be ordering his assassination, or he mine. “Indeed,” I managed to reply over the chorus of angels singing in my mouth.

“All the same, I’m glad we could have this tête-à-tête. I think we can both agree that after twenty-seven years, this war has gone on long enough. It’s time for us to finally…what’s the phrase? ‘Bury the hatchet’?” He walked over to the table where I now sat and gently set his bowl opposite mine before taking his seat.

I swallowed. “As long as the terms are fair.” He uncorked a bottle of Rioja wine I hadn’t noticed was there on the kitchen counter and poured two glasses. He offered me one, but I didn’t take it. He sipped from his glass, and set the other in front of me. Now is not the time to risk some clandestine poison, I thought.

“Of course. Fair is fair.” He took a bite of soup, closed his eyes, and nodded in approval at his own work. “What terms would agree with you?”

“This planet is our home. You are, to put it mildly, a visitor.”

He smiled coyly. “You’re not suggesting we retreat in defeat as your starting point to this negotiation, are you? Because that would be quite insulting indeed.” He sipped the wine.

“Your incursion has never been welcome here. What I propose would change that.”

He set his wine down, folded his hands in rapt attention and looked me square in the eye, coy smile still intact. “Go on.”

“As part of the ceasefire and eventual peace treaty, we would set up diplomatic relations with Mars. Mars would appoint an Ambassador to Earth. As part of this arrangement, we would allow for the peaceful resettlement of a hundred thousand Martians on Earth, including a gravity acclimation procedure.”

“This sounds like quite the concession on your part. What would we need to give you in return?”

“The same. Resettlement of a hundred thousand Earthlings on Mars, we would appoint an Ambassador to Mars…and you would withdraw all military forces from Earth.”

The coy smile disappeared. “General, we currently occupy nearly a quarter of Earth’s landmass. You expect me to just cede that back to you, as if nothing happened? That won’t play well for the Mars Council, nor would I expect that to be acceptable to the Earthling public. They will want ‘justice.’ And you know just as well as I do, if they aren’t satisfied with official justice, they will seek the vigilante variety.”

“Well, Captain, you and I both know that your forces have reached their limit - you cannot hold more territory without significant conscription, which I expect would not be acceptable to the Martian public. That’s why you haven’t launched a major offensive in over nine months, is it not?” I kept his gaze as I raised my wine glass. “And while I appreciate your concern for my people, that is precisely what they are — my people.” I poured the wine out to my right, making a sickly slorp sound when it hit the ground.

The Captain raised an eyebrow. “My my, someone has trust issues.” He stood and checked his watch.

“Need to be somewhere?”

He smiled, slightly embarrassed. “Forgive me, old habit.” He picked up the bottle of Rioja and brought it to the table. “I enjoy wine but I’m no connoisseur. This one’s made in Spain, and I’m told pairs quite well with this meal.” He set the wine on the table between us. “You’re welcome to inspect the wine to your heart’s content, but for Heaven’s sake please stop pouring it on my carpet.”

I took another bite of soup; it had cooled a bit and was beginning to thicken, but damn was it still delicious. “If my terms are not acceptable to you, what precisely would you accept?”

The Captain looked at his watch again. “Mars has few natural resources. My ancestors’ first foray into growing our own food ended with the deaths of most of the remaining Earth-born Martians. We’ve managed our way through that unfortunate incident and now eat our own food, but we are completely dependent on Earth for most of our other needs.”

“That isn’t news.”

“Of course not, General. It’s why we strategically chose places like eastern South America, northwestern North America, and central Africa for our primary footholds on Earth. So this is my counteroffer. We cede all territory other than those places. Those three territories will be Martian colonies on Earth.”

Unbelievable, I thought. “That’s a nonstarter for us.”

The Captain chuckled slightly. “‘Us’ is it? Don’t be modest, General. You’re not answering to an ‘us’ here. Earth has been solely your responsibility for…it must be over twelve years now?” The Captain wasn’t bluffing. The Council of Earth had been dissolved a dozen years ago after so many members had been killed that no quorum could be met, and so little voting infrastructure was left intact that no elections could be held to replace them. I assumed control at that point, more or less by default, and in all that time no one had questioned my authority.

“Fine. It’s a nonstarter for me.”

‘You’re in no position to say no to me, General—”

“Aren’t I, though?” I interrupted, slamming my spoon into the remaining soup. “Why would you even deign to allow me to come here and negotiate with you if not for the fact that your supplies are stretched so thin that you can no longer supply your troops? Face it, Captain. We have crippled your infrastructure. You may hold territory, but for how much longer? How many more Martians are you—“ Something caught in my throat. I’d turned down his wine so I’d had nothing to drink throughout our meal. I reached for my canteen, opened it, and drank some water. “How many more Martians are you willing to sacrifice?”

The Captain’s coy smile returned. “I respect you a great deal, General, so I’m going to be candid with you. We aren’t pulling out of those three places. It’s not happening.”

I stared at him blankly. “Well. That is a disappointment. I’d thought we could make it further than this, at least.” I stood. My throat seemed to close a bit again, so I took another drink from my canteen.

“I’m telling you this so bluntly not because I want to end these negotiations, General, but because I want you to know how they will progress in your absence.”

Alarm bells went off in my mind. “What do you mean, ‘in my absence’?” I couldn’t get the tickle out of my throat.

“We’ve had a long time to get to know you, General. Of course, we’ve been on the receiving end of your formidable military talents. You’re easily the best large-scale tactician I’ve ever had the pleasure of facing off against. But we really got to know you.”

My throat closed a bit more; panic was beginning to set in, but I paid it no mind…until another swig on the canteen made no difference. Something was definitely wrong. I steeled myself and managed to sputter out, “What….did…you…do?”

The dizziness of this exerted effort briefly put me back into my chair before I fell to the floor, coughing and sputtering.

“I don’t suppose you’ve had the chance to eat Martian food, have you? Earth food is just…off to me, so I brought mine from home. Martian pigs, fed Martian pig feed. They have two distinct features: a heartier texture I prefer to Earth pork, and a low level of sulfur-locked cyanide which can withstand the high temperatures of cooking, but which is activated by stomach acid—specifically, the highly acidic stomach of an Earthling.”

I couldn’t’ve managed a response with just the coughing, let alone the anvil I felt resting on my sternum. Searing pain began overtaking my lungs, my joints, even my eyes.

“Take comfort in the knowledge that my aim of peace is genuine. When Earth surrenders we will deliver on our promise of peace for all humanity, both Earthling and Martian…but no such surrender is possible while you still live. So…” He shrugged, pulled a radio from an unseen pocket, held it to his mouth and pushed the button. “Fire at will.” Gunfire from outside — and from the sound of it, not Earthling guns. After a few moments, it ceased, my friends surely dead. Cold numbness relieved me of the scorching agony in my arms and legs; I almost welcomed it as it ascended into my chest.

As my vision began to fail, the Captain caught my gaze. His coy smile returned as he took a sip from his glass. “Sorry you missed out on this wine. It is exquisite.”